Page:Writings of Oscar Wilde - Volume 01.djvu/55

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 * But thou, Ravenna, better loved than all,

Thy ruined palaces are but a pall That hides thy fallen greatness! and thy name Burns like a grey and flickering candle-flame, Beneath the noon-day splendour of the sun Of new Italia! for the night is done, The night of dark oppression, and the day Hath dawned in passionate splendour: far away The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land, Beyond those ice-crowned citadels which stand Girdling the plain of royal Lombardy, From the far West unto the Eastern sea.


 * I know, indeed, that sons of thine have died

In Lissa's waters, by the mountain-side Of Aspromonte, on Novara's plain,— Nor have thy children died for thee in vain: And yet, methinks, thou hast not drunk this wine From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine, Thou hast not followed that immortal Star Which leads the people forth to deeds of war. Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep, As one who marks the lengthening shadows creep,