For leaving him for his, if so she erred. He well remembers that she could not choose. A memorable grave! Another is At Genoa. There, a king may fitly lie, Who, bursting that heroic heart of his At lost Novara, that he could not die (Though thrice into the cannon's eyes for this He plunged his shuddering steed, and felt the sky Reel back between the fire-shocks), stripped away The ancestral ermine ere the smoke had cleared, And, naked to the soul, that none might say His kingship covered what was base and bleared With treason, went out straight an exile, yea, An exiled patriot. Let him be revered. Yea, verily, Charles Albert has died well; And if he lived not all so, as one spoke, The sin pass softly with the passing-bell; For he was shriven, I think, in cannon-smoke, And, taking off his crown, made visible A hero's forehead. Shaking Austria's yoke He shattered his own hand and heart. "So best," His last words were upon his lonely bed, I do not end like popes and dukes at least-- "Thank God for it." And now that he is dead, Admitting it is proved and manifest That he was worthy, with a discrowned head, To measure heights with patriots, let them stand Beside the man in his Oporto shroud, And each vouchsafe to take him by the hand, And kiss him on the cheek, and say aloud,-- "Thou, too, hast suffered for our native land! My brother, thou art one of us! be proud." Still, graves, when Italy is talked upon. Still, still, the patriot's tomb, the stranger's hate. Still Niobe! still fainting in the sun, By whose most dazzling arrows violate Her beauteous offspring perished! has she won Nothing but garlands for the graves, from Fate? Nothing but death-songs?--Yes, be it understood Life throbs in noble Piedmont! while the feet Of Rome's clay image, dabbled soft in blood, Grow flat with dissolution and, as meet, Will soon be shovelled off like other mud, To leave the passage free in church and street. And I, who first took hope up in this song, Because a child was singing one ... behold, The hope and omen were not, haply, wrong! Poets are soothsayers still, like those of old Who studied flights of doves; and creatures young And tender, mighty meanings may unfold.