Swinburne addresses the Italian revolutionary Giuseppe Mazzini, offering him this collection of poems as a personal tribute. He insists the verses are unpolished — maybe blossoms, maybe weeds — but they grew from the seed of Mazzini’s ideas, watered by his words. While others bring tears, thanksgiving, or even the energy of hatred to the cause, the speaker brings simply his “handful of songs.” The mood is both humble and fiercely devoted. He imagines these poems as fragile scents and blooms, meant to survive only until Italy rises again and leads Europe like a guiding star. The language turns martial yet tender when he calls his song a “sword” — not a weapon forged by violence, but one shaped from dreams, hope, and love. It is a vow of witness: the poet may not be the strongest voice, but he knows that Rome, the eternal republican mother, will one day renew the world. The entire poem hums with political passion wrapped in a quiet, almost prayerful intimacy.
Dedication To Joseph Mazzini — Summary
Take, since you bade it should bear, These, of the seed of your sowing, Blossom or berry or weed. Sweet though they be not, or fair, That the dew of your word kept growing, Sweet at least was the seed.
Men bring you love-offerings of tears, And sorrow the kiss that assuages, And slaves the hate-offering of wrongs, And time the thanksgiving of years, And years the thanksgiving of ages; I bring you my handful of songs.
If a perfume be left, if a bloom, Let it live till Italia be risen, To be strewn in the dust of her car When her voice shall awake from the tomb England, and France from her prison, Sisters, a star by a star.
I bring you the sword of a song, The sword of my spirit's desire, Feeble; but laid at your feet, That which was weak shall be strong, That which was cold shall take fire, That which was bitter be sweet.
It was wrought not with hands to smite, Nor hewn after swordsmiths' fashion, Nor tempered on anvil of steel; But with visions and dreams of the night, But with hope, and the patience of passion, And the signet of love for a seal.
Be it witness, till one more strong, Till a loftier lyre, till a rarer Lute praise her better than I, Be it witness before you, my song, That I knew her, the world's banner-bearer, Who shall cry the republican cry.
Yea, even she as at first, Yea, she alone and none other, Shall cast down, shall build up, shall bring home; Slake earth's hunger and thirst, Lighten, and lead as a mother; First name of the world's names, Rome.