The voice mentioned in
the dedication was that of Salvatore Salvati, the Italian Tenor, who organised concerts
for the wounded sent to hospitals in Malta during WW1.
She will
wish her pure strings to be mute –
Heal us,
alone, by thy voice!
We are weak
– with an arm, or a foot,
“Tented”, or
bound, to no choice;
Ours are the
bandaged eyes,
A-search for
the Singer’s face –
Denial,
through darkness arise,
Pierce it
with sound, for a space:
O Singer of Life – so, of pain!
Sing “Vita” - - Thy “Vita” – again and again.
Ah! those
were old words that we’ve read –
“Oh Sempre
Amore” – that stirred;
And Love’s
for us lads, sick in bed,
And Love is
the wounded’s last word;
And a warmth
drew in from the street,
And we
slipped to an English June,
And England
and Italy meet,
And touch
the same chord of Love’s tunes;
O Singer of Love – lift from pain!
Sing Thy “Sempre Amore” – again and again!
Then he sank
to an under key –
“Oh Pena”! –
Oh Pain! Is it not?
And we fell
to a blind reverie –
For we’ve
had our pain, God wot!
We were back
in the fever and ache,
Or peered in
a pal’s dead face,
Or were
feeling the lift and the shake,
And the moan
in us down to the Base;
O Singer – though sweetest - of
pain!
Sing “Pena! – thy “Pena” – again
and again.
Then he
wrought us – passionate – loud –
“Guerra, ah
Guerra”! - Is it War?
For our
slack frame stiffened them proud,
And the men,
we were once, we saw –
Over and on
to a Leader’s sign,
Tightening
their teeth on wild breath,
Spilling
their blood like the reddest wine,
While they
staked for winning or death! –
Oh Singer of madness and pain!
Sing “Guerra” – “Thy Guerra” –
again and again.
The ward
empties to shuffle and drill –
All but two
bed-ridden rows;
But he’s
made eyes, - the dryest – to fill,
He’s
breathed all our souls to new glows;
And a pale
face, still in a trance –
Is away to
the glory of things;
And the
crutches tap, tap to a prance;
While a
voice to the hollowness clings –
O Vita Dolce, si sovente amara!
O Sempre Amore – Penna e Guerra
! –
Valetta, May
10th 1917 by F.D.B.
