Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/228

 And by the faint heart of my womanhood, Such things are better than a Peace which sits Beside the hearth in self-commended mood, And takes no thought how wind and rain by fits Are howling out of doors against the good Of the poor wanderer. What! your peace admits Of outside anguish while it sits at home? I loathe to take its name upon my tongue It is no peace. 'Tis treason, stiff with doom, 'Tis gagged despair, and inarticulate wrong, Annihilated Poland, stifled Rome, Dazed Naples, Hungary fainting 'neath the thong, And Austria wearing a smooth olive-leaf On her brute forehead, while her hoofs outpress The life from these Italian souls, in brief. O Lord of Peace, who art Lord of Righteousness, Constrain the anguished worlds from sin and grief, Pierce them with conscience, purge them with redress, And give us peace which is no counterfeit!

But wherefore should we look out any more From Casa Guidi windows? Shut them straight; And let us sit down by the folded door And veil our saddened faces, and so, wait What next the judgment-heavens make ready for. I have grown weary of these windows. Sights Come thick enough and clear enough with thought, Without the sunshine; souls have inner lights: And since the Grand-duke has come back and brought This army of the North which thus requites His filial South, we leave him to be taught.