When they that cast her kingdom down were born,
⁠North cried on south and east made moan to west
For hopes that love had hardly heart to mourn,
⁠For Italy that was not. Kings on quest,
⁠By priests whose blessings burn as curses blest,
Made spoil of souls and bodies bowed and bound,
Hunted and harried, leashed as horse or hound,
And hopeless of the hope that died unfound.

And now that faith has brought forth fruit to time,
⁠How should not memory praise their names, and hold
Their record even as Dante's life sublime,
⁠Who bade his dream, found fair and false of old,
⁠Live? Not till earth and heaven be dead and cold
May man forget whose work and will made one
Italy, fair as heaven or freedom won,
And left their fame to shine beside her sun.

⁠April 1890.