From out the mass of never-dying ill,[cd] The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Sword, Vials of wrath but emptied to refill And flow again, I cannot all record That crowds on my prophetic eye: the Earth And Ocean written o'er would not afford Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth; Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, There where the farthest suns and stars have birth, Spread like a banner at the gate of Heaven, 10 The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven Athwart the sound of archangelic songs, And Italy, the martyred nation's gore, Will not in vain arise to where belongs[ce] Omnipotence and Mercy evermore: Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind, The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er The Seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 20 Earth's dust by immortality refined To Sense and Suffering, though the vain may scoff, And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow Before the storm because its breath is rough, To thee, my Country! whom before, as now, I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre And melancholy gift high Powers allow To read the future: and if now my fire Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive! I but foretell thy fortunes--then expire; 30 Think not that I would look on them and live. A Spirit forces me to see and speak, And for my guerdon grants _not_ to survive; My Heart shall be poured over thee and break: Yet for a moment, ere I must resume Thy sable web of Sorrow, let me take Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom A softer glimpse; some stars shine through thy night, And many meteors, and above thy tomb Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot blight: 40 And from thine ashes boundless Spirits rise To give thee honour, and the earth delight; Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise, The gay, the learned, the generous, and the brave, Native to thee as Summer to thy skies, Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave,[301] Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name;[302] For _thee_ alone they have no arm to save, And all thy recompense is in their fame, A noble one to them, but not to thee-- 50 Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same? Oh! more than these illustrious far shall be The Being--and even yet he may be born-- The mortal Saviour who shall set thee free, And see thy diadem, so changed and worn By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced; And the sweet Sun replenishing thy morn, Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced,