Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said; —The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain ! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud, by that test. What art 's for a woman? To hold on her knees Both darlings; to feel all their arms round her throat; Cling, strangle a little, to sew by degrees And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat; To teach them . . . It stings there! I made them indeed Speak plain the word country. I taught them, not doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. The tyrant cast out. "And when their eyes flashed... O my beautiful eyes! . . . I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the wheels At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses,—of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free!" I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Who forbids our complaint." My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and aware To live on for the rest." On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line, "mine," No voice says "My mother" again to me. You think Guido forgot? What! Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven O Christ of the five wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say! Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all one. 'T were imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And, when Italy 's made, for what end is it done Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta 's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When the guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short? When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my Dead)— What then? Do not mock me. And burn your lights faintly! Ah, ring your bells low, My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow: Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn; But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this-and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born. Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, [This was Laura Savio, of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta.] NATURE'S REMORSES. ROME, 1861. HER soul was bred by a throne, and fed Was swaddled away in violet silk. And daylight issues of events. Of magical town and musical wave, Dropt and forgot in a nereid's cave. What is this? As quick as a kiss, And a fire-stone ran in the form of a man, Bowling the kingdom down! Where was the king? But never, never of such a thing! You think she dropped when her dream was stopped, Lividly rank, her new lord's cheek? Not so. Her high heart overtopped The royal part she had come to play. And twice a wife by her ravaged life, She braved the shock and the counter-shock Of hero and traitor, bullet and knife, While Italy pushed, like a vengeful ghost, That son of the Cursed from Gaeta's rock. What will ye give her, who could not deliver, All over-scored with your signatures, Mock her not, fresh from the truth of Death, What will ye put in your casket shut, Ladies of Paris, in sympathy's name? Guizot's daughter, what have you brought her? |