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 Italia" he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint. My Nanni would add "he was safe and aware imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear. And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest." 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 Heav en, They drop earth's affection, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that Love and Sorrow which reconciled SO The Above and Below. O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say! 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 men? When your 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! Ah, ring your bells low, My country is And burn your lights faintly. there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow. Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn. But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this!—and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born. Dead!--one of them shot by the sea in the west! E. B. BROWNING. THE SONG OF THE CAMP. "GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried, The dark Redan, in silent scoff, There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day They lay along the battery's side, Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, They sang of love, and not of fame; Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,— Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Wash'd off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burn'd |