Spread in the sight of the lion,
    Surely, we said, is the net
Spread but in vain, and the snare
Vain; for the light is aware,
And the common, the chainless air,
Of his coming whom all we cry on;
    Surely in vain is it set.

Surely the day is on our side,
    And heaven, and the sacred sun;
Surely the stars, and the bright
Immemorial inscrutable night:
Yea, the darkness, because of our light,
Is no darkness, but blooms as a bower-side
    When the winter is over and done;

Blooms underfoot with young grasses
    Green, and with leaves overhead,
Windflowers white, and the low
New-dropped blossoms of snow;
And or ever the May winds blow,
And or ever the March wind passes,
    Flames with anemones red.

We are here in the world’s bower-garden,
    We that have watched out the snow.
Surely the fruitfuller showers,
The splendider sunbeams are ours;
Shall winter return on the flowers,
And the frost after April harden,
    And the fountains in May not flow?

We have in our hands the shining
    And the fire in our hearts of a star.
Who are we that our tongues should palter,
Hearts bow down, hands falter,
Who are clothed as with flame from the altar,
That the kings of the earth, repining,
    Far off, watch from afar?

Woe is ours if we doubt or dissemble,
    Woe, if our hearts not abide.
Are our chiefs not among us, we said,
Great chiefs, living and dead,
To lead us glad to be led?
For whose sake, if a man of us tremble,
    He shall not be on our side.

What matter if these lands tarry,
    That tarried (we said) not of old?
France, made drunken by fate,
England, that bore up the weight
Once of men’s freedom, a freight
Holy, but heavy to carry
    For hands overflowing with gold.

Though this be lame, and the other
    Fleet, but blind from the sun,
And the race be no more to these,
Alas! nor the palm to seize,
Who are weary and hungry of ease,
Yet, O Freedom, we said, O our mother,
    Is there not left to thee one?

Is there not left of thy daughters,
    Is there not one to thine hand?
Fairer than these, and of fame
Higher from of old by her name;
Washed in her tears, and in flame
Bathed as in baptism of waters,
    Unto all men a chosen land.

Her hope in her heart was broken,
    Fire was upon her, and clomb,
Hiding her, high as her head;
And the world went past her, and said
(We heard it say) she was dead;
And now, behold, she bath spoken,
    She that was dead, saying, “Rome.”

O mother of all men’s nations,
    Thou knowest if the deaf world heard!
Heard not now to her lowest
Depths, where the strong blood slowest
Beats at her bosom, thou knowest,
In her toils, in her dim tribulations,
    Rejoiced not, hearing the word.

The sorrowful, bound unto sorrow,
    The woe-worn people, and all
That of old were discomforted,
And men that famish for bread,
And men that mourn for their dead,
She bade them be glad on the morrow,
    Who endured in the day of her thrall.

The blind, and the people in prison,
    Souls without hope, without home,
How glad were they all that heard!
When the winged white flame of the word
Passed over men’s dust, and stirred
Death; for Italia was risen,
    And risen her light upon Rome.

The light of her sword in the gateway
    Shone, an unquenchable flame,
Bloodless, a sword to release,
A light from the eyes of peace,
To bid grief utterly cease,
And the wrong of the old world straightway
    Pass from the face of her fame:

Hers, whom we turn to and cry on,
    Italy, mother of men:
From the light of the face of her glory,
At the sound of the storm of her story,
That the sanguine shadows and hoary
Should flee from the foot of the lion,
    Lion-like, forth of his den.

As the answering of thunder to thunder
    Is the storm-beaten sound of her past;
As the calling of sea unto sea
Is the noise of her years yet to be;
For this ye knew not is she,
Whose bonds are broken in sunder;
    This is she at the last.

So spake we aloud, high-minded,
    Full of our will; and behold,
The speech that was halfway spoken
Breaks, as a pledge that is broken,
As a king’s pledge, leaving in token
Grief only for high hopes blinded,
    New grief grafted on old.

We halt by the walls of the city,
    Within sound of the clash of her chain.
Hearing, we know that in there
The lioness chafes in her lair,
Shakes the storm of her hair,
Struggles in hands without pity,
    Roars to the lion in vain.

Whose hand is stretched forth upon her?
    Whose curb is white with her foam?
Clothed with the cloud of his deeds,
Swathed in the shroud of his creeds,
Who is this that has trapped her and leads,
Who turns to despair and dishonour
    Her name, her name that was Rome?

Over fields without harvest or culture,
    Over hordes without honour or love,
Over nations that groan with their kings,
As an imminent pestilence flings
Swift death from her shadowing wings,
So he, who hath claws as a vulture,
    Plumage and beak as a dove.

He saith, “I am pilot and haven,
    Light and redemption I am
Unto souls overlaboured,” he saith;
And to all men the blast of his breath
Is a savour of death unto death;
And the Dove of his worship a raven,
    And a wolf-cub the life-giving Lamb.

He calls his sheep as a shepherd,
    Calls from the wilderness home,
“Come unto me and be fed,”
To feed them with ashes for bread
And grass from the graves of the dead,
Leaps on the fold as a leopard,
    Slays, and says, “I am Rome,”

Rome, having rent her in sunder,
    With the clasp of an adder he clasps;
Swift to shed blood are his feet,
And his lips, that have man for their meat,
Smoother than oil, and more sweet
Than honey, but hidden thereunder
    Festers the poison of asps.

As swords are his tender mercies,
    His kisses as mortal stings;
Under his hallowing hands
Life dies down in all lands;
Kings pray to him, prone where he stands,
And his blessings, as other men’s curses,
    Disanoint where they consecrate kings.

With an oil of unclean consecration,
    With effusion of blood and of tears,
With uplifting of cross and of keys,
Priest, though thou hallow us these,
Yet even as they cling to thy knees
Nation awakens by nation,
    King by king disappears.

How shall the spirit be loyal
    To the shell of a spiritless thing?
Erred once, in only a word,
The sweet great song that we heard
Poured upon Tuscany, erred,
Calling a crowned man royal
    That was no more than a king.

Sea-eagle of English feather,
    A song-bird beautiful-souled,
She knew not them that she sang;
The golden trumpet that rang
From Florence, in vain for them, sprang
As a note in the nightingales’ weather
    Far over Fiesole rolled.

She saw not—happy, not seeing—
    Saw not as we with her eyes
Aspromonte; she felt
Never the heart in her melt
As in us when the news was dealt
Melted all hope out of being,
    Dropped all dawn from the skies.

In that weary funereal season,
    In that heart-stricken grief-ridden time,
The weight of a king and the worth,
With anger and sorrowful mirth,
We weighed in the balance of earth,
And light was his word as a treason,
    And heavy his crown as a crime.

Banners of kings shall ye follow
    None, and have thrones on your side
None; ye shall gather and grow
Silently, row upon row,
Chosen of Freedom to go
Gladly where darkness may swallow,
    Gladly where death may divide.

Have we not men with us royal,
    Men the masters of things?
In the days when our life is made new,
All souls perfect and true
Shall adore whom their forefathers slew;
And these indeed shall be loyal,
    And those indeed shall be kings.

Yet for a space they abide with us,
    Yet for a little they stand,
Bearing the heat of the day.
When their presence is taken away,
We shall wonder and worship, and say,
“Was not a star on our side with us?
    Was not a God at our hand?”

These, O men, shall ye honour,
    Liberty only, and these.
For thy sake and for all men’s and mine,
Brother, the crowns of them shine
Lighting the way to her shrine,
That our eyes may be fastened upon her,
    That our hands may encompass her knees.

In this day is the sign of her shown to you;
    Choose ye, to live or to die,
Now is her harvest in hand;
Now is her light in the land;
Choose ye, to sink or to stand,
For the might of her strength is made known to you
    Now, and her arm is on high.

Serve not for any man’s wages,
    Pleasure nor glory nor gold;
Not by her side are they won
Who saith unto each of you, “Son,
Silver and gold have I none;
I give but the love of all ages,
    And the life of my people of old.”

Fear not for any man’s terrors;
    Wait not for any man’s word;
Patiently, each in his place,
Gird up your loins to the race;
Following the print of her pace,
Purged of desires and of errors,
    March to the tune ye have heard.

March to the tune of the voice of her,
    Breathing the balm of her breath,
Loving the light of her skies.
Blessed is he on whose eyes
Dawns but her light as he dies;
Blessed are ye that make choice of her,
    Equal to life and to death.

Ye that when faith is nigh frozen,
    Ye that when hope is nigh gone,
Still, over wastes, over waves,
Still, among wrecks, among graves,
Follow the splendour that saves,
Happy, her children, her chosen,
    Loyally led of her on.

The sheep of the priests, and the cattle
    That feed in the penfolds of kings,
Sleek is their flock and well-fed;
Hardly she giveth you bread,
Hardly a rest for the head,
Till the day of the blast of the battle
    And the storm of the wind of her wings.

Ye that have joy in your living,
    Ye that are careful to live,
You her thunders go by:
Live, let men be, let them lie,
Serve your season, and die;
Gifts have your masters for giving,
    Gifts hath not Freedom to give;

She, without shelter or station,
    She, beyond limit or bar,
Urges to slumberless speed
Armies that famish, that bleed,
Sowing their lives for her seed,
That their dust may rebuild her a nation,
    That their souls may relight her a star.

Happy are all they that follow her;
    Them shall no trouble cast down;
Though she slay them, yet shall they trust in her,
For unsure there is nought nor unjust in her,
Blemish is none, neither rust in her;
Though it threaten, the night shall not swallow her,
    Tempest and storm shall not drown.

Hither, O strangers, that cry for her,
    Holding your lives in your hands,
Hither, for here is your light,
Where Italy is, and her might;
Strength shall be given you to fight,
Grace shall be given you to die for her,
    For the flower, for the lady of lands;

Turn ye, whose anguish oppressing you
    Crushes, asleep and awake,
For the wrong which is wrought as of yore;
That Italia may give of her store,
Having these things to give and no more;
Only her hands on you, blessing you;
    Only a pang for her sake;

Only her bosom to die on;
    Only her heart for a home,
And a name with her children to be
From Calabrian to Adrian sea
Famous in cities made free
That ring to the roar of the lion
    Proclaiming republican Rome.