Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/222

 About a statue, broidered at the hem,— Not the mere trilling on an opera stage, Of libertà' to bravos—(a fair word, Yet too allied to inarticulate rage And breathless sobs, for singing, though the chord Were deeper than they struck it!)—but the gauge Of civil wants sustained, and wrongs abhorred,— The serious, sacred meaning and full use Of freedom for a nation,—then, indeed, Our Tuscans, underneath the bloody dews Of a new morning, rising up agreed And bold, will want no Saxon souls or thews, To sweep their piazzas clear of Austria's breed.

Alas, alas! it was not so this time. Conviction was not, courage failed, and truth Was something to be doubted of. The mime Changed masks, because a mime; the tide as smooth In running in as out; no sense of crime Because no sense of virtue. Sudden ruth Seized on the people they would have again Their good Grand-duke, and leave Guerazzi, though He took that tax from Florence:—"Much in vain He took it from the market-carts, we trow, While urgent that no market-men remain, But all march off, and leave the spade and plough, To die among the Lombards. Was it thus The dear paternal Duke did? Live the Duke!" At which the joy-bells multitudinous, Stept by an opposite wind, as loudly shook. Recall the mild Archbishop to his house, To bless the people with his frightened look,