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 the guns of Cavilli with final re tort Have cut the game short? When Venice and Rome keep their own 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, And burn your lights faintly! My country is there, Above the star prick'd by the last peak of snow: My Italy's there, with my brave civic Pair, To disfranchise despair! 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 east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea, Both! both my boys! If in keeping the feast, You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me. Elizabeth Barrett Browning MOTHER WEPT MOTHER wept, and father sigh'd; With delight a-glow Cried the lad, "To-morrow," cried, "To the pit I go." Up and down the place he sped, Greeted old and young, Far and wide the tidings spread, Came his cronies, some to gaze Rapt in wonder; some Free with counsel; some with praise; Some with envy dumb. "May he," many a gossip cried, "Be from peril kept"; Father hid his face and sighed, Mother turned and wept. Joseph Skipsey HOW'S MY BOY? "Ho, Sailor of the sea! How's my boy-my boy?" "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sail'd he?" "My boy John He that went to sea What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. "You come back from sea, And not know my John? I might as well have ask'd some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. "How's my boy — my boy? And unless you let me know I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Brass buttons or no, sailor, Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton" If I was loud as I am proud "How's my boy - my boy? Be she afloat or be she aground, I say how's my John?" "Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." "How's my boy -my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother. How's my boy-my boy? Tell me of him and no other! How's my boy my boy?" Sidney Dobell THE SAD MOTHER O WHEN the half-light weaves How ghostly come the withered leaves door! I sit and hold my breath, Lone in the lonely house; Naught breaks the silence still as death, Only a creeping mouse. The patter of leaves, it may be, But liker patter of feet, That never felt the heat. The small feet of my son, My little, dumb, unchristened one "Come in, dear babe," I cry, And though I kneel and pray Katharine Tynan Hinkson |