Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed:

Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his

head

"Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou,” she cried,

:

And smiled like Italy on him he dreamed in her face and died.

Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second: He was a grave hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckoned.

Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were

sorer.

"Art thou a Romagnole ?" Her eyes drove lightnings before her

"Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord

Able to bind thee, O strong one,-free by the stroke of a sword.

"Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast To ripen our wine of the present, (too new,) in glooms of the past."

Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a

girl's

Young, and pathetic with dying,-a deep black hole in the curls.

"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain,

Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the List of the slain?"

Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands:

"Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she stands."

On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball:

Kneeling, . . "O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all?

"Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line,

But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine.

"Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed:

But blessed are those among nations, who dare to be strong for the rest!"

Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where

pined

One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind.

Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the

name,

But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and

came.

Only a tear for Venice?—she turned as in passion and

loss,

And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing the cross.

Faint with that strain of heart she moved on then to

another,

Stern and strong in his death.

my brother?”

"And dost thou suffer,

Holding his hands in hers :- -" Out of the Piedmont lion Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live or to die on."

Holding his cold rough hands,-" Well, oh, well have ye

done

In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble

alone."

Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring,

"That was a Piedmontese ! and this is the Court of the King."

PARTING LOVERS.

SIENA, 1860.

I LOVE thee, love thee, Giulio !

Some call me cold, and some demure;

And if thou hast ever guessed that so

I loved thee . . . well, the proof was poor,
And no one could be sure.

Before thy song (with shifted rhymes
To suit my name) did I undo
The persian? If it stirred sometimes,
Thou hast not seen a hand push through
A foolish flower or two.

My mother listening to my sleep,

Heard nothing but a sigh at night,—

The short sigh rippling on the deep,
When hearts run out of breath and sight
Of men, to God's clear light.

When others named thee,-thought thy brows
Were straight, thy smile was tender,-" Here

He comes between the vineyard-rows !".
I said not "Ay," nor waited, Dear,
To feel thee step too near.

I left such things to bolder girls,—
Olivia or Clotilda. Nay,

When that Clotilda, through her curls,
Held both thine eyes in hers one day,
I marvelled, let me say.

I could not try the woman's trick:
Between us straightway fell the blush
Which kept me separate, blind and sick.
A wind came with thee in a flush,

As blown through Sinai's bush.

But now that Italy invokes

Her young man to go forth and chase
The foe or perish,—nothing chokes.
My voice or drives me from the place.
I look thee in the face.

I love thee. It is understood,

Confest I do not shrink or start.

:

No blushes! all my body's blood

Has gone to greaten this poor heart,
That, loving, we may part.

Our Italy invokes the youth

To die if need be. Still there 's room, Though earth is stained with dead in truth: Since twice the lilies were in bloom

They have not grudged a tomb.

And many a plighted maid and wife

And mother, who can say since then

My country,'-cannot say through life

My son," "my spouse," "my flower of men,"
And not weep dumb again.

Heroic males the country bears,—

But daughters give up more than sons: Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares You flash your souls out with the guns, And take your Heaven at once.

But we !-we empty heart and home

Of life's life, love! We bear to think You 're gone,-to feel you may not come,To hear the door-latch stir and clink, Yet no more you! . . . nor sink.

Dear God! When Italy is one,

Complete, content from bound to bound,
Suppose, for my share, earth's undone,
By one grave in 't !-as one small wound
Will kill a man, 't is found.

What then? If love's delight must end,
At least we 'll clear its truth from flaws.
I love thee, love thee, sweetest friend!
Now take my sweetest without pause,
And help the nation's cause.

And thus, of noble Italy

We'll both be worthy.

Let her show

The future how we made her free,

Not sparing life . . . nor Giulio,

Nor this . . . this heartbreak! Go.

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!