A goddess who takes hands with great men's grief; Praise her, and him, our chief. Praise him, O Siena, and thou her deep green spring, O Fonte Branda, sing: Shout from the red clefts of thy fiery crags, Shake out thy flying flags In the long wind that streams from hill to hill; Bid thy full music fill The desolate red waste of sunset air And fields the old time saw fair, But now the hours ring void through ruined lands, Wild work of mortal hands; Yet through thy dead Maremma let his name Take flight and pass in flame, And the red ruin of disastrous hours Shall quicken into flowers. Praise him, O fiery child of sun and sea, Naples, who bade thee be; For till he sent the swords that scourge and save, Thou wast not, but thy grave. But more than all these praise him and give thanks, Thou, from thy Tiber's banks, From all thine hills and from thy supreme dome, Praise him, O risen Rome. Let all thy children cities at thy knee Lift up their voice with thee, Saying 'for thy love's sake and our perished grief We laud thee, O our chief;' Saying 'for thine hand and help when hope was dead We thank thee, O our head;' Saying 'for thy voice and face within our sight We bless thee, O our light; For waters cleansing us from days defiled We praise thee, O our child.' Sec. So with an hundred cities' mouths in one Praising thy supreme son, Son of thy sorrow, O mother, O maid and mother, Our queen, who serve none other, Our lady of pity and mercy, and full of grace, Turn otherwhere thy face, Turn for a little and look what things are these Now fallen before thy knees; Turn upon them thine eyes who hated thee, Behold what things they be, Italia: these are stubble that were steel, Dust, or a turning wheel; As leaves, as snow, as sand, that were so strong; And howl, for all their song, And wail, for all their wisdom; they that were So great, they are all stript bare, They are all made empty of beauty, and all abhorred; They are shivered and their sword; They are slain who slew, they are heartless who were wise; Yea, turn on these thine eyes, O thou, soliciting with soul sublime The obscure soul of time, Thou, with the wounds thy holy body bears From broken swords of theirs, Thou, with the sweet swoln eyelids that have bled Tears for thy thousands dead, And upon these, whose swords drank up like dew The sons of thine they slew, These, whose each gun blasted with murdering mouth Live flowers of thy fair south, These, whose least evil told in alien ears Turned men's whole blood to tears, These, whose least sin remembered for pure shame