XI.
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ake up the child, MacMahon, thoughThy hand be redFrom Magenta’s dead,And riding on, in front of the troop,In the dust of the whirlwind of warThrough the gate of the city of Milan,stoopAnd ‘ake up the child to thy saddle-bow,Nor fear the touch as soft as a flowerOf his smile as clear as a star !Thou hast a right to the child, we say,Since the women are weeping for joyas thoseWho, by thy help and from this day,Shall be happy mothers indeed.They are raining flowers from terraceand roof :Take up the flower in the child.While the shout goes up of a nationfreedAnd heroically self-reconciled,Till the snow on that peaked Alp aloofStarts, as feeling God’s finger anew,And all those cold white marble firesOf mounting saints on the Duomo spiresFlicker against the Blue.«EmperorEvermore.’ XIT, Ay, it is He,Who rides at the King’s right hand! 306 Leave room for his horse and draw tothe side,Nor press too near inthe ecstasyOf a newly delivered impassioned land.He is moved, you see,He who has done it all.They call it a cold stern face ;But this is ItalyWho rises up to her place !—For this he fought in his youth,Of this he dreamed in the past ;‘The lines of the resolute mouthTremble a little at last.Cry, he has done it all!‘ EmperorEvermore.’ y pshit It is not strange that he did it,‘Though the deed may seem to strain‘To the wonderful, unpermitted,For such as lead and reign.But he is strange, this man :The people’s instinct found him(A wind in the dark that ranThrough a chink where was no door),And elected him and crowned himEmperorEvermore. XIV, Autocrat! let them scoff,Who fail to comprehendThat a ruler incarnate of‘The people must transcendAll common king-born kings.‘These subterranean springsA sudden outlet winning,Have special virtues to spend.The people’s blood through him,Dilates from head to foot,Creates him absolute,And from this great beginningEvokes a greater endTo justify and renew him—EmperorEvermore XV.What! did any maintainThat God or the people (think !)Could make a marvel in vain ?—
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