_Luigi._ Here surely, then. How plain the tap of my heel as I leaped up! 5 Hark--"Lucius Junius!" The very ghost of a voice Whose body is caught and kept by--what are those? Mere withered wall flowers, waving overhead? They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hair That lean out of their topmost fortress--look 10 And listen, mountain men, to what we say, Hand under chin of each grave earthy face. Up and show faces all of you!--"All of you!" That's the king dwarf with the scarlet comb; old Franz, Come down and meet your fate? Hark--"Meet your fate!" 15 _Mother._ Let him not meet it, my Luigi--do not Go to his City! Putting crime aside, Half of these ills of Italy are feigned: Your Pellicos and writers for effect, Write for effect. 20 _Luigi._ Hush! Say A writes, and B. _Mother._ These A's and B's write for effect, I say. Then, evil is in its nature loud, while good Is silent; you hear each petty injury, None of his virtues; he is old beside, Quiet and kind, and densely stupid. Why 25 Do A and B not kill him themselves? _Luigi._ They teach Others to kill him--me--and, if I fail, Others to succeed; now, if A tried and failed, I could not teach that: mine's the lesser task. Mother, they visit night by night-- _Mother._ --You, Luigi? 30 Ah, will you let me tell you what you are? _Luigi._ Why not? Oh, the one thing you fear to hint, You may assure yourself I say and say Ever to myself! At times--nay, even as now We sit--I think my mind is touched, suspect 35 All is not sound; but is not knowing that What constitutes one sane or otherwise? I know I am thus--so, all is right again. I laugh at myself as through the town I walk, And see men merry as if no Italy 40 Were suffering; then I ponder--"I am rich, Young, healthy; why should this fact trouble me, More than it troubles these?" But it does trouble. No, trouble's a bad word; for as I walk There's springing and melody and giddiness, 45 And old quaint turns and passages of my youth, Dreams long forgotten, little in themselves, Return to me--whatever may amuse me, And earth seems in a truce with me, and heaven Accords with me, all things suspend their strife, 50 The very cicala laughs, "There goes he, and there! Feast him, the time is short; he is on his way For the world's sake: feast him this once, our friend!" And in return for all this, I can trip Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I go 55 This evening, mother!