About a statue, broidered at the hem,—
Not the mere trilling on an opera stage,
Of libertà' to bravos—(a fair word,
Yet too allied to inarticulate rage
And breathless sobs, for singing, though the chord
Were deeper than they struck it!)—but the gauge
Of civil wants sustained, and wrongs abhorred,—
The serious, sacred meaning and full use
Of freedom for a nation,—then, indeed,
Our Tuscans, underneath the bloody dews
Of a new morning, rising up agreed
And bold, will want no Saxon souls or thews,
To sweep their piazzas clear of Austria's breed.
X.
Conviction was not, courage failed, and truth
Was something to be doubted of. The mime
Changed masks, because a mime; the tide as smooth
In running in as out; no sense of crime
Because no sense of virtue. Sudden ruth
Seized on the people . . . they would have again
Their good Grand-duke, and leave Guerazzi, though
He took that tax from Florence:—"Much in vain
He took it from the market-carts, we trow,
While urgent that no market-men remain,
But all march off, and leave the spade and plough,
To die among the Lombards. Was it thus
The dear paternal Duke did? Live the Duke!"
At which the joy-bells multitudinous,
Stept by an opposite wind, as loudly shook.
Recall the mild Archbishop to his house,
To bless the people with his frightened look,
