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To Giuseppe Garibaldi
November 3, mdccclxxx.
ALONE rides the Dictator at the head
Of the advancing mournful band, withdrawn
Into his thoughts and silent; round him earth
And sky alike are leaden, squalid, chill.
The heavy plashing of his horse's hoofs
In the deep mire was audible; behind,
The cadenced fall of footsteps and the sighs
Breathed from heroic breasts into the night.
But from each clod livid with slaughter's stain,
From every blood-dewed bush, wherever lay
The poorest fragment or the smallest, torn,
O you Italian mothers, from your hearts—
There, like a star a flame sprang up, and rose
A sound of many voices chanting hymns;
Far in the background shone Olympic Rome,
And through the air a mighty pæan ran.
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