The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1867-05-04
SWINE URNE'S NEW POEM


Mr.. swinburne's "song of Italy" which
has just appeared in England, is an entbn-
siastic laudation OF Mazzini and the revolu-
tionary heroes. In one fine passage the noet
sees Freedom and Italy in a vision, and ItaIv
is thus addressed by Freedom:-
because the years were heavy on thy head:
Because dead things are dead. '
Because thy chosen on hillside. citv. and plain
Are shed as drops of rain;
because al earth was black, all heaven was
And we cast out Of mind;
Because men wept saying Freedom, knowing
Child, that thou was not free;
Because wherever blood was not shame was
Where thy pure foot did pass;
Because on Promethean rocks distent
Thee f0uler eagles rent;
Because serpent stains with slime and foam
This that Is not thy Rome;
Child of my womb whose limbs were made
in me,
Have forgotten thee
In all thy dreams, through all these years on
Hast thou dreamed such thing?
The mortal mother bird outsoars her nest,
The child outgrOws the breast;
But suns as stars shall fall from heaven and
cease,
Ere we twain be as these;
Yea, utmost skies forget their utmost sun,
Ere we TWAIN be not one.
My lesser Jewels sewn on skirt and hem,
L have no need OF them,
Obscured and tiawed by sloth of craft or power; |;
But thou, that vast my flower,
The blossom bound between my broWs and worn
In sight OF even and morn, .-...
From the last ember of the flameless west
To the dawn's barring breast
/ were not Freedom If thou vert not free,
Nor thou vert Italy.
o mystic rose ingrained with blood, impearled
| With tears of all the world
fThe tOrpor of their blind brute.ridd trance
Kills England and chils France;
s. And Spain sobs hard through strangling blood;
and SHOWS
Hide the huge Eastern woes.
noon,
And blessed of star and moon,
What shall avail to assail thee any more,
From sacred shore TO shore
Have Time and Love not knelt down at thy
Thy sore, thy soiled. thy sweet,
Fresh from the fnts and mire of murderous
ways,
And dust of travelling days?
Hath Time not kissed them, Love not washed
And wiped with tears and hair?
Though God forget thee, will not forget;
Though heaven and earth be set
Against thee, unconquerable child,
Abused, abased, revied,
Lift thou not less from no funeral bed
Thine undishonored head;
Love thou not less, by lips of thine once prest,
This my now barren breast;
Seek thou not less, being well assured thereof,
o child, my latest love.
For now the barren bosom shall bear fruit,
Songs leap from lips long mute,
And with my milk the mouths of nations fed,
Again be glad and red
That were worn white with hunger and sorrow
and thirst
N And thou most fair and first,
" Thou whose warm hands and sweet live lips
feel ....
Upon me for a seal;
Thou whose least looks, whose smiles and little
siehs,
Whose passionate pure eyes,
I Whose dear iair limbs that neither bonds could
bruise
Nor haze of men misuse,
Whose hower-like breath and bosom, Oh my
child,
Oh mine and undefled,
! Fill with such tears as burn like bitter wine
These mothers eyes of mine,
Thrill with huge passions and primeVal pains
The fulness of my veins.
Oh sweetest head seen higher than any stands,
/ touch thee with mine hands,
v lay my lips upon thee, Oh! thou most sweet,
To lit thee on thy feet
And with the fire of mine to fill thine eyes,
i say unto thee, Arise.