Classic Poem

ON THE FIFTH ANNIVERSARY

EACH year, when thy anniversary,
Mentana, like a sighing
Voice o'er the hills, goes mournfully
Reproaching our neglect,
O'er hill and plain in companies
The noble dead come flying,
And at Nomentum haughtily
Stand on the mounds erect.

They are spirits tall and beautiful,
Not skeletons unsightly;
The rosy mists of evening
Veil them as they float by;
Thro' their red wounds shine radiantly
The virgin stars, and lightly
With their long locks are mingled
The clouds that sweep the sky.

" Now that on beds unvisited
By sleep are mothers mourning,
Now that young brides are dreaming of
Love that was ours in vain,
We that were wounded, slain for thee,
From Tartarus are returning,
To greet thee, O our Italy,
To see thee once again.

" As a knight would cast his mantle on
A muddy path, defiling
The gay green silk right gallantly
That his lady thereon might tread,
For thee we cast down fearlessly
Our lives, at black Fate smiling;
Yet thou can'st live forgetful of
Those who for thee lie dead.

" To other men, sweet Italy,
Thy smiles and gifts are given;
But the dead of what was dear to them
In life are forgetful ne'er.
Yet Rome is ours: as champions
Of her great name we have striven;
Let us fly on to the Capitol,
Let us fly to triumph there."

On like dark clouds those companies
Of dead o'er heaven go streaming:
A nameless awe on Italian
Breasts, as they pass, doth fall:
Hushed are the gilded galleries
Where music and lights are gleaming:
Men hear the thunder muttering
On the lofty Quirinal.

Meanwhile below to the city of
Gracchus ever more thickly
Troop in, sleek-bellied and infamous,
The " Chevaliers d'industrie":
They say: " If skies be thundery,
Let's fill our pockets quickly:
Then come the flood, we welcome it:
For what will be, will be."