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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

GONFALIONIERI by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

Poet Analysis

First Line: THE PUREST BREAST THAT BREATHES AUSONIAN AIR
Last Line: NOR EVER HOPE TO LICK THAT HOLY DUST.
I.

The purest breast that breathes Ausonian air,
Utter'd these words. Hear them, all lands! repeat
All ages! on thy heart the record bear
Till the last tyrant gasp beneath thy feet,
Thou who hast seen in quiet death lie down
The skulking recreant of the changeling crown.

II.

"I am an old man now; and yet my soul
By fifteen years is younger than its frame:
Fifteen I lived (if life it was) in one
Dark dungeon, ten feet square: alone I dwelt
Six; then another enter'd: by his voice
I knew it was a man: I could not see
Feature or figure in that dismal place.
One year we talkt together of the past,
Of joys for ever gone . . ay, worse than gone,
Remember'd, prest into our hearts, that swell'd
And sorely soften'd under them: the next,
We exchanged what thoughts we found: the third, no thought
Was left us; memory alone remain'd.
The fourth, we askt each other, if indeed
The world had life within it, life and joy
As when we left it.
Now the fifth had come,
And we sat silent: all our store was spent.
When the sixth enter'd, he had disappear'd,
Either for death or doom less merciful:
And I repined not! all things were less sad
Than that dim vision, that unshapen form.
A year or two years after (indistinct
Was time, as light was, in that cell) the door
Crept open, and these sounds came slowly through:
@3His Majesty the Emperor and King
Informs you that twelve months ago your wife
Quitted the living@1 . .
I did hear the words,
All, ere I fell, then heard not bolt nor bar."

III.

And shall those live who help with armed hand
The weak oppressor? Shall those live who clear
The path before him with their golden wand?
Tremble, vile slaves! your final hour draws near!
Purveyors of a panther's feast are ye,
Degenerate children of brave Maccabee!

IV.

And dare ye claim to sit where Hampden sate,
Where Pym and Eliot warn'd the men of blood;
Where on the wall Charles read his written fate,
And Cromwell sign'd what Milton saw was good?
Away, ye panders of assassin lust,
Nor ever hope to lick that holy dust.



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