Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/195

189 And Beatrix might leap up glad to cull Thy first smile, even in heaven and at her side, Like that which, nine years old, looked beautiful At Tuscan May-game. Foolish words! I meant Only that Dante loved his Florence well, And Florence, now, to love him is content! I mean too, certes, that the sweetest smell Of lovers dear incense, by the living sent To find the dead, is not accessible To your low livers! no narcotic,—not Swung in a censer to a sleepy tune,— But trod out in the morning air, by hot Quick spirits, who tread firm to ends foreshown, And use the name of greatness unforgot, To meditate what greatness may be done.

For Dante sits in heaven, and ye stand here, And more remains for doing, all must feel, Than trysting on his stone from year to year To shift processions, civic heel to heel, The town's thanks to the Pitti. Are ye freer For what was felt that day? A chariot wheel May spin fast, yet the chariot never roll. But if that day suggested something good, And bettered, with one purpose, soul by soul,— Better means freer. A land's brotherhood Is most puissant! Men, upon the whole, Are what they can be,—nations, what they would.

Will, therefore, to be strong, thou Italy! Will to be noble! Austrian Metternich