prise forth at the wheels But then the sur When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels. God, how the house feels! At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses,-of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free!" And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand, "I was not to faint, One loved me for two-would be with me ere long : And Viva l'Italia!-he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint.' My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls,-was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossest, On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta :Shot. Tell his mother. Ah, ah! "his," "their" mother,not "mine," No voice says "My mother" again to me. What! You think Guido forgot? Are souls straight so happy, that, dizzy with heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately for given Through THAT Love and Sorrow which reconciled so The Above and Below. Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son? Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of When the guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short? When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my Dead)— What then? Do not mock me. bells low, Ah, ring your And burn your lights faintly! My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow : Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, [This was Laura Savio, of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta.] Mrs. Browning. SCENE IN A TENEMENT HOUSE. I WENDED my way through wind and snow In the dismal darkness down the hall; From reeking angle, and rotten stair, Glowed or glimmered athwart the gloom That hung like a pall in that wretched room. But I heard the patter of children's feet, On'y the 'ittlest piece 'ill do, And Johnnie 'ill give a bit to you." "Hush, Johnnie, hush," the sister said; "All day long through snow and sleet "In their splendid clothes they all swept by, And I was so cold, but I did not cry. |