Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/235

 Which was Mazzini once! rich Niobe

For all her stony sorrows hath her sons, but Italy!

What Easter Day shall make her children rise,

Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet

Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes

Shall see them bodily? O it were meet

To roll the stone from off the sepulchre

And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of Her

Our Italy! our mother visible!

Most blessed among nations and most sad,

For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell

That day at Aspromonte and was glad

That in an age when God was bought and sold

One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,

See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves

Bind the sweet feet of Mercy: Poverty

Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives

Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily,

And no word said:—O we are wretched men

Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen 221