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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523214" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Youth of England To Garibaldi's Legend</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">O ye who by the gaping earth<br>Where, faint with resurrection, lay<br>An empire struggling into birth,<br>Her storm-strown beauty cold with clay,<br>The free winds round her flowery head,<br>Her feet still rooted with the dead,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Leaned on the unconquered arms that clave<br>Her tomb like Judgment, and foreknew<br>The life for which you rent the grave,<br>Would rise to breathe, beam, beat for you,<br>In every pulse of passionate mood,<br>A people's glorious gratitude,-</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But heard, far off, the mobled woe<br>Of some new plaintiff for the light;<br>And leave your dear reward, and go<br>In haste, yet once again to smite<br>The hills, and, like a flood, unlock<br>Another nation from the rock;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Oh ye who, sure of nought but God<br>And death, go forth to turn the page<br>Of life, and in your heart's best blood<br>Date anew the chaptered age;<br>Ye o'er whom, as the abyss<br>O'er Curtius, sundered worlds shall kiss,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Do ye dream what ye have done?<br>What ye are and shall be? Nay,<br>Comets rushing to the sun,<br>And dyeing the tremendous way<br>With glory, look not back, nor know<br>How they blind the earth below.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>From wave to wave our race rolls on,<br>In seas that rise, and fall, and rise;<br>Our tide of Man beneath the moon<br>Sets from the verge to yonder skies;<br>Throb after throb the ancient might<br>In such a thousand hills renews the earliest height.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Tis something, o'er that moving vast,<br>To look across the centuries<br>Which heave the purple of a past<br>That was, and is not, and yet is,<br>And in that awful light to see<br>The crest of far Thermopylæ,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And, as a fisher draws his fly<br>Ripple by ripple, from shore to shore,<br>To draw our floating gaze, and try<br>The more by less, the less by more,<br>And find a peer to that sublime<br>Old height in the last surge of time.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Tis something: yet great Clio's reed,<br>Greek with the sap of Castaly,<br>In her most glorious word midway<br>Begins to weep and bleed;<br>And Clio, lest she burn the line<br>Hides her blushing face divine,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>While that maternal muse, so white<br>And lean with trying to forget,<br>Moves her mute lips, and, at the sight,<br>As if all suns that ever set<br>Slanted on a mortal ear<br>What man can feel but cannot hear,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>We know, and know not how we know,<br>That when heroic Greece uprist,<br>Sicilia broke a daughter's vow,<br>And failed the inexorable tryst,-<br>We know that when those Spartans drew<br>Their swords-too many and too few!-</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>A presage blanched the Olympian hill<br>To moonlight: the old Thunderer nods;<br>But all the sullen air is chill<br>With rising Fates and younger gods.<br>Jove saw his peril and spake: one blind<br>Pale coward touched them with mankind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>What, then, on that Sicanian ground<br>Which soured the blood of Greece to shame,<br>To make the voice of praise resound<br>A triumph that, if Grecian fame<br>Blew it on her clarion old,<br>Had warmed the silver trump to gold!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>What, then, brothers! to brim o'er<br>The measure Greece could scarcely brim,<br>And, calling Victory from the dim<br>Of that remote Thessalian shore,<br>Make his naked limbs repeat<br>What in the harness of defeat</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He did of old; and, at the head<br>Of modern men, renewing thus<br>Thermopylæ, with Xerxes fled<br>And every Greek Leonidas,<br>Untitle the proud Past and crown<br>The heroic ages in our own!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Oh ye, whom they who cry 'how long'<br>See, and-as nestlings in the nest<br>Sink silent-sink into their rest;<br>Oh ye, in whom the Right and Wrong<br>That this old world of Day and Night<br>Crops upon its black and white,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Shall strike, and, in the last extremes<br>Of final best and worst, complete<br>The circuit of your light and heat;<br>Oh ye who walk upon our dreams,<br>And live, unknowing how or why<br>The vision and the prophecy,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>In every tabernacled tent-<br>Eat shew-bread from the altar, and wot<br>Not of it-drink a sacrament<br>At every draught and know it not-<br>Breathe a nobler year whose least<br>Worst day is as the fast and feast</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Of men-and, with such steps as chime<br>To nothing lower than the ears<br>Can hear to whom the marching spheres<br>Beat the universal time<br>Thro' our Life's perplexity,<br>March the land and sail the sea,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>O'er those fields where Hate hath led<br>So oft the hosts of Crime and Pain-<br>March to break the captive's chain,<br>To heal the sick, to raise the dead,<br>And, where the last deadliest rout<br>Of furies cavern, to cast out</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Those Dæmons,-ay, to meet the fell<br>Foul belch of swarming Satan hot<br>From Ætna, and down Ætna's throat<br>Drench that vomit back to hell-<br>In the east your star doth burn;<br>The tide of Fate is on the turn;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The thrown powers that mar or make<br>Man's good lie shed upon the sands,<br>Or on the wave about to break<br>Are flotsam that nor swims nor stands;<br>Earth is cold and pale, a-swoon<br>With fear; to the watch-tower of noon</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The sun climbs sick and sorrowful,<br>Or, like clouded Cæsar, doth fold<br>His falling greatness to behold<br>Some crescent evil near the full.<br>Hell flickers; and the sudden reel<br>Of fortune, stopping in mid-wheel</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Till the shifted current blows,<br>Clacks the knocking balls of chance<br>And the metred world's advance<br>Pauses at the rhythmic close;<br>One stave is ended, and the next<br>Chords its discords on the vext</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And tuning Time: this is the hour<br>When weak Nature's need should be<br>The Hero's opportunity,<br>And heart and hand are Right and Power,<br>And he who will not serve may reign,<br>And who dares well dares nought in vain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Behind you History stands a-gape;<br>On either side the incarnadine<br>Hot nations in whom war's wild wine<br>Burns like vintage thro' the grape,<br>See you, ruddy with the morn<br>Of Freedom, see you, and for scorn</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>As on that old day of wrath<br>The hosts drew off in hope and doubt,<br>And the shepherd-boy stept out<br>To sling Judæa upon Gath,<br>Furl in two, and, still as stone,<br>Like a red sea let you on.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>On! ay tho' at war's alarms<br>That sea should flood into a foe!<br>On! the horns of Jericho<br>Blow when Virtue blows to arms.<br>Numberless or numbered-on!<br>Men are millions, God is one.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>On! who waits for favouring gales?<br>What hap can ground your Argosy?<br>A nation's blessings fill your sails,<br>And tho' her wrongs scorched ocean dry,<br>Yet ah! her blood and tears could roll<br>Another sea from pole to pole.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>On! day round ye, summer bloom<br>Beneath, in your young veins the bliss<br>Of youth! Who asks more? Ask but this,<br>-And ask as One will ask at Doom-<br>If lead be true, if steel be keen?<br>If hearts be pure, if hands be clean?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>On! night round ye, the worst roak<br>Of Fortune poisoning all youth's bliss;<br>Each grass a sword, each Delphic oak<br>An omen! Who dreads? Dread but this,-<br>Blunted steel and lead unsure,<br>Hands unclean and hearts impure!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Full of love to God and man<br>As girt Martha's wageless toil;<br>Gracious as the wine and oil<br>Of the good Samaritan;<br>Healing to our wrongs and us<br>As Abraham's breast to Lazarus;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Piteous as the cheek that gave<br>Its patience to the smiter, still<br>Rendering nought but good for ill,<br>Tho' the greatest good ye have<br>Be iron, and your love and ruth<br>Speak but from the cannon's mouth-</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>On! you servants of the Lord,<br>In the right of servitude<br>Reap the life He sowed, and blood<br>His frenzied people with the sword,<br>And the blessing shall be yours,<br>That falls upon the peacemakers!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Ay, tho' trump and clarion blare,<br>Tho' your charging legions rock<br>Earth's bulwarks, tho' the slaughtered air<br>Be carrion, and the encountered shock<br>Of your clashing battles jar<br>The rung heav'ns, this is Peace, not War</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>With that two-edged sword that cleaves<br>Crowned insolence to awe,<br>And whose backward lightning leaves<br>Licence stricken into law,<br>Fill, till slaves and tyrants cease,<br>The sacred panurgy of peace!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Peace, as outraged peace can rise<br>When her eye that watched and prayed<br>Sees upon the favouring skies<br>The great sign, so long delayed,<br>And from hoofed and trampled sod<br>She leaps transfigured to a god,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Meets amid her smoking land<br>The chariot of careering War,<br>Locks the whirlwind of his car,<br>Wrests the thunder from his hand,<br>And, with his own bolt down-hurl'd,<br>Brains the monster from the world!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Hark! he comes! His nostrils cast<br>Like chaff before him flocks and men.<br>Oh proud, proud day, in yonder glen<br>Look on your heroes! Look your last,<br>Your last: and draw in with the passionate eye<br>Of love's last look the sights that paint eternity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He comes-a tempest hides their place!<br>'Tis morn. The long day wanes. The loud<br>Storm lulls. Some march out of the cloud,<br>The princes of their age and race;<br>And some the mother earth that bore<br>Such sons hath loved too well to let them leave her more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But oh, when joy-bells ring<br>For the living that return,<br>And the fires of victory burn,<br>And the dancing kingdoms sing,<br>And beauty takes the brave<br>To the breast he bled to save,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Will no faithful mourner weep<br>Where the battle-grass is gory,<br>And deep the soldier's sleep<br>In his martial cloak of glory,<br>Sleeps the dear dead buried low?<br>Shall they be forgotten? Lo,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>On beyond that vale of fire<br>This babe must travel ere the child<br>Of yonder tall and bearded sire<br>His father's image hath fulfilled,<br>He shall see in that far day<br>A race of maidens pale and grey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Theirs shall be nor cross nor hood,<br>Common rite nor convent roof,<br>Bead nor bell shall put to proof<br>A sister of that sisterhood;<br>But by noonday or by night<br>In her eyes there shall be light.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And as a temple organ, set<br>To its best stop by hands long gone,<br>Gives new ears the olden tone<br>And speaks the buried master yet,<br>Her lightest accents have the key<br>Of ancient love and victory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And, as some hind, whom his o'erthrown<br>And dying king o'er hill and flood<br>Sends laden with the fallen crown,<br>Breathes the great trust into his blood<br>Till all his conscious forehead wears<br>The splendid secret that he bears,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>For ever, everywhere the same,<br>Thro' every changing time and scene,<br>In widow's weeds and lowly name<br>She stands a bride, she moves a queen;<br>The flowering land her footstep knows;<br>The people bless her as she goes,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Whether upon your sacred days<br>She peers the mightiest and the best,<br>Or whether, by the common ways,<br>The babe leans from the peasant's breast,<br>While humble eyelids proudly fill,<br>And momentary Sabbaths still</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The hand that spins, the foot that delves,<br>And all our sorrow and delight<br>Behold the seraph of themselves<br>In that pure face where woe grown bright<br>Seems rapture chastened to the mild<br>And equal light of smiles unsmiled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And if perchance some wandering king,<br>Enamoured of her virgin reign,<br>Should sue the hand whose only ring<br>Is the last link of that first chain,<br>Forged by no departed hours, and seen<br>But in the daylight that hath been,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>She pauses ere her heart can speak,<br>And, from below the source of tears,<br>The girlhood to her faded cheek<br>Goes slowly up thro' twenty years,<br>And, like the shadow in her eyes,<br>Slowly the living Past replies,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>In tones of such serene eclipse<br>As if the voices of Death and Life<br>Came married by her mortal lips<br>To more than Life or Death-'A wife<br>Thou wooest; on yonder field he died<br>Who lives in all the world beside.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Oh, ye who, in the favouring smile<br>Of Heaven, at one great stroke shall win<br>The gleaming guerdons that beguile<br>Glory's grey-haired Paladin<br>Thro' all his threescore jousts and ten,<br>-Love of women, and praise of men,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The spurs, the bays, the palm, the crown,-<br>Who, from your mountain-peak among<br>Mountains, thenceforth may look along<br>The shining tops of deeds undone,<br>And take them thro' the level air<br>As angels walk from star to star,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>We from our isle-the ripest spot<br>Of the round green globe-where all<br>The rays of God most kindly fall,<br>And warm us to that temperate lot<br>Of seasoned change that slowly brings<br>Fruition to the orb of things,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>We from this calm in chaos, where<br>Matter running into plan<br>And Reason solid in a man<br>Mediate the earth and air,<br>See ye winging yon far gloom,<br>Oh, ministering spirits! as some</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Blest soul above that, all too late,<br>From his subaltern seat in heaven<br>Looks round and measures fate with fate,<br>And thro' the clouds below him driven<br>Beholds from that calm world of bliss<br>The toil and agony of this,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And, warming with the scene rehearst,<br>Bemoans the realms where all is won,<br>And sees the last that shall be first,<br>And spurns his secondary throne,<br>And envies from his changeless sphere<br>The life that strives and conquers here.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But ere toward fields so old and new<br>We leap from joys that shine in vain,<br>And rain our passion down the blue<br>Serene-once more-once more-to drain<br>Life's dreadful ecstasy, and sell<br>Our birthright for that oxymel</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Whose stab and unction still keep quick<br>The wound for ever lost and found,<br>Lo, o'erhead, a cherubic<br>And legendary lyre, that round<br>The eddying spaces turns a dream<br>Of ancient war! And at the theme</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Harps to answering harps, on high,<br>Call, recall, that but a strait<br>Of storm divides our happy state<br>From that pale sleepless Mystery<br>Who pines to sit upon the throne<br>He served ere falling to his own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sydney+Thompson+Dobell">Sydney Thompson Dobell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523214" data-title="The Youth of England To Garibaldi's Legend de Sydney Thompson Dobell" data-description="O ye who by the gaping earth
Where, faint with resurrection, lay
An empire struggling into birth,
Her storm-strown beauty cold with clay,
The free winds round her flowery head,
Her feet still rooted with the dead,


Leaned on the unconquered arms ..."></div>
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