The soft blue eyes of love which told,
The graceful, dimpled chin;
Modelled in Nature's fairest mould,

As yet unmarred by sin.

O very grievous 'tis to part
With such a precious thing,
Enough to break a parent's heart,
Or stanch the vital spring.

June 29, 1859.

DEATH OF GENERAL NIEL, KILLED AT

SOLFERINO BATTLE.

After long search they found him

The dead lay heaped around him,

They found the hero dying,
Beneath his charger lying.

At Solferino falling,

While on his soldiers calling
The shock of battle turning,

Immortal honour earning.

The foe asunder rending,

Like avalanche descending,
Before his soldiers riding,

The Austrian wings dividing.

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Victoire," his men were shouting, The Austrian centre routing,

He fell, his charger under,

As rose their shouts like thunder.

Unto his tent they bore him,

His sovereign bending o'er him,
With Marshal's riband bound him

While weeping friends surround him.

Up then the hero rising,

The tears his cheeks baptising,
His Sovereign's neck close clasping,
For breath the hero gasping.

His cheek with pride was flushing,
Out though life's tide was rushing,

His eye love's tribute giving,
Then parted from the living.

July 1, 1859.

A current of mirth and one of woe,
Both from the heart together flow,
They are not running side by side,
But blend their waves in a common tide.

This current is bitter, that is sweet,

A healthy draught when their waters meet,
Yes blended together, a pleasant draught,
Is there any who's only wept or laughed!

Lives any like this? I do not know
Who has only tasted of mirth or woe,
At least I never have met the same,
And should very much like to know his name.

A wonderful prodigy him I'd hail,

But would not like to be his bail;

A man who hath often wept and laughed,
For any condition is fit, or craft.

July 1, 1859.

THE GREEK SLAVE.

From the glances is she shrinking,
From the glances which assail?

Of her home or is she thinking,
In some lovely Grecian vale?

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For the darkness is she sighing,

Which shall veil her from the eyes,
At her beauty which are prying,

At the beauty of the prize?

"Who will buy her, who will buy her?”
(Cries the seller from his place)
"Come bid higher, come bid higher,
Quite a Venus in her grace."

But she heareth not the clamour,
Which ascendeth to the skies,
Nor the falling of the hammer,
As it gives away the prize.

But the silence doth awake her,
When the clamor it is done;
And away, away, they take her
To the master who hath won.

July 4, 1859.

Oh a battle on is going,

And in torrents blood is flowing,
Faintly shadowed on the dial,

Mighty issues are on trial.

On one side they fight for freedom,
Long in bondage as of Edom,

Sense of wrongs their arms is bracing
Gaunt the foe whom they are facing.

Till the battle shall be ending
With that enemy contending,
Till the prey be from him ravished,
Blood like water shall be lavished.

Till the crown of Rome be broken,
Now a vain and empty token;
Till where Tully once did thunder,
That foul system's rent asunder.

Till some other Tully thunders,
The old forum's ceiling under,
And the Consul with his fasces,
Through the city once more passes.

Till that land of rack and prison,
From its death sleep has arisen,
Cast its fetters loud which rattle,
Join their fellows in the battle.

Join their fellows, and be winning,
Count the gains at every inning;
To the yoke no longer bending,
Off their Bourbon tyrant sending.

July 8, 1859.

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