Page:The roamer and other poems (1920).djvu/67

Reginald was I,—to what end thou seest.
I strove to solve the mighty world in thought."
"Victor I am," the Italian straight began,
"And with the world tyrannic strove in song,
A voice among the spearmen, angel-clear,
Till the king's rifles rang against my throat
After the failure, if that failure was
Which to remember in the grave were heaven
And to relate even in this gloom is joy."
So sate they down, and Victor told his tale.
"Siena—still she sits upon her crags,
And on the slope the dark-stemmed Mangia springs,
And o'er the crest the Campanile towers;
My mother, and the mother of my soul!
For from her face I did not need to roam
To find my heaven; there every rock aspires.
There once I slept, and woke beneath the stars,
And found within my bosom a snow-white bird,
A waif unknown, and stroked and loved its plumes;
And ever after was I lightly named
The boy who bore the bird within his breast.
Blind eyes that babbled of the things of sense,
Of boy and bird, and missed the rhyme of life,
The voice of promise, echo of desire!
For heavenly grace that hath made all things twain,

Doth but divide them as the hand and lyre