I. IN the ranks of the Austrian you found him, | |
| He died with his face to you all; | |
| Yet bury him here where around him | |
| You honor your bravest that fall. | |
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II. Venetian, fair-featured and slender, | 5 |
| He lies shot to death in his youth, | |
| With a smile on his lips over-tender | |
| For any mere soldier’s dead mouth. | |
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III. No stranger, and yet not a traitor, | |
| Though alien the cloth on his breast, | 10 |
| Underneath it how seldom a greater | |
| Young heart, has a shot sent to rest! | |
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IV. By your enemy tortured and goaded | |
| To march with them, stand in their file, | |
| His musket (see) never was loaded, | 15 |
| He facing your guns with that smile! | |
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V. As orphans yearn on to their mothers, | |
| He yearned to your patriot bands;— | |
| ‘Let me die for our Italy, brothers, | |
| If not in your ranks, by your hands! | 20 |
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VI. ‘Aim straightly, fire steadily! spare me | |
| A ball in the body which may | |
| Deliver my heart here, and tear me | |
| This badge of the Austrian away!’ | |
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VII. So thought he, so died he this morning. | 25 |
| What then? many others have died. | |
| Ay, but easy for men to die scorning | |
| The death-stroke, who fought side by side— | |
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VIII. One tricolor floating above them; | |
| Struck down ’mid triumphant acclaims | 30 |
| Of an Italy rescued to love them | |
| And blazon the brass with their names. | |
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IX. But he,—without witness or honor, | |
| Mixed, shamed in his country’s regard, | |
| With the tyrants who march in upon her | 35 |
| Died faithful and passive: ’twas hard. | |
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X. ’Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction | |
| Cut off from the guerdon of sons, | |
| With most filial obedience, conviction, | |
| His soul kissed the lips of her guns. | 40 |
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XI. That moves you? Nay, grudge not to show it, | |
| While digging a grave for him here: | |
| The others who died, says your poet, | |
| Have glory,—let him have a tear. | |
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