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In glad carousal, when the purple cup Gave its own gaiety; we've fought together, 'Neath the same banner was our earliest field! We've sat beside the watch-fire half the night, Talking of friends and of our native city, Yet yonder doth he lie, slain by my hand!

Better ten thousand perish'd such as he, Than peril life so dear as your's to Lucca.

Lucca—that is the watchword of my heart! My native city! you are young, Cesario, And do not know with how intense a love The exile clingeth to his mother earth. I was an exile once—and Lucca rose Each night more beautiful among my dreams; Each day a deeper longing seized my soul To see her walls once more; at length I came, And found disorder, tyranny and death! It matters not to tell you of my youth; Enough, it left me with no home-affection, None of those gentler ties that fill the thoughts Of other men—my country was my all! My hopes, my fears, my future were for Lucca.

And you have made our Lucca what she is, Peace in her streets, and victory at her gates.

I know my power—alas! I also know Power is a sad and solitary thing;