Against a little town, and panoplied
In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,

White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede
Between the waving poplars and the sea

Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylae
Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,

And on the nearer side a little brood
Of careless lions holding festival!

And stood amazed at such hardihood,
And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore,

And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o'er
Some unfrequented height, and coming down

The autumn forests treacherously slew
What Sparta held most dear and was the crown

Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew
How God had staked an evil net for him

In the small bay at Salamis, - and yet, the page grows dim,
Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel

With such a goodly time too out of tune
To love it much: for like the Dial's wheel

That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon
Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes

Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies.
O for one grand unselfish simple life

To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills
Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife

Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills,
Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly

Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century!
Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he

Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul
Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty

Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal
Where love and duty mingle! Him at least

The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom's feast;
But we are Learning's changelings, know by rote

The clarion watchword of each Grecian school
And follow none, the flawless sword which smote

The pagan Hydra is an effete tool
Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now

Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow?
One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!

Gone is that last dear son of Italy,
Who being man died for the sake of God,

And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,
O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto's tower,

Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour
Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or

The Arno with its tawny troubled gold
O'er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror

Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old
When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty

Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery
Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell

With an old man who grabbled rusty keys,
Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell

With which oblivion buries dynasties
Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast,

As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.
He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome,

He drave the base wolf from the lion's lair,
And now lies dead by that empyreal dome

Which overtops Valdarno hung in air
By Brunelleschi - O Melpomene

Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!
Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies

That Joy's self may grow jealous, and the Nine
Forget awhile their discreet emperies,

Mourning for him who on Rome's lordliest shrine
Lit for men's lives the light of Marathon,

And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun!
O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto's tower!

Let some young Florentine each eventide
Bring coronals of that enchanted flower

Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,
And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies

Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes;
Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,

Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim
Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings

Of the eternal chanting Cherubim
Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away

Into a moonless void, - and yet, though he is dust and clay,
He is not dead, the immemorial Fates

Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain.
Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!

Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain
For the vile thing he hated lurks within

Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.
Still what avails it that she sought her cave

That murderous mother of red harlotries?
At Munich on the marble architrave

The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas
Which wash AEgina fret in loneliness

Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless
For lack of our ideals, if one star

Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust
Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war

Can wake to passionate" target="_blank" title="a.易动情的；易怒的">passionate voice the silent dust
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
Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword

Which slew its master righteously? the years
Have lost their ancient leader, and no word

Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears:
While as a ruined mother in some spasm

Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm
Genders unlawful children, Anarchy

Freedom's own Judas, the vile prodigal