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 And, if no more they may be called a Nation, Shall teach them how to fall with Samson-wrath; Yea! fall in triumph, midst the desolation Of throne, and rostrum, altar, and of hearth! Nor, where the blessed corn-crop fail, to leave To poisonous weeds the heirship of the earth. Oh! well these tried and aged eyes may grieve, To read, in spirit, this fore-acted doom; Which others neither can see, nor believe! But laugh upon the threshold of the tomb; As sports the summer-fly, whilst spiders weave Their fateful nets! Well, let the earth resume This failing garment of my flesh; I feel My present life has not been without bloom, Or fruits: Due time their flavour will reveal! And if the Statesman's sole reward hath been Long years of wandering, seeking to conceal A forfeit life: If spoken words, like wind Have passed away! My fame seared, in its green; I leave, at least, one testament behind, Of which my Florence shall not say, I ween (However callous, and unjustly blind), It dies, along with the old Ghibelline! No: with Italia's land my Book shall live; Her thoughts, and very language be of mine! Yes, what my City was too false to give, A world will yet award me! So, I end: My strength hath been in patience, whose close sieve, Well-used, the Garner's labour will befriend. Florence, my mighty wrongs I can forgive! Honour me in my ashes; this thou must! Now, Sainted Name, in whose pure memories live The all, that shall make glorious my—dust; My sole thoughts turn with speechless love to thee! Thou wert my Alpha and Omega: First And Last! Let me return to liberty; I found it but in Paradise—with Thee!