Thirty Poems/Italy
ITALY.
Voices from the mountains speak; Apennines to Alps reply;Vale to vale and peak to peak Toss an old remembered cry; Italy Shall be free! Such the mighty shout that fills All the passes of her hills.
All the old Italian lakes Quiver at that quickening word;Como with a thrill awakes; Garda to her depths is stirred; Mid the steeps Where he sleeps,Dreaming of the elder years,Startled Thrasymenus hears.
Sweeping Arno, swelling Po, Murmur freedom to their meads.Tiber swift and Liris slow Send strange whispers from their reeds. Italy Shall be free,Sing the glittering brooks that slide,Toward the sea, from Etna's side.
Long ago was Gracchus slain; Brutus perished long ago;Yet the living roots remain Whence the shoots of greatness grow. Yet again, God-like men, Sprung from that heroic stem,Call the land to rise with them.
They who haunt the swarming street, They who chase the mountain boar,Or, where cliff and billow meet, Prune the vine or pull the oar, With a stroke Break their yoke;Slaves but yestereve were they—Freemen with the dawning day.
Looking in his children's eyes, While his own with gladness flash,"These," the Umbrian father cries, "Ne'er shall crouch beneath the lack! These shall ne'er Brook to wearChains whose cruel links are twinedRound the crushed and withering mind."
Monarchs! ye whose armies stand Harnessed for the battle-field!Pause, and from the lifted hand Drop the bolts of war ye wield. Stand aloof While the proofOf the people's might is given;Leave their kings to them and heaven.
Stand aloof, and see the oppressed Chase the oppressor, pale with fear,As the fresh winds of the west Blow the misty valleys clear. Stand and see ItalyCast the gyves she wears no moreTo the gulfs that steep her shore.