Mother and Poet
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. Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east,And one of them shot in the west by the sea.Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feastAnd are wanting a great song for Italy free,Let none look at me ! II.Yet I was a poetess only last year,And good at my art, for a woman, men said ;But this woman, this, who is agonized here,-- The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her headFor ever instead. III.What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vain !What art is she good at, but hurting her breastWith the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain ?Ah boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you pressed,And I proud, by that test. IV.What art's for a woman ? To hold on her kneesBoth darlings ! to feel all their arms round her throat,Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degreesAnd 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat ;To dream and to doat. V.To teach them ... It stings there ! I made them indeedSpeak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt,That a country's a thing men should die for at need.I prated of liberty, rights, and aboutThe tyrant cast out. VI.And when their eyes flashed ... O my beautiful eyes ! ...I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the wheelsOf the guns, and denied not. But then the surpriseWhen one sits quite alone ! Then one weeps, then one kneels !God, how the house feels ! VII.At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiledWith my kisses, -- of camp-life and glory, and howThey both loved me ; and, soon coming home to be spoiledIn return would fan off every fly from my browWith their green laurel-bough. VIII.Then was triumph at Turin : `Ancona was free !'And some one came out of the cheers in the street,With a face pale as stone, to say something to me.My Guido was dead ! I fell down at his feet,While they cheered in the street. IX.I bore it ; friends soothed me ; my grief looked sublimeAs the ransom of Italy. One boy remainedTo be leant on and walked with, recalling the timeWhen the first grew immortal, while both of us strainedTo the height he had gained. X.And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong,Writ now but in one hand, `I was not to faint, --One loved me for two -- would be with me ere long :And Viva l' Italia ! -- he died for, our saint,Who forbids our complaint." XI.My Nanni would add, `he was safe, and awareOf a presence that turned off the balls, -- was imprestIt was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed,To live on for the rest." XII.On which, without pause, up the telegraph lineSwept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : -- Shot.Tell his mother. Ah, ah, ` his, ' ` their ' mother, -- not ` mine, 'No voice says "My mother" again to me. What !You think Guido forgot ? XIII.Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven,They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe ?I think not. Themselves were too lately forgivenThrough THAT Love and Sorrow which reconciled soThe Above and Below. XIV.O Christ of the five wounds, who look'dst through the darkTo the face of Thy mother ! consider, I pray,How we common mothers stand desolate, mark,Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away,And no last word to say ! XV.Both boys dead ? but that's out of nature. We allHave been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall ;And, when Italy 's made, for what end is it doneIf we have not a son ? XVI.Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta's taken, what then ?When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sportOf the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men ?When the guns of Cavalli with final retortHave cut the game short ? XVII.When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee,When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red,When you have your country from mountain to sea,When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head,(And I have my Dead) -- XVIII.What then ? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low,And burn your lights faintly ! My country is there,Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow :My Italy 's THERE, with my brave civic Pair,To disfranchise despair ! XIX.Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength,And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn ;But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at lengthInto wail such as this -- and we sit on forlornWhen the man-child is born. XX.Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east,And one of them shot in the west by the sea.Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feastYou want a great song for your Italy free,Let none look at me ! [This was Laura Savio, of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sonswere killed at Ancona and Gaeta.]
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