And if from skyey minsters now unhoused,
Earth’s massy workings at the forge we hear,
The black roll of the congregated sea,
And war’s live hoof: O yet, last year, last year
We were the lark-lulled shepherdlings, that drowsed
Grave-deep, at noon, in grass of Arcady!
‘RUSSIA UNDER THE CZARS.’
OF thraldom and the accursèd diadem
In that vast snow-land, shout the passionate tale;
Touch graybeards in the mart, bid braggarts quail,
And rouse the student lone from his old phlegm
To breathe the self-same sacred air with them,
Spirits supreme, our brothers! whose avail
Is sacrifice. Nay, make no woman’s wail:
Rome is re-born! whom kings dare not contemn.
On Neva’s shore-streets tho’ high blood be spent,
There this lorn world’s renascent hopes are meeting:
In camp is Mucius, at the bridge, Horatius;
Regulus walks in gyves, magnificent;
And thence men hear—O sound sublime and gracious!
The unquelled heart of Cæsar’s Brutus beating.
FOUR SONNETS FROM ‘LA VITA NUOVA.’
I.
‘Io mi sentii svegliar dentro allo core.’
