VIII.

Wildly she falter'd, starting from his breast, "What dost thou ask--must it all end in this! Art thou not happy, Ingrate? Rest, O, rest, England has toil--Italia happiness!" And as she spoke--a loftier light than pride Flash'd from his eye, and thus the MAN replied,-- "Hear and approve me--In my father's land Age-long have men, as Heathens, bow'd the knee To the dire Statue with the sceptred hand, Which Force enthrones for Thought's idolatry. But now I hear the signal-sound afar, Like the first clarion waking sleep to war, When slumbering armies gird a doomed town. Dread with the whirlwind, glorious with the light, Strong with the thunderbolt, comes rushing down TRUTH:--Let the mountains reel beneath her might! Vigour and health her angry wings dispense, And speed the storm, to clear the pestilence. For this, at morn, when through the gladd'ning air Larks rise to heaven--arose my freeman's prayer. For this, has Night in solemn prophet-dreams Limn'd Time's great morrow--now its day-star gleams! Yea, ere I loved thee, ere a sigh had ask'd Ev'n if the love of woman were for me, A Shape of queenlier grief than ever task'd The votive hearts of antique Chivalry, Born to command the sword, inspire the song, Unveil'd her beauty, and reveal'd her wrong. The Cause she pleads for with the world began; The realm torn from her is the Soul of Man-- And her great name despoil'd is--Liberty! And now she calls me with imperial voice Homeward o'er land and ocean to her cause; Sworn to her service at mine own free choice, Shall I be recreant when the sword she draws?"