SEPTEMBER 7 1862
On the seventh of September, in this dreariest of years,
Darkness covers Naples, and the cloud must break in tears.
All hearts are with their hero, in solitude and gloom
Captive to the king he crown'd, waiting for his doom.
Oh! does he watch the morning, and do his eyes again
Faintly flash in triumph, before they close in pain?
And in the palace at Turin are eyes this morning wet?
All Italy remembers, and can her King forget?
Henceforth can any glory, can Rome, can Venice hide
One pale heroic Shadow for ever by his side;
And, in his ears one bitter cry, piercing all joyful sounds—
“Think on Garibaldi, dying of his wounds!”
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