In early days, lives on through silent years,
Nor ever shines, but in the hour of sorrow,
When it shows brightest: like the trembling light
Of a pale sunbeam, breaking o'er the face
Of the wild waters in their hour of warfare.
Thus much forgive; and trust, in such an hour,
I had not said e'en this, but for the hope
That when the voice of victory is heard
From the fair Tuscan valleys, in its swell
Should mournful dirges mingle for the dead,