Never did nation’s need evoke Hero like him for aid, the while A Continent was cannon-smoke Or peace in slavery: this one Isle Reflecting Nature: this one man Her sea-hound and her mortal stroke, With war-worn body aye in battle’s van. And do we love him well, as well As he his country, we may greet, With hand on steel, our passing bell Nigh on the swing, for prelude sweet To the music heard when his last breath Hung on its ebb beside the knell, And VICTORY in his ear sang gracious Death. Ah, day of glory! day of tears! Day of a people bowed as one! Behold across those hundred years The lion flash of gun at gun: Our bitter pride; our love bereaved; What pall of cloud o’ercame our sun That day, to bear his wreath, the end achieved. Joy that no more with murder’s frown The ancient rivals bark apart. Now Nelson to brave France is shown A hero after her own heart: And he now scanning that quick race, To whom through life his glove was thrown, Would know a sister spirit to embrace. THE CENTENARY OF GARIBALDI WE who have seen Italia in the throes, Half risen but to be hurled to ground, and now Like a ripe field of wheat where once drove plough All bounteous as she is fair, we think of those Who blew the breath of life into her frame: Cavour, Mazzini, Garibaldi: Three: Her Brain, her Soul, her Sword; and set her free From ruinous discords, with one lustrous aim. That aim, albeit they were of minds diverse, Conjoined them, not to strive without surcease; For them could be no babblement of peace While lay their country under Slavery’s curse. The set of torn Italia’s glorious day Was ever sunrise in each filial breast. Of eagle beaks by righteousness unblest They felt her pulsing body made the prey. Wherefore they struck, and had to count their dead. With bitter smile of resolution nerved To try new issues, holding faith unswerved, Promise they gathered from the rich blood shed. In them Italia, visible to us then As living, rose; for proof that huge brute Force Has never being from celestial source, And is the lord of cravens, not of men. Now breaking up the crust of temporal strife, Who reads their acts enshrined in History, sees That Tyrants were the Revolutionaries, The Rebels men heart-vowed to hallowed life. Pure as the Archangel’s cleaving Darkness thro’, The Sword he sees, the keen unwearied Sword, A single blade against a circling horde, And aye for Freedom and the trampled few. The cry of Liberty from dungeon cell, From exile, was his God’s command to smite, As for a swim in sea he joined the fight, With radiant face, full sure that he did well.