Of dreams of this fair south,—who understand
A little how the Tuscan musical
Vowels do round themselves, as if they plann'd
Eternities of separate sweetness,—we
Who loved Sorrento vines in picture-book,
Or ere in wine-cup we pledged faith or glee—
Who loved Rome's wolf, with demi-gods at suck,
Or ere we loved truth's own divinity,—
Who loved, in brief, the classic hill and brook,
And Ovid's dreaming tales, and Petrarch's song,
Or ere we loved Love's self!—why, let us give
The blessing of our souls, and wish them strong
To bear it to the height where prayers arrive,
When faithful spirits pray against a wrong;
To this great cause of southern men, who strive
In God's name for man's rights, and shall not fail!
XXXI.
Above the shrieks, in Naples, and prevail.
Rows of shot corpses, waiting for the end
Of burial, seem to smile up straight and pale
Into the azure air, and apprehend
That final gun-flash from Palermo's coast,
Which lightens their apocalypse of death.
So let them die! The world shows nothing lost;
Therefore, not blood! Above or underneath,
What matter, brothers, if we keep our post
Or truth's and duty's side! As sword to sheath,
Dust turns to grave, but souls find place in Heaven.
O friends, heroic daring is success,
