Elizabeth Barrett Browning - Napoleon III. in Italy lyrics

Emperor, Emperor!
From the centre to the shore
From the Seine back to the Rhine
Stood eight millions up and swore
By their manhood’s right divine
So to elect and legislate
This man should renew the line
Broken in a strain of fate
And leagued kings at Waterloo
When the people’s hands let go emperor
Evermore

With a universal shout
They took the old regalia out
From an open grave that day
From a grave that would not close
Where the first Napoleon lay
Expectant, in repose
As still as Merlin, with his conquering face
Turned up in it's unquenchable appeal
To men and heroes of the advancing race


Prepared to set the seal
Of what has been on what shall be emperor
Evermore

The thinkers stood aside
To let the nation act
Some hated the new-constituted fact
Of empire, as pride treading on their pride
Some quailed
Lest what was poisonous in the past
Should graft it'self in that Druidic bough
On this green Now
Some cursed, because at last
The open heavens to which they
Had looked in vain
For many a golden fall of marvellous rain
Were closed in brass and some
Wept on because a gone thing could not come
And some were silent, doubting all things for
That popular conviction, evermore emperor

That day I did not hate
Nor doubt, nor quail nor curse
I, reverencing the people, did not bate
My reverence of their deed and oracle
Nor vainly prate of better and of worse
Against the great conclusion of their will
And yet, O voice and verse
Which God set in me to acclaim and sing
Conviction, exaltation, aspiration
We gave no music to the patent thing
Nor spared a holy rhythm to throb and swim
About the name of him
Translated to the sphere of domination
By democratic passion!
I was not used, at least
Nor can be, now or then
To stroke the ermine beast
On any kind of throne
(Though builded by a nation for it's own)
And swell the surging choir for kings of men
"Emperor evermore"

But now, Napoleon, now
That, leaving far behind the purple throng
Of vulgar monarchs, thou
Tread’st higher in thy deed
Than stair of throne can lead
To help in the hour of wrong
The broken hearts of nations to be strong
Now, lifted as thou art
To the level of pure song
We stand to meet thee on these Alpine snows!
And while the palpitating peaks break out
Ecstatic from somnambular repose
With answers to the presence and the shout
We, poets of the people, who take part
With elemental justice, natural right
Join in our echoes also, nor refrain
We meet thee, O Napoleon, at this height
At last, and find thee great enough to praise
Receive the poet’s chrism
Which smells beyond
The priest’s, and pass thy ways
An English poet warns thee to maintain
God’s word
Not England’s: let His truth be true
And all men liars! with His truth respond
To all men’s lie exalt the sword and smite
On that long anvil of the Apennine
Where Austria forged the Italian
Chain in view
Of seven consenting nations, sparks
Of fine Admonitory light
Till men’s eyes wink before convictions new
Flash in God’s justice to the world’s amaze
Sublime Deliverer! after many days
Found worthy of the deed thou art come to do
Emperor evermore

But, Italy, my Italy
Can it last, this gleam?
Can she live and be strong
Or is it another dream
Like the rest we have dreamed so long?
And shall it, must it be
That after the battle-cloud has broken
She will die off again like the rain
Or like a poet’s song
Sung of her, sad at the end
Because her name is Italy
Die and count no friend?
Is it true, may it be spoken
That she who has lain so still
With a wound in her breast
And a flower in her hand
And a grave-stone under her head
While every nation at will
Beside her has dared to stand
And flout her with pity and scorn
Saying "She is at rest
She is fair, she is dead
And, leaving room in her stead
To Us who are later born
This is certainly best!"
Saying "Alas, she is fair
Very fair, but dead, give place
And so we have room for the race"
Can it be true, be true
That she lives anew?
That she rises up at the shout of her sons
At the trumpet of France
And lives anew? is it true
That she has not moved in a trance
As in Forty-eight?
When her eyes were troubled with blood
Till she knew not friend from foe
Till her hand was caught in a strait
Of her cerement and baffled so
From doing the deed she would
And her weak foot stumbled across
The grave of a king
And down she dropt at heavy loss
And we gloomily covered her face and said
"We have dreamed the thing
She is not alive, but dead"

Now, shall we say our Italy lives indeed?
And if it were not for the beat and bray
Of drum and trump of martial men
Should we feel the underground
Heave and strain
Where heroes left their dust as a seed
Sure to emerge one day?
And if it were not for the rhythmic march
Of France and Piedmont’s double hosts
Should we hear the ghosts
Thrill through ruined aisle and arch
Throb along the frescoed wall
Whisper an oath by that divine
They left in picture, book, and stone
That Italy is not dead at all?
Ay, if it were not for the tears in our eyes
These tears of a sudden passionate joy
Should we see her arise
From the place where the
Wicked are overthrown
Italy, Italy loosed at length
From the tyrant’s thrall
Pale and calm in her strength?
Pale as the silver cross of Savoy
When the hand that bears the flag is brave
And not a breath is stirring, save
What is blown
Over the war-trump’s lip of brass
Ere Garibaldi forces the pass!

Ay, it is so, even so ay, and it shall be so
Each broken stone that long ago
She flung behind her as she went
In discouragement and bewilderment
Through the cairns of Time
And missed her way
Between to day and yesterday
Up springs a living man
And each man stands with his
Face in the light of his own drawn sword
Ready to do what a hero can
Wall to sap, or river to ford
Cannon to front, or foe to pursue
Still ready to do, and sworn to be true
As a man and a patriot can
Piedmontese, Neapolitan
Lombard, Tuscan, Romagnole
Each man’s body having a soul
Count how many they stand
All of them sons of the land
Every live man there
Allied to a dead man below
And the deadest with blood to spare
To quicken a living hand
In case it should ever be slow
Count how many they come
To the beat of Piedmont’s drum
With faces keener and grayer
Than swords of the Austrian slayer
All set against the foe "Emperor
Evermore"

Out of the dust where they ground them
Out of the holes where they dogged them
Out of the hulks where they wound them
In iron, tortured and flogged them
Out of the streets where they chased them
Taxed them, and then bayonetted them
Out of the homes where they spied on them
(Using their daughters and wives)
Out of the church where they fretted them
Rotted their souls and debased them
Trained them to answer with knives
Then cursed them all at their prayers!
Out of cold lands, not theirs
Where they exiled them, starved them
Lied on them
Back they come like a wind, in vain
Cramped up in the hills, that roars it's road
The stronger into the open plain
Or like a fire that burns the hotter
And longer for the crust of cinder
Serving better the ends of the potter
Or like a restrainèd word of God
Fulfilling it'self by what seems to hinder
"Emperor evermore"

Shout for France and Savoy!
Shout for the helper and doer
Shout for the good sword’s ring
Shout for the thought still truer
Shout for the spirit's at large
Who passed for the dead this spring
Whose living glory is sure
Shout for France and Savoy!
Shout for the council and charge!
Shout for the head of Cavour
And shout for the heart of a King
That’s great with a nation’s joy!
Shout for France and Savoy!

Take up the child, Macmahon, though
Thy hand be red from Magenta’s dead
And riding on, in front of the troop
In the dust of the whirlwind of war
Through the gate of the city of Milan, stoop
And take up the child to thy saddle-bow
Nor fear the touch as soft as a flower
Of his smile as clear as a star!
Thou hast a right to the child, we say
Since the women are weeping for joy as they
Who, by thy help and from this day
Shall be happy mothers indeed
They are raining flowers from
Terrace and roof:
Take up the flower in the child
While the shout goes up of a nation freed
And heroically self-reconciled
Till the snow on that peaked Alp aloof
Starts, as feeling God’s finger anew
And all those cold white marble fires
Of mounting saints on the Duomo-spires
Flicker against the Blue "Emperor
Evermore"

Ay, it is He
Who rides at the King’s right hand!
Leave room to his horse and draw to the side
Nor press too near in the ecstasy
Of a newly delivered impassioned land:
He is moved, you see, he who has done it all
They call it a cold stern face
But this is Italy who rises up to her place!
For this he fought in his youth
Of this he dreamed in the past
The lines of the resolute mouth
Tremble a little at last
Cry, he has done it all! "Emperor
Evermore"

It is not strange that he did it
Though the deed may seem to strain
To the wonderful, unpermitted
For such as lead and reign
But he is strange, this man:
The people’s instinct found him
(A wind in the dark that ran
Through a chink where was no door)
And elected him and crowned him emperor
Evermore

Autocrat? let them scoff
Who fail to comprehend
That a ruler incarnate of
The people must transcend
All common king-born kings
These subterranean springs
A sudden outlet winning
Have special virtues to spend
The people’s blood runs through him
Dilates from head to foot
Creates him absolute
And from this great beginning
Evokes a greater end
To justify and renew him emperor
Evermore

What! did any maintain
That God or the people (think)
Could make a marvel in vain?
Out of the water-jar there
Draw wine that none could drink?
Is this a man like the rest
This miracle, made unaware
By a rapture of popular air
And caught to the place that was best?
You think he could barter and cheat
As vulgar diplomates use
With the people’s heart in his breast?
Prate a lie into shape
Lest truth should cumber the road
Play at the fast and loose
Till the world is strangled with tape
Maim the soul’s complete
To fit the hole of a toad
And filch the dogman’s meat
To feed the offspring of God?

Nay, but he, this wonder
He cannot palter nor prate
Though many around him and under
With intellects trained to the curve
Distrust him in spirit and nerve
Because his meaning is straight
Measure him ere he depart
With those who have governed and led
Larger so much by the heart
Larger so much by the head emperor
Evermore

He holds that, consenting or dissident
Nations must move with the time
Assumes that crime with a precedent
Doubles the guilt of the crime
Denies that a slaver’s bond
Or a treaty signed by knaves
(Quorum magna pars, and beyond
Was one of an honest name)
Gives an inexpugnable claim
To abolish men into slaves emperor
Evermore

He will not swagger nor boast
Of his country’s meeds, in a tone
Missuiting a great man most
If such should speak of his own
Nor will he act, on her side
From motives baser, indeed
Than a man of a noble pride
Can avow for himself at need
Never, for lucre or laurels
Or custom, though such should be rife
Adapting the smaller morals
To measure the larger life
He, though the merchants persuade
And the soldiers are eager for strife
Finds not his country in quarrels
Only to find her in trade
While still he accords her such honour
As never to flinch for her sake
Where men put service upon her
Found heavy to undertake
And scarcely like to be paid:
Believing a nation may act
Unselfishly shiver a lance
(As the least of her sons may, in fact)
And not for a cause of finance emperor
Evermore

Great is he who uses his greatness for all
His name shall stand perpetually
As a name to applaud and cherish
Not only within the civic wall
For the loyal, but also without
For the generous and free just is he
Who is just for the popular due
As well as the private debt
The praise of nations ready to perish
Fall on him, crown him in view
Of tyrants caught in the net
And statesmen dizzy with fear and doubt!
And though, because they are many
And he is merely one
And nations selfish and cruel
Heap up the inquisitor’s fuel
To kill the body of high intents
And burn great deeds from their place
Till this, the greatest of any
May seem imperfectly done
Courage, whoever circumvents!
Courage, courage, whoever is base!
The soul of a high intent, be it known
Can die no more than any soul
Which God keeps by Him under the throne
And this, at whatever interim
Shall live, and be consummated
Into the being of deeds made whole
Courage, courage! happy is he
Of whom (himself among the dead
And silent) this word shall be said:
That he might have had the world with him
But chose to side with suffering men
And had the world against him when
He came to deliver Italy emperor
Evermore