The tricolor—a trampled rag Lies, dirt and dust; the lines I track By sentry boxes yellow-black, Lead up to no Italian flag. I see the Croat soldier stand Upon the grass of your redoubts; The eagle with his black wings flouts The breath and beauty of your land. Yet not in vain, although in vain, O men of Brescia, on the day Of loss past hope, I heard you say Your welcome to the noble pain. You say, ‘Since so it is,—good-bye Sweet life, high hope; but whatsoe’er May be, or must, no tongue shall dare To tell, “The Lombard feared to die!”’ You said (there shall be answer fit), ‘And if our children must obey, They must; but thinking on this day ’Twill less debase them to submit.’ You said (Oh not in vain you said), ‘Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may; The hours ebb fast of this one day When blood may yet be nobly shed.’ Ah! not for idle hatred, not For honour, fame, nor self-applause, But for the glory of the cause, You did, what will not be forgot. And though the stranger stand, ’tis true, By force and fortune’s right he stands; By fortune, which is in God’s hands, And strength, which yet shall spring in you. This voice did on my spirit fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost, ‘’Tis better to have fought and lost, Than never to have fought at all.’ 1849 _ALTERAM PARTEM._ Or shall I say, Vain word, false thought, Since Prudence hath her martyrs too, And Wisdom dictates not to do, Till doing shall be not for nought? Not ours to give or lose is life; Will Nature, when her brave ones fall, Remake her work? or songs recall Death’s victim slain in useless strife? That rivers flow into the sea Is loss and waste, the foolish say, Nor know that back they find their way, Unseen, to where they wont to be. Showers fall upon the hills, springs flow, The river runneth still at hand, Brave men are born into the land, And whence the foolish do not know. No! no vain voice did on me fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost, ‘_’Tis_ better to have fought and lost, Than never to have fought at all.’ 1849 _SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH._ Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main, And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright. 1849 FOOTNOTES [1] This and the following Early Poems are reprinted from the volume called _Ambarvalia_.