Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer.
"Art thou a Romagnole?" Her eyes drove lightnings before her.
"Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord
Able to bind thee, O strong one,—free by the stroke of a sword.
"Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast
To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms of the past."
Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's,
Young, pathetic with dying,—a deep black hole in the curls.
"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain,
Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of the slain?"
Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands:
"Blessèd is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she
stands."
On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball:
Kneeling,… "O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all?
"Each of the heroes round us has fought for his land and line,
But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine.
"Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed;
But blessèd are those among nations who dare to be strong for the
rest!"
Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where pined
One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind.