Glory, at thy voice. 
      Our sword the people’s will has edged,
    Our rule stands on the people’s choice. 
      This land would mourn beneath a crown,
      Where born slaves only could rejoice. 
    How should the Nation keep it down? 
      What would a despot’s fortunes be,
      After his days of strength had flown,
    Amidst this people, proud and free,
      Whose histories from such sources run? 
      The thought is its own mockery. 
    I pity the audacious one
      Who may ascend that thorny throne,
      And bide a single setting sun. 
    Day dies; my shadow’s length has grown;
      The sun is sliding down the west. 
      That trumpet in my camp was blown. 
    From yonder high and wooded crest
      I shall behold my squadron’s camp,
      Prepared to sleep its guarded rest
    In the low, misty, poisoned damp
      That wears the strength, and saps the heart,
      And drains the surgeon’s watching lamp. 
    Hence, phantoms! in God’s peace depart! 
      I was not fashioned for your will: 
      I scorn the trump, and brave the dart!”
    They grinned defiance, lingering still. 
      “I charge ye quit me, in His name
      Who bore His cross against the hill!—­
    By Him who died a death of shame,
      That I might live, and ye might die,—­
      By Christ the Martyr!”—­As a flame
    Leaps sideways when the wind is high,
      The bright one bounded from my side,
      At that dread name, without reply;
    And Death drew in his mantle wide,
      And shuddered, and grew ghastly pale,
      As if his dart had pricked his side. 
    There came a breath, a lonely wail,
    Out of the silence o’er the land;
      Whether from souls of bliss or bale,
    What mortal brain may understand? 
      Only I marked the phantoms went
      Closely together, hand in hand,
    As if upon one errand bent.

* * * * *

The true story of Luigi.

A white dove flew down into the market-place one summer morning, and, undisturbed among all the wheels and hoofs, followed the footsteps of Luigi.

He carried in one hand a sunflower, and thoughtlessly, while it hung there, with nervous fingers scattered the seeds as he went his way.  So that the dove cooed in her little swelling throat, gathered what Luigi spilled, and, startled at last by a frisking hound, flew up and alighted on the tray which Luigi’s other hand poised airily on his head, and was borne along with all the company of fair white things there in the sunshine.

The street-urchins warned Luigi of the intruder among his wares, and then, slyly putting up his hand, the boy tossed the seeds in a shower about the tray.  Off flew the dove, and back with the returning gust she fluttered, and, pausing only to catch her seed, she came and went, wheeling in flashing circles round his head as he pursued his path.