Page:The roamer and other poems (1920).djvu/72

'O breath that wakes the hundred lyres of song,
O trump that fills the thousand fields of fame,
O hand of Hope, O seed of Memory,
Planting the future with the past sublime!
O voice that doth proclaim the glorious peace,
O hymn that lifts the jubilee of slaves—
The birth-cry of the nations, earth's new name,
The victory's blazon, Christ's eternal rouse!
Thy faintest whisper quakes beneath the throne,
And echoes in the people's mighty heart,
And gathers to the shout that gives God hail!
O rushing from the sun-struck mountain-tops,
O thunder-zoned, thou banisher of kings,
O sweet thy smile that brings the exile home!'
⁠The pæan swelled—'O bella Libertà!'
I sent from hill to hill the singing word;
I cherished with my life the song I sang;
I poured it forth, free as the patriot's blood,
The all I was; and, lo, my chambered soul
Lived in a thousand nobler lives than mine;
For he who standeth in the whole world's hope
Is as a magnet; he shall draw all hearts
To be his shield, all arms to strike his blow.
So round my voice the globe of battle grew,
The war-clash 'gan to murmur, and my lips

Sang to the onset, and death flashing fell.