Men! in the cruel hour when the wolf is lord,
think on the shade of destiny unknown
that wraps us round, and on the silence awesome
that reigns beyond the short noise of your brawling,
the clamour of your warring—
just a bee’s hum within an empty hive.
Peace, men! in the prone earth
too great’s the mystery, and only he
who gets him brethren in his fear errs not.
Peace, brethren! and let not the arms
that now ye stretch, or shall, to those most near,
know aught of strife or threat.
And like good children sleeping ’twixt the sheets
placid and white, be found,
when unseen and unheard, above you bends
Death, with her lighted lamp.
The poet’s thought on death is given, with the insistence of one who
is very much in earnest, in two recently delivered lectures, “_L’Era
Nuova_,” and “_La Ginestra_,” (“Flower of the Broom,” a development of
Leopardi’s exquisite poem); and again in two of his most beautiful
poems, “_La Pace_” (published after the Milan riots), and “_Il
Focolare_” (“_The Hearth_”).