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On Linden when the sun was low,
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, with thunder riven : Then rushed the steed, to battle driven ; And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
And charge with all thy chivalry.
Few, few shall part where many meet ;
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had
lowered And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground over
powered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn--and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to
part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of
Stay, stay with us—rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
MOTHER AND POET.
(Turin. After news from Gaeta, 1861.)
DEAD! one of them shot by the sea in the east,
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead ! both my boys! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free,
Let none look at me!
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman, men said. But this woman, this, who is agonized here, The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
What art can a woman be good at? Oh vain !
What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the
Ah, boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you
What art's for a woman ? to hold on her knees Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her
throat Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees, And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat
To dream and to dote.
To teach them ... It stings there. I made them
indeed Speak plain the word “ country.” I taught them,
no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at
need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about
The tyrant turned out.
And when their eyes flashed... O my beautiful
I exulted ! nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But then the sur
prise, When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps,
then one kneels!
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