But when the priest had risen to devote The mystic wafer, from the band that stood About the altar came a sudden note Of sweetness over my disdainful mood; A voice that, speaking from the brazen throat Of warlike trumpets, came like the subdued Moan of a people bound in sore distress, And thinking on lost hopes and happiness. 'T was Verdi's tender chorus rose aloof,-- That song the Lombards there, dying of thirst, Send up to God, “Lord, from the native roof.” O'er countless thrilling hearts the song has burst, And here I, whom its magic put to proof, Beginning to be no longer I, immersed Myself amidst those tallowy fellow-men As if they had been of my land and kin. What would your Excellency? The piece was fine, And ours, and played, too, as it should be played; It drives old grudges out when such divine Music as that mounts up into your head! But when the piece was done, back to my line I crept again, and there I should have staid, But that just then, to give me another turn, From those mole-mouths a hymn began to yearn: A German anthem, that to heaven went On unseen wings, up from the holy fane; It was a prayer, and seemed like a lament, Of such a pensive, grave, pathetic strain That in my soul it never shall be spent; And how such heavenly harmony in the brain Of those thick-skulled barbarians should dwell I must confess it passes me to tell. In that sad hymn, I felt the bitter sweet Of the songs heard in childhood, which the soul Learns from beloved voices, to repeat To its own anguish in the days of dole; A thought of the dear mother, a regret, A longing for repose and love,--the whole Anguish of distant exile seemed to run Over my heart and leave it all undone: When the strain ceased, it left me pondering Tenderer thoughts and stronger and more clear; These men, I mused, the self-same despot king, Who rules in Slavic and Italian fear, Tears from their homes and arms that round them cling. And drives them slaves thence, to keep us slaves here; From their familiar fields afar they pass Like herds to winter in some strange morass. To a hard life, to a hard discipline, Derided, solitary, dumb, they go; Blind instruments of many-eyed Rapine And purposes they share not, and scarce know; And this fell hate that makes a gulf between The Lombard and the German, aids the foe Who tramples both divided, and whose bane Is in the love and brotherhood of men.