XIX.
Go out in music of the morning star—
And soon we shall have thinkers in the place
Of fighters; each found able as a man
To strike electric influence through a race,
Unstayed by city-wall and barbican.
The poet shall look grander in the face
Than ever he looked of old, when he began
To sing that "Achillean wrath which slew
So many heroes,"—seeing he shall treat
The deeds of souls heroic toward the true—
The oracles of life—previsions sweet
And awful, like divine swans gliding through
White arms of Ledas, which will leave the heat
Of their escaping godship to endue
The human medium with a heavenly flush.
Meanwhile, in this same Italy we want
Not popular passion, to arise and crush.
But popular conscience, which may covenant
For what it knows. Concede without a blush—
To grant the "civic guard" is not to grant
The civic spirit, living and awake.
Those lappets on your shoulders, citizens,
Your eyes strain after sideways till they ache,
While still, in admirations and amens,
The crowd comes up on festa-days, to take
The great sight in—are not intelligence,
Not courage even—alas, if not the sign
Of something very noble, they are nought;
For every day ye dress your sallow kine
With fringes down their cheeks, though unbesought
They loll their heavy heads and drag the wine,
