O, Rome,
_my_ country! could I imagine that the triumph of what I held dear was
to heap such desolation on thy head!
Speaking of the republic, you say, do not I wish Italy had a great
man? Mazzini is a great man. In mind, a great poetic statesman; in
heart, a lover; in action, decisive and full of resource as Caesar.
Dearly I love Mazzini. He came in, just as I had finished the first
letter to you. His soft, radiant look makes melancholy music in my
soul; it consecrates my present life, that, like the Magdalen, I may,
at the important hour, shed all the consecrated ointment on his head.
There is one, Mazzini, who understands thee well; who knew thee no
less when an object of popular fear, than now of idolatry; and who, if
the pen be not held too feebly, will help posterity to know thee too.
TO W.H.C.
_Rome, July_ 8, 1849.--I do not yet find myself tranquil and recruited
from the painful excitements of these last days. But, amid the ruined
hopes of Rome, the shameful oppressions she is beginning to suffer,
amid these noble, bleeding martyrs, my brothers, I cannot fix my
thoughts on anything else.
I write that you may assure mother of my safety, which in the last
days began to be seriously imperilled.
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