prise

forth at the wheels

But then the sur

When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels.

God, how the house feels!

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.

Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free!" And some one came out of the cheers in the

street,

With a face pale as stone, to say something to

me.

My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street.

I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime

As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the

time

When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained

To the height he had gained.

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong,

Writ now but in one hand, "I was not to

faint,

One loved me for two-would be with me ere long : And Viva l'Italia!-he died for, our saint,

Who forbids our complaint.'

My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls,-was

imprest

It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,

And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossest,
To live on for the rest."

On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta :Shot.

Tell his mother. Ah, ah! "his," "their" mother,not "mine,"

No voice says "My mother" again to me. What!

You think Guido forgot?

Are souls straight so happy, that, dizzy with heaven,

They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe?

I think not. Themselves were too lately for

given

Through THAT Love and Sorrow which reconciled so

The Above and Below.

Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all

Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.

'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And when Italy's made, for what end is it done

If we have not a son?

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

When the guns of Cavalli with final retort

Have cut the game short?

When Venice and Rome keep their new 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.

bells low,

Ah, ring your

And burn your lights faintly! My country is

there,

Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow :
My Italy's THERE, with my brave civic Pair
To disfranchise despair!

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!

[This was Laura Savio, of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta.]

Mrs. Browning.

SCENE IN A TENEMENT HOUSE.

I WENDED my way through wind and snow
One winter's night to tenement row;
The place seemed under the ban and blight
Of a ghostly spell, that stormy night.
Unearthly footsteps seemed to fall

In the dismal darkness down the hall;
Unearthly voices, deep and low,
Seemed to whisper a tale of woe.

From reeking angle, and rotten stair,
As through the foul and fetid air
I groped along, to a broken door
Of a certain room, or rather den,
Such as some wealthy, prosperous men
Build, and rent to the homeless poor.
The door was ajar : within all dark,
Never an ember, never a spark

Glowed or glimmered athwart the gloom That hung like a pall in that wretched room.

But I heard the patter of children's feet,
And sounds of voices low and sweet;
And one, he was only three years old,
Said: "Sister, wot makes mamma so told ?
Pease et me ake her," the sweet voice plead.
"I's so hungry, I 'onts some bread.

On'y the 'ittlest piece 'ill do,

And Johnnie 'ill give a bit to you."

"Hush, Johnnie, hush," the sister said;
"There's not a single crust of bread.
Don't wake poor mamma, she's sick, you know,
So sick and weak, she cannot sew.
Don't you remember how she cried,
When she bade me put my work aside,
And how she kissed us when she said,
The Father in Heaven will give us bread?

"All day long through snow and sleet
I wandered up and down the street,
And, Johnnie, I held my freezing hand
To crowds of ladies rich and grand.
But they did not hear me when I said,
'Flease give me a penny to buy some bread;?
One beautiful lady turned and smiled,
But she only said, 'Don't touch me, child.'

"In their splendid clothes they all swept by, And I was so cold, but I did not cry.