And men had patience with thy quiet mood,
And women, pity, as they saw thee pace
Their festive streets with premature grey hairs:
We turned the mild dejection of thy face
To princely meanings, took thy wrinkling cares
For ruffling hopes, and called thee weak, not base.
Better to light the torches for more prayers
And smoke the pale Madonnas at the shrine,
Being still "our poor Grand-duke," "our good Grand-duke,"
"Who cannot help the Austrian in his line,"
Than write an oath upon a nation's book
For men to spit at with scorn's blurring brine!
Who dares forgive what none can overlook?
V.
Of towns and temples, which makes Italy,—
I sigh amid the sighs which breathe a gust
Of dying century to century,
Around us on the uneven crater-crust
Of the old worlds,—I bow my soul and knee,
And sigh and do repent me of my fault
That ever I believed the man was true.
These sceptred strangers shun the common salt,
And, therefore, when the general board's in view,
They standing up to carve for blind and halt,
We should suspect the viands which ensue.
And I repent that in this time and place,
Where all the corpse-lights of experience burn
From Cæsar's and Lorenzo's festering race,
To illumine groping reasoners, I could learn
No better counsel for a simple case
Than to put faith in princes, in my turn.
