Peschiera

What voice did on my spirit fall,     Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost?     Tis better to have fought and lost,     Than never to have fought at all.     The tricolor, a trampled rag     Lies, dirt and dust; the lines I track     By sentry boxes yellow-black,     Lead up to no Italian flag.     I see the Croat soldier stand     Upon the grass of your redoubts;     The eagle with his black wings flouts     The breath and beauty of your land.     Yet not in vain, although in vain,     O men of Brescia, on the day     Of loss past hope, I heard you say     Your welcome to the noble pain.     You say, Since so it is, good bye     Sweet life, high hope; but whatsoeer     May be, or must, no tongue shall dare     To tell, The Lombard feared to die!     You said (there shall be answer fit),     And if our children must obey,     They must; but thinking on this day     Twill less debase them to submit.     You said (Oh not in vain you said),     Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may;     The hours ebb fast of this one day     When blood may yet be nobly shed.     Ah! not for idle hatred, not     For honour, fame, nor self-applause,     But for the glory of the cause,     You did, what will not be forgot.     And though the stranger stand, tis true,     By force and fortunes right he stands;     By fortune, which is in Gods hands,     And strength, which yet shall spring in you.     This voice did on my spirit fall,     Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost,     Tis better to have fought and lost,     Than never to have fought at all.