And who in long array (look where they come; Their gestures menacing so far and wide) Wear the green turban and the heron's plume? Who-but the Caliphs? followed fast by shapes As new and strange-Emperor, and King, and Czar, And Soldan, each, with a gigantic stride, Trampling on all the flourishing works of peace To make his greatness greater, and inscribe His name in blood-some, men of steel, steel-clad; Others, nor long, alas, the interval, In light and gay attire, with brow serene Wielding Jove's thunder, scattering sulphurous fire Mingled with darkness; and, among the rest, Lo, one by one, passing continually, Those who assume a sway beyond them all; Men grey with age, each in a triple crown, And in his tremulous hands grasping the keys That can alone, as he would signify, Unlock Heaven's gate. XII. He who is on his travels and loves ease, Ease and companionship, should hire a lacquey, Such as thou wert, Luigi. Thee I found, Playing at MORA on the cabin-roof With Pulcinella-crying, as in anger, "Tre! Quattro! Cinque!"-Tis a game to strike Fire from the coldest heart. What then from thine? And, ere the twentieth throw, I had resolved, Won by thy looks. Thou wert an honest lad; Wert generous, grateful, not without ambition. Had it depended on thy will and pleasure, Thou wouldst have numbered in thy family But that was not to be. In thee I saw The last of a long line of Carbonari, Who in their forest, for three hundred years, Had lived and laboured, cutting, charring wood; Discovering where they were, to those astray, By the re-echoing stroke, the crash, the fall, Or the blue wreath that travelled slowly up Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies Led thee away to justle in the crowd; And there I found thee-by thy own prescription Crossing the sea to try once more a change |