lirik lagu ghizela rowe - george eliot - mother and poet
dead! one of them shot by the sea in the east
and one of them shot in the west by the sea
dead! both my boys! when you sit at the feast
and are wanting a great song for italy free
let none look at me!
yet i was a poetess only last year
and good at my art for a woman, men said
but this woman, this, who is agonized here
the east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
forever instead
what art can woman be good at? oh, vain!
what art is shе good at, but hurting her breast
with the milk~t~~th of babеs, and a smile at the pain?
ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed
and i proud by that test
what’s art for a woman? to hold on her knees
both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat
cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees
and ‘broider the long clothes and neat little coat!
to dream and to dote
to teach them . . . it stings there. i made them indeed
speak plain the word ‘country.’ i taught them, no doubt
that a country’s a thing men should die for at need
i prated of liberty, rights, and about
the tyrant turned out
and when their eyes flashed, oh, my beautiful eyes!
i exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels
of the guns, and denied not. but then the surprise
when one sits quite alone! then one weeps, then one kneels!
–god! how the house feels
at first happy news came, in gay letters moiled
with my kisses, of camp~life and glory, and how
they both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled
in return would fan off every fly from my brow
with their green laurel bough
then was triumph at turin. ‘ancona was free!’
and some one came out of the cheers in the street
with a face pale as stone to say something to me
my guido was dead! i fell down at his feet
while they cheered in the street
i bore it–friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime
as the ransom of italy. one boy remained
to be leant on and walked with, recalling the time
when the first grew immortal, while both of us strained
to the height he had gained
and letters still came–shorter, sadder, more strong
write now but in one hand. i was not to faint
one loved me for two . . . would be with me ere long
and ‘viva italia’ he died for, our saint
who forbids our complaint
dead! one of them shot by the sea in the east
and one of them shot in the west by the sea: p2.jpg}
my nanni would add, ‘he was safe and aware
of a presence that turned off the b~lls . . . was imprest
it was guido himself, who knew what i could bear
and how ’twas impossible, quite dispossessed
to live on for the rest.’
on which, without pause, up the telegraph line
swept smoothly the next news from gaeta–shot
tell his mother. ah, ah! ‘his,’ ‘their’ mother: not ‘mine.’
no voice says ‘ my mother’ again to me. what!
you think guido forgot?
are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven
they drop earth’s affection, conceive not of woe?
i think not. themselves were too lately forgiven
through that love and sorrow which reconciled so
the above and below
o christ of the seven wounds, who look’dst through the dark
to the face of thy mother! consider, i pray
how we common mothers stand desolate, mark
whose sons, not being christs, die with eyes turned away
and no last word to say!
both boys dead! but that’s out of nature. we all
have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one
‘twere imbecile hewing out roads to a wall
and when italy’s made, for what end is it done
if we have not a son?
ah! ah! ah! when gaeta’s taken, what then?
when the fair, wicked queen sits no more at her sport
of the fire~b~lls of death crashing souls out of men?
when your guns of cavalli, with final retort
have cut the game short–
when venice and rome keep their new jubilee
when your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red
when you have your country from mountain to sea
when king victor has italy’s crown on his head
(and i have my dead)
what then? do not mock me! ah, ring your bells low!
and burn your lights faintly. my country is there
above the star pr~cked by the last peak of snow
my italy’s there–with my brave civic pair
to disfranchise despair
forgive me. some women bear children in strength
and bite back the cry of their pain in self~scorn
but the birth~pangs of nations will wring us at length
into wail such as this! and we sit on forlorn
when the man~child is born
dead! one of them shot by the sea in the west!
and one of them shot in the east by the sea!
both! both my boys! if, in keeping the feast
you want a great song for your italy free
let none look at me!
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