Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/213

 Of dreams of this fair south,—who understand A little how the Tuscan musical Vowels do round themselves, as if they plann'd Eternities of separate sweetness,—we Who loved Sorrento vines in picture-book, Or ere in wine-cup we pledged faith or glee— Who loved Rome's wolf, with demi-gods at suck, Or ere we loved truth's own divinity,— Who loved, in brief, the classic hill and brook, And Ovid's dreaming tales, and Petrarch's song, Or ere we loved Love's self!—why, let us give The blessing of our souls, and wish them strong To bear it to the height where prayers arrive, When faithful spirits pray against a wrong; To this great cause of southern men, who strive In God's name for man's rights, and shall not fail!

Behold, they shall not fail. The shouts ascend Above the shrieks, in Naples, and prevail. Rows of shot corpses, waiting for the end Of burial, seem to smile up straight and pale Into the azure air, and apprehend That final gun-flash from Palermo's coast, Which lightens their apocalypse of death. So let them die! The world shows nothing lost; Therefore, not blood! Above or underneath, What matter, brothers, if we keep our post Or truth's and duty's side! As sword to sheath, Dust turns to grave, but souls find place in Heaven. O friends, heroic daring is success,