shame for men? Because the supreme sunrise is not yet, Is the young dew not wet? Wilt thou not yet abide a little while, Soul without fear or guile, Mazzini,—O our prophet, O our priest, A little while at least? A little hour of doubt and of control, Sustain thy sacred soul; Withhold thine heart, our father, but an hour; Is it not here, the flower, Is it not blown and fragrant from the root, And shall not be the fruit? Thy children, even thy people thou hast made, Thine, with thy words arrayed, Clothed with thy thoughts and girt with thy desires, Yearn up toward thee as fires. Art thou not father, O father, of all these? From thine own Genoese To where of nights the lower extreme lagune Feels its Venetian moon, Nor suckling's mouth nor mother's breast set free But hath that grace through thee. The milk of life on death's unnatural brink Thou gavest them to drink, The natural milk of freedom; and again They drank, and they were men. The wine and honey of freedom and of faith They drank, and cast off death. Bear with them now; thou art holier: yet endure, Till they as thou be pure. Their swords at least that stemmed half Austria's tide Bade all its bulk divide; Else, though fate bade them for a breath's space fall, She had not fallen at all. Not by their hands they made time's promise true; Not by their hands, but through. Nor on Custoza ran their blood to waste, Nor fell their fame defaced Whom stormiest Adria with tumultuous tides Whirls undersea and hides. Not his, who from the sudden-settling deck Looked over death and wreck To where the mother's bosom shone, who smiled As he, so dying, her child; For he smiled surely, dying, to mix his death With her memorial breath; Smiled, being most sure of her, that in no wise, Die whoso will, she dies:      And she smiled surely, fair and far above, Wept not, but smiled for love. Thou too, O splendour of the sudden sword That drove the crews abhorred From Naples and the siren-footed strand, Flash from thy master's hand, Shine from the middle summer of the seas To the old Aeolides, Outshine their fiery fumes of burning night, Sword, with thy midday light; Flame as a beacon from the Tyrrhene foam To the rent heart of Rome, From the island of her lover and thy lord, Her saviour and her sword. In the fierce year of failure and of fame, Art thou not yet the same That wast as lightning swifter than all wings In the blind face of 

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