Persuade the peasant of its truth; I meant to call a freak of youth This hiding, and give hopes of pay, And no temptation to betray.
But when I saw that woman's face, Its calm simplicity of grace, Our Italy's own attitude
In which she walked thus far, and stood,
Planting each naked foot so firm,
To crush the snake and spare the worm- At first sight of her eyes, I said, “I am that man upon whose head "They fix the price, because I hate "The Austrians over us: the State "Will give you gold-oh, gold so much, "If you betray me to their clutch! "And be your death, for aught I know, "If once they find you saved their foe. "Now, you must bring me food and drink, "And also paper, pen, and ink,
"And carry safe what I shall write
"To Padua, which you 'll reach at night "Before the Duomo shuts; go in,
"And wait till Tenebræ begin; "Walk to the Third Confessional,
"Between the pillar and the wall,
"And kneeling whisper whence comes peace?
Say it a second time; then cease; "And if the voice inside returns,
"From Christ and Freedom; what concerns "The cause of Peace ?-for answer, slip "My letter where you placed your lip;
"Then come back happy we have done "Our mother service-I, the son, "As you the daughter of our land!"
Three mornings more, she took her stand In the same place, with the same eyes: I was no surer of sun-rise
Than of her coming: we conferred Of her own prospects, and I heard She had a lover-stout and tall, She said then let her eyelids fall, "He could do much "-as if some doubt Entered her heart,-then, passing out, "She could not speak for others—who "Had other thoughts; herself she knew : And so she brought me drink and food. After four days, the scouts pursued Another path at last arrived The help my Paduan friends contrived To furnish me: she brought the news: For the first time I could not choose But kiss her hand and lay my own Upon her head-" This faith was shown
"To Italy, our mother ;—she
"Uses my hand and blesses thee!"
She followed down to the sea-shore ;
I left and never saw her more.
How very long since I have thought Concerning much less wished for—aught Beside the good of Italy
For which I live and mean to die! I never was in love; and since
Charles proved false, nothing could convince My inmost heart I had a friend; However, if I pleased to spend
Real wishes on myself-say, Three- I know at least what one should be ; I would grasp Metternich until
1 felt his red wet throat distil
In blood thro' these two hands and next, -Nor much for that am I perplexed- Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, Should die slow of a broken heart Under his new employers: last
-Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast Do I grow old and out of strength.- If I resolved to seek at length
My father's house again, how scared They all would look, and unprepared! My brothers live in Austria's pay -Disowned me long ago, men say; And all my early mates who used
To praise me so-perhaps induced More than one early step of mine— Are turning wise; while some opine "Freedom grows License," some suspect "Haste breeds Delay, and recollect They always said, such premature Beginnings never could endure! So, with a sullen "All's for best," The land seems settling to its rest. I think, then, I should wish to stand This evening in that dear, lost land, Over the sea the thousand miles, And know if yet that woman smiles With the calm smile; some little farm She lives in there, no doubt; what harm If I sate on the door-side bench, And, while her spindle made a trench Fantastically in the dust,
Inquired of all her fortunes-just Her children's ages and their names, And what may be the husband's aims For each of them-I'd talk this out, And sit there, for an hour about, Then kiss her hand once more, and lay Mine on her head, and go my way.
So much for idle wishing-how It steals the time ! To business now!
Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one,
Sit here by my side,
On my knees put up both little feet!
I was sure, if I tried,
I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco:
Now, open your eyes—
Let me keep you amused till he vanish
In black from the skies,
With telling my memories over As you tell your beads;
All the memories plucked at Sorrento
-The flowers, or the weeds.
Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn
Had net-worked with brown
The white skin of each grape on the bunches, Marked like a quail's crown,
Those creatures you make such account of, Whose heads, specked with white Over brown like a great spider's back,
As I told you last night,—
Your mother bites off for her supper; Red-ripe as could be.
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