Take thou Thine eldest,--thou, thy youngest born. Oh, flow Of tears never to cease! Oh, Hope quite gone, Dead like the dead!--Yet could they live alone-- Without their Tiber and their Rome? and be Young and Italian--and not also free? They longed to see the ancient eagle try His lordly pinions in a modern sky. They bore--each on himself--the insults laid On the dear foster-land: of naught afraid, Save of not finding foes enough to dare For Italy. Ah; gallant, free, and rare Young martyrs of a sacred cause,--Adieu! No more of life--no more of love--for you! No sweet long-straying in the star-lit glades At Ave-Mary, with the Italian maids; No welcome home! II. This Garibaldi now, the Italian boys Go mad to hear him--take to dying--take To passion for "the pure and high";--God's sake! It's monstrous, horrible! One sees quite clear Society--our charge--must shake with fear, And shriek for help, and call on us to act When there's a hero, taken in the fact. If Light shines in the dark, there's guilt in that! What's viler than a lantern to a bat? III. Your Garibaldi missed the mark! You see The end of life's to cheat, and not to be Cheated: The knave is nobler than the fool! Get all you can and keep it! Life's a pool, The best luck wins; if Virtue starves in rags, I laugh at Virtue; here's my money-bags! Here's righteous metal! We have kings, I say, To keep cash going, and the game at play; There's why a king wants money--he'd be missed Without a fertilizing civil list. Do but try The question with a steady moral eye! The colonel strives to be a brigadier, The marshal, constable. Call the game fair, And pay your winners! Show the trump, I say! A renegade's a rascal--till the day They make him Pasha: is he rascal then? What with these sequins? Bah! you speak to Men, And Men want money--power--luck--life's joy-- Those take who can: we could, and fobbed Savoy; For those who live content with honest state, They're public pests; knock we 'em on the pate! They set a vile example! Quick--arrest That Fool, who ruled and failed to line his nest. Just hit a bell, you'll see the clapper shake-- Meddle with Priests, you'll find the barrack wake-- Ah! Princes know the People's a tight boot, March 'em sometimes to be shot and to shoot, Then they'll wear easier. So let them preach The righteousness of howitzers; and teach At the fag end of prayer: "Now, slit their throats! My holy Zouaves! my good yellow-coats!" We like to see the Holy Father send Powder and steel and lead without an end, To feed Death fat; and broken battles mend. So they! IV.