CAVOUR by AMOS RUSSEL WELLS

The morning light is fair upon his face,
The morning fervor pulses in his blood,
For he has seen the form of Italy
Rise from the virginal shadows of the Alps,
And sweep through Piedmont, Florence, down to Rome
And on to Sicily. All beautiful
That queenly vision, and he bows to it,
And knows henceforth the sovereign of his life.

How blest his lot! What matter priestly hate,
Cabals of court and lies of diplomats,
Mouthings of demagogues, the agony
Of cruel slander and of long delay?
He has his vision and is true to it.

And yet how hard the path of a Cavour,
A knight of patience! Flags fly not for him,
Nor bugles blow, nor multitudes applaud.
Not his the swing of marching myriads,
The glorious dash of Garibaldian war,
Nor even hot Mazzini's prophet peals
And melodrama of delusive plots.
Where he would run, he must be slow to creep;
Where he would shout his slogan to the skies,
Must whisper it; where he would smite the foes
Of Italy, fierce crashings in the face,
He must dissemble, smile, and eat his heart.

Ah, lordliest of all our mortal range,
The self-sufficing mind! that stands alone
And bends all other creatures to itself;
That holds to truth and right immovably;
That uses gold and armies, senates, kings,
Or poverty and loneliness and God;
That reckons not the years nor gauges gain,
But works with cosmic force impersonal,
A dateless task, unhurried and serene.

He counted not his foes: or Austrian craft,
The Pope's denunciations, Bourbon pride,
Napoleon's ambitions, English heed
That would and would not, or the stinging brood
Of little hinderers that swarmed at home.
He moved among them an unwrinkled fate.
He worked among them as the rays of light
Reach the dim corners of the woods and fields
With quiet, chemic power, touching seeds,
Enkindling life, and waking up the world.
He did not sign his deeds. He did not form
A pompous programme. As the days evolved,
So answered he, day's might for day's demands.

He placed the crown upon another's brow,
Yet could not wholly fend it from his own.
For what are crowns, and what are monuments,
And all the tinsel gauds of clumsy fame,
But man's fair gauge of man's ineptitude,
And prophecy of juster fame to come?

When souls are charactered by character,
When worth is honor, highest worth renown,
And all the devil's cloaks are torn away,
Then, Prince of Patience, you must mount your throne.
And then, while hosts acclaim, "Cavour! Cavour!"
Your voice will shout one answer, "Italy!"
Your crown will blaze one splendor, "Italy!"
Your heart will plead one purpose, "Italy!"
For thus are nations born in souls of men.

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