For me, I do repent me in this dust Of towns and temples which makes Italy,-- I sigh amid the sighs which breathe a gust Of dying century to century Around us on the uneven crater-crust Of these old worlds,--I bow my soul and knee. Absolve me, patriots, of my woman's fault That ever I believed the man was true! These sceptred strangers shun the common salt, And, therefore, when the general board's in view And they stand up to carve for blind and halt, The wise suspect the viands which ensue. I much repent that, in this time and place Where many corpse-lights of experience burn From Caesar's and Lorenzo's festering race, To enlighten groping reasoners, I could learn No better counsel for a simple case Than to put faith in princes, in my turn. Had all the death-piles of the ancient years Flared up in vain before me? knew I not What stench arises from some purple gears? And how the sceptres witness whence they got Their briar-wood, crackling through the atmosphere's Foul smoke, by princely perjuries, kept hot? Forgive me, ghosts of patriots,--Brutus, thou, Who trailest downhill into life again Thy blood-weighed cloak, to indict me with thy slow Reproachful eyes!--for being taught in vain That, while the illegitimate Caesars show Of meaner stature than the first full strain (Confessed incompetent to conquer Gaul), They swoon as feebly and cross Rubicons As rashly as any Julius of them all! Forgive, that I forgot the mind which runs Through absolute races, too unsceptical! I saw the man among his little sons, His lips were warm with kisses while he swore; And I, because I am a woman--I, Who felt my own child's coming life before The prescience of my soul, and held faith high,-- I could not bear to think, whoever bore, That lips, so warmed, could shape so cold a lie.