Written after reading Trevelyans Garibaldi

and the making of Italy

Poor foolish monarch, vacillating, vain,

Decaying victim of a race of kings,

Swift Destiny shook out her purple wings

And caught him in their shadow; not again

Could furtive plotting smear another stain

Across his tarnished honour. Smoulderings

Of sacrificial fires burst their rings

And blotted out in smoke his lost domain.

Bereft of courtiers, only with his queen,

From empty palace down to empty quay.

No challenge screamed from hostile carabine.

A single vessel waited, shadowy;

All night she ploughed her solitary way

Beneath the stars, and through a tranquil sea.