Earth shows to heaven the names by thousands told
      That crown her fame,
But highest of all that heaven and earth behold
      Mazzini’s name.

LES CASQUETS.

From the depths of the waters that lighten and darken
  With change everlasting of life and of death,
Where hardly by noon if the lulled ear hearken
  It hears the sea’s as a tired child’s breath,
Where hardly by night if an eye dare scan it
  The storm lets shipwreck be seen or heard,
As the reefs to the waves and the foam to the granite
      Respond one merciless word,

Sheer seen and far, in the sea’s live heaven,
  A seamew’s flight from the wild sweet land,
White-plumed with foam if the wind wake, seven
  Black helms as of warriors that stir not stand. 
From the depths that abide and the waves that environ
  Seven rocks rear heads that the midnight masks,
And the strokes of the swords of the storm are as iron
      On the steel of the wave-worn casques.

Be night’s dark word as the word of a wizard,
  Be the word of dawn as a god’s glad word,
Like heads of the spirits of darkness visored
  That see not for ever, nor ever have heard,
These basnets, plumed as for fight or plumeless,
  Crowned of the storm and by storm discrowned,
Keep ward of the lists where the dead lie tombless
      And the tale of them is not found.

Nor eye may number nor hand may reckon
  The tithes that are taken of life by the dark,
Or the ways of the path, if doom’s hand beckon,
  For the soul to fare as a helmless bark—­
Fare forth on a way that no sign showeth,
  Nor aught of its goal or of aught between,
A path for her flight which no fowl knoweth,
      Which the vulture’s eye hath not seen.

Here still, though the wave and the wind seem lovers
  Lulled half asleep by their own soft words,
A dream as of death in the sun’s light hovers,
  And a sign in the motions and cries of the birds. 
Dark auguries and keen from the sweet sea-swallows
  Strike noon with a sense as of midnight’s breath,
And the wing that flees and the wing that follows
      Are as types of the wings of death.

For here, when the night roars round, and under
  The white sea lightens and leaps like fire,
Acclaimed of storm and applauded in thunder,
  Sits death on the throne of his crowned desire. 
Yea, hardly the hand of the god might fashion
  A seat more strong for his strength to take,
For the might of his heart and the pride of his passion
      To rejoice in the wars they make.

When the heart in him brightens with blitheness of battle
  And the depth of its thirst is fulfilled with strife,
And his ear with the ravage of bolts that rattle,
  And the soul of death with the pride of life,
Till the darkness is loud with his dark thanksgiving
  And wind and cloud are as chords of his hymn,
There is nought save death in the deep night living
      And the whole night worships him.