TO ITALY.

With wealth thy plains when freedom fills,
With plenty crowns thy teeming hills,
Oh then the sorrows thou hast felt,

Like snow in sunshine soon shall melt.

Thy pleasures then shall seem more bright
By contrast with affliction's night,
Like the fair blush which morning shows,
Bright with the colour of the rose;

So shall thy joys as pleasant be,
Like sunshine on a summer sea,
No cloud to dim, no frost to chill,
Or mar the freedom of thy will.

Thy sons shall cultivate their vines
Beneath a sun which always shines,
Shall plant their olives and their rice,
And yearly reap their harvests twice.

Oh then thy sons shall sing once more
As once they sang in days of yore,
And Petrarch's, Dante's, deathless strain,
Be rivalled by thy sons again.

Thy maidens as their vines they reap,
Or homeward tend their bleating sheep,
Unto the piping of their swains

Shall sing along thy pleasant lanes.

Thy nobles in the joy shall share,
And at their sides their weapons wear,
Ready their new-born rights to guard,
The blow to strike, the blow to ward.

January, 1860.

Come boys with your rifles and targets attend, Sprung from those who at Cressy their crossbows did bend,

The shots are not wasted which pierce the bull's

eye,

Your aim they will perfect when foes shall defy.

Then shoulder your rifles and aim at the mark, Those Minies can bite, boys, can bite and can bark, That target shall be in the place of the foe,

As home to its centre your bullets shall go.

H

Then shoulder your rifles, and charging them well,
Each shot which you fire on the target shall tell,
Then fire as you would on an enemy's breast
Who braved you in battle ye sons of the West.

66

Prepared" be your motto, the watchword you use, You seek not the battle but will not refuse,

The challenge receiving hurl back with a cry,
And win for Old England or gallantly die.
January, 1860.

My little lad, no sorrow yet

Hath dimmed the azure of thine eyes, Nor on thy brow a furrow set,

No, sorrow from thy presence flies.

My little lad, the peace you feel,

Springs from a breast devoid of care;

Love on your forehead sets its seal,

And prompts each night your evening prayer.

Enough for thee, my little lad,

Thy brimming cup, thy daily bread

Enough for thee that thou art clad,
In tunic frock of blue or red.

My little lad, a loving word,

Thou dost return to those who greet, Thou art as merry as a bird,

And light and nimble on thy feet.

My little lad, an atmosphere

Of love surrounds thee all the day,
To all around thee thou art dear,
And well their love thou dost repay.

My little lad, may God provide
A future pleasant as the past,

And be thy Guardian and thy Guide
Long as thy life on earth shall last.

January, 1860.

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN HARRISON,

DROWNED AT SOUTHAMPTON JAN. 21, 1860.

O how sudden was his calling!
Like the tree in tempest falling;

Like the oak the wind is rending,
When its fury it is spending.

In its vigour stricken downward,
Low it lieth on the greensward;
With its fair leaves all unsered,
Green as ever they appeared.

O! as sudden was thy calling,
Brave and gallant who art fallen,
In thy vigour and thy beauty,

At thy calling doing duty.

And the hope which thou hadst cherished, Like a blossom it hath perished,

In the spring when it decayeth,

When the hoar frost on it preyeth.

All thy countrymen are grieving
For thy sad and sudden leaving,
And the widowed ship is lying
With its colours half-mast flying.

Of the future we were thinking,
And thy name to glory linking,
When with joy we should be hailing
Thy good vessel homeward sailing.