In the ranks of the Austrian you find him ;
He died with his face to you all : Yet bury him here where around him You honour your bravest that fall. Vanetian, fair-featured, and slender, He lies shot to death in his youth, With a smile on his lips, over-tender For any mere soldier's dead mouth. No stranger, and yet not a traitor ! Though alien the cloth on his breast, Underneath it how seldom a greater Young heart has a shot sent to rest. By your enemy tortured and goaded To march with them, stand in their file, His musket (see !) never was loaded,— He facing your guns with that smile. 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 ! " Aim straightly, fire steadily ; spare me A ball in the body, which may Deliver ray heart here and tear me This badge of the Austrian away." So thought he, so died he this morning..
What then ? many others have died. Ay,—but easy for men to die scorning
The death-stroke, who fought side by side ; One tricolor floating above them ; Struck down mid triumphant acclaims Of an Italy rescued to love them And blazon the brass with their names. But he,—without witness or honour, Mix , shamed in his country's regard, With the tyrants who march in upon
her,—
Died faithful and passive : 'twas harcL 'Twos sublime. In a cruel restriction Cut offfrom the guerdon of sons, With most filial obedience, conviction, His soul kissed the lips of her guns. 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.
ELIZABETH Bea= BROWNING.
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