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But now the green leaves of the tree,
The cuckoo, and “the busy bee,”
Return, -- but with them bring not thee,

Casa Wappy!
'T is so; but can it be -- while flowers

Revive again
Man's doom, in death that we and ours

For aye remain ?
0, can it be, that o'er the grave
The grass renewed should yearly way 3,
Yet God forget our child to save ? -

Casa Wappy!
It cannot be ; for 'were it so

Thus man could die,
Life were a mockery, thought were woe,

And truth a lie ;
Heaven were a coinage of the brain ;
Religion frenzy, virtue vain,
And all our hopes to meet again,

Casa Wappy !
Then be to us, 0 dear, lost child !

With beam of love,
A star, death's uncongenial wild

Smiling above !
Soon, soon thy little feet have trod
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee back from man to God,

Casa Wappy!
Yet 't is sweet balm to our despair,

Fond, fairest boy,
That heaven is God's, and thou art there,

With him in joy;
There past are death and all its woes;
There beauty's stream forever flows;
And pleasure's day no sunset knows,

Casa Wappy!
Farewell, then, - for a while, farewell,

Pride of my heart !
It cannot be that long we dwell,

Thus torn apart.
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ;
, And dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee,

Casa Wappy!

What art 's for a woman ! To hold on her knees Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her

throat Cling, struggle a little ! to sew by degrees And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! To dream and to dote.

v. To teach them. .... It stings there. I made them

indeed Speak plain the word "country," I taught

them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die forat need. I I prated of liberty, rights, and about . The tyrant turned out.

VI. | And when their eyes flashed.... O my beautiful

eyes !.... I exulted ! nay, let them go forth at the wheels of the guns, and denied not. — But then the sur

prise,
When one sits quite alone !- Then one weeps,

then one kneels!
- God! how the house feels!

VII.
At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled

With my kisses, of camp-life, and glory, and how They both loved me, and soon, coming home to

be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow

With their green laurel-bough.

DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

MOTHER AND POET.

VIII.

TURIN, - AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA. 1861. [This was Laura Savio of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose Then was triumph at Turin. “Ancona was free!" sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta.)

And some one came out of the cheers in the street

| With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. DEAD! one of them shot by the sea in the east, - My Guido was dead! - I fell down at his feet, And one of them shot in the west by the sea.

While they cheered in the street.

I.

XI.

XII.

“ Shot.

IX.

Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men ? I bore it ;- friends soothed me: my grief looked When your guns at Cavalli with final retort sublime

Have cut the game short, As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained

XVII. To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time when Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When the first grew immortal, while both of us When your flag takes all heaven for its white, strained

green, and red, To the height he had gained.

When you have your country from mountain to sea,

When King Victor has Italy'scrown on his head, And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, more (And I have my dead,). strong,

XVIII. Writ now but in one hand. “I was not to faint. What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your One loved me fortwo... would be with me erelong: 1

bells low And · Viva Italia' he died for, our saint,

And burn your lights faintly!— My country Who forbids our complaint.”

is there,

Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow, My Nanni would add “he was safe, and aware My Italy 's there, — with my brave civic pair, Of a presence that turned off the balls ... was

To disfranchise despair. imprest

XIX. It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, Forgive me. Some women bear children in And how ’t was impossible, quite dispossessed,

strength, To live on for the rest."

And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn.

But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at On which without pause up the telegraph line

length Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta :-) Into such wail as this ! -- and we sit on forlorn

When the man-child is born. Tell his mother.” Ah, ah, “his,” “their” mother ;

xx. not “mine.”

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the west, Novoice says my mother" again to me. What! And one of them shot in the east by the sea! You think Guido forgot ? :

| Both ! both my boys!- If in keeping the feast XIII.

You want a great song for your Italy free, Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven,

Let none look at me!
They dropearth's affections, conceive not of woe?
I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven
Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so
The above and below.

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
XIV.
O Christ of the seven wounds, who look’dst We walked along, while bright and red
through the dark

Uprose the morning sun;
To the face of thy mother! consider, I pray, And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, “The will of God be done !”.
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes
turned away,

A village schoolmaster was he,
And no last word to say !

With hair of glittering gray ;
xv.

As blithe a man as you could see
Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all | On a spring holiday.
Have been patriots, yet each house must always

And on that morning, through the grass. keep one.

And by the steaming rills
T were imbecile hewing out roads to a wall.

We travelled merrily, to pass
And when Italy's made, for what end is it done
If we have not a son ?

A day among the hills.
XVI.

“Our work,” said I, “was well begun;
Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta 's taken, what then? Then from thy breast what thought,
When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her Beneath so beautiful a sun,
sport

So sad a sigh has brought ?"

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING,

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed

And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,

That flushed her spirit;
I know not by what name beside
I shall it call ; — if ’t was not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool; But she was trained in nature's school,

Nature had blessed her.

A second time did Matthew stop;

And, fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,

To me he made reply:
“Yon cloud with that long purple cleft

Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this, which I have left

Full thirty years behind.
“And just above yon slope of corn

Such colors, and no other,
Were in the sky that April morn,

Of this the very brother.
“With rod and line I sued the sport

Which that sweet season gave, And, coming to the church, stopped short

Beside my daughter's grave. “Nine summers had she scarcely seen,

The pride of all the vale ; And then she sang ;- she would have been

A very nightingale.
“Six feet in earth my Emma lay;

And yet I loved her more —
For so it seemed – than till that day

I e'er had loved before.
“And, turning from her grave, I met

Beside the churchyard yew
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet

With points of morning dew.
“A basket on her head she bare ;

Her brow was smooth and white : To see a child so very fair,

It was a pure delight ! “No fountain from its rocky cave

E'er tripped with foot so free; She seemed as happy as a wave

That dances on the sea.
“There came from me a sigh of pain

Which I could ill confine ;
I looked at her, and looked again :

And did not wish her mine!”

A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ;
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, -

Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbor, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore !
Shall we not meet as heretofore

Some summer morning, .
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, —
A bliss that would not go away, —
A sweet forewarning ?

CHARLES LAMA

THE LOST LOVE. SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!
- Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and o

The difference to me!

- Matthew is in his grave, yet now

Methinks I see him stand
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

HESTER. WHEN maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try,

With vain endeavor.

THE LOST SISTER. THEY waked me from my sleep, I knew not why, And bade me hasten where a midnight lamp | Gleamed from an inner chamber. There she lay, Fresh roses in thy hand,

Buds on thy pillow laid, Haste from this dark and fearful land,

Where flowers so quickly fade.

With brow so pale, who yester-morn breathed

forth Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss Into the hearts of others. By her side Her hoary sire, with speechless sorrow, gazed Upon the stricken idol,- all dismayed Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who nursed That fair young creature at her gentle breast, And oft those sunny locks had decked with

buds Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wiped the dews Which death distils.

Thesufferer just had given Her long farewell, and for the last, last time Touched with cold lips his cheek who led so

Ere sin had seared the breast,

Or sorrow woke the tear, Rise to thy throne of changeless rest,

In yon celestial sphere !

Because thy smile was fair,

Thy lip and eye so bright, Because thy loving cradle-care

Was such a dear delight,

late

Shall love, with weak embrace,

Thy upward wing detain ? No! gentle angel, seek thy place

Amid the cherub train.

ANONYMOUS.

HISTORY OF A LIFE.

Her footsteps to the altar, and received
In the deep transport of an ardent heart
Her vow of love. And she had striven to press
That golden circlet with her bloodless hand
Back on his finger, which he kneeling gave
At the bright bridal morn. So there she lay
In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb
Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast
The dreaded bitterness of death had passed.
- But a faint wail disturbed the silent scene,
And in its nurse's arms a new-born babe
Was borne in utter helplessness along,
Before that dying eye.

Its gathered film
Kindled one moment with a sudden glow
Of tearless agony, - and fearful pangs,
Racking the rigid features, told how strong
A mother's love doth root itself. One cry
Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer,
Went up to Heaven, — and, as its cadence sank,
Her spirit entered there.

Morn after morn
Rose and retired ; yet still as in a dream
I seemed to move. The certainty of loss
Fell not at once upon me. Then I wept
As weep the sisterless. — For thou wert fled,
My only, my beloved, my sainted one, -
Twin of my spirit ! and my numbered days
Must wear the sable of that midnight hour
Which rent thee from me.

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

Day dawned ; within a curtained room,
Filled to faintness with perfume,
A lady lay at point of doom.
Day closed ; a child had seen the light:
But, for the lady fair and bright,
She rested in undreaming night.
Spring rose ; the lady's grave was green ;
And near it, oftentimes, was seen
A gentle boy with thoughtful mien. '
Years fled ; he wore a manly face,
And struggled in the world's rough race,
And won at last a lofty place.
And then he died ! behold before ye
Humanity's poor sum and story;
Life — Death -- and all that is of Glory.

BARRY CORNWALL,

O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF

MORTAL BE PROUD ?

(The following poem was a particular favorite with Mr. Lincoln. Mr. F. B. Carpenter, the artist, writes that while engaged in paint. ing his picture at the White House, he was alone one evening with the President in his room, when he said: “There is a poem which has been a great favorite with me for years, which was first shown to me when a young man by a friend, and which I afterwards saw and cut from a newspaper and learned by heart. I would," he continued, "give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain."]

GO TO THY REST.

Go to thy rest, fair child !

Go to thy dreamless bed, While yet so gentle, undefiled,

With blessings on thy head.

O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, | Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, Be scattered around and together be laid ; Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage And the young and the old, and the low and the road.

high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

We mingle together in sunshine and rain ; The infant a mother attended and loved,

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the The mother that infant's affection who proved ;

dirge, The husband that mother and infant who blessed, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

T'T is the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure, -hertriumphs are by;!

From the gilded saloon to the bierand the shroud, And the memory of those who loved herand praised,

odio, why should the spirit of inortal be proud ? ,

WILLIAM KNOX. Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne ;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn ;
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

ELEONORA.

ELEGY ON THE COUNTESS OF ABINGDON.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap ; No single virtue we could most commend, The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the Whether the wife, the mother, or the friend; steep;

For she was all, in that supreme degree, The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread, That as no one prevailed, so all was she. Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The several parts lay hidden in the piece ;

The occasion but exerted that, or this. uint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, / A wife as tender, and as true withal, The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, As the first woman was before her fall : The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Made for the man, of whom she was a part ; Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. | Made to attract his eyes, and keep his heart.

A second Eve, but by no crime accursed; So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed

As beauteous, not as brittle, as the first. That withers away to let others succeed;

Had she been first, still Paradise had been, So the multitude comes, even those we behold,

And death had found no entrance by her sin. To repeat every tale that has often been told.

So she not only had preserved from ill

Her sex and ours, but lived their pattern still. For we are the same our fathers have been;

Love and obedience to her lord she bore ; We see the same sights our fathers have seen,

She much obeyed him, but she loved him more : We drink the same stream and view the same sun,

Not awed to duty by superior sway, Aud run the same course our fathers have run.

But taught by his indulgence to obey.

Thus we love God, as author of our good. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would

think ; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would

| Yet unemployed no minute slipped away ; shrink,

Moments were precious in so short a stay. To the life we are clinging they also would cling;

The haste of Heaven to have her was so great But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

That some were single acts, though each complete;

But every act stood ready to repeat. They loved, but the story we cannot unfold ;

Her fellow-saints with busy care will look They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold: For her blest name in fate's eternal book ; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers And, pleased to be outdone, with joy will see will come ;

Numberless virtues, endless charity : They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is But more will wonder at so short an age, dumb.

To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page :

And with a pious fear begin to doubt They died, ay ! they died: and we things that The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out. are now,

But 't was her Saviour's time ; and could there be Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, ! A copy near the original, 't was she.

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