I bore it;—friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained.
And letters still came,—shorter, sadder, more strong,
Writ now but in one hand. "I was not to faint. One loved me for two ... would be with me ere-long:
And 'Viva Italia' he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint."
My Nanni would add "he was safe, and aware
Of a presence that turned off the balls ... was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,
And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest."
On which without pause up the telegraph line
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaëta:—"Shot. Tell his mother." Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother; not "mine."
No voice says "my mother" again to me. What! You think Guido forgot?
Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven,
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven
Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so The above and below.
O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark
To the face of thy mother! consider, I pray. How we common mothers stand desolate, mark,
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say!
Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'T were imbecile hewing out roads to a wall.
And when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son?
Ah, ah, ah! when Gaëta's taken, what then?
When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men?
When your guns at Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short,—
When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee,
When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea,
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my dead,)
What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low,
And burn your lights faintly!—My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow,
My Italy's there,—with my brave civic pair, To disfranchise despair.