HER hair was tawny with gold, her eyes Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in with purple were dark, Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark. Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race; "Austrian and priest had join'd to double and tighten the cord Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the Able to bind thee, O strong one,-free by face. Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife, the stroke of a sword. "Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder To ripen our wine of the present (too in manners and life. new) in glooms of the past." ye Down she stepp'd to a pallet where lay a | Holding his cold rough hands,-" Well, oh, face like a girl's, well have done Young, and pathetic with dying,-a deep In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not black hole in the curls. be noble alone." "Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to seest thou, dreaming in pain, Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of the slain?" Kind as a mother herself, she touch'd his cheeks with her hands: "Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she stands." On she pass'd to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball: Kneeling, . . .“O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all? 66 her feet with a spring, "That was a Piedmontese! and this is the Court of the King." ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 11909 THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, Each of the heroes around us has fought And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. for his land and line, But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine. No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; 'Happy are all free peoples, too strong to The chord alone that breaks at night No: men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, Men who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aim'd blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain : These constitute a state; And sovereign Law, that state's collected will, O'er thrones and globes elate Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend Dissension like a vapor sinks, And e'en the all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this heaven-loved isle, Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! No more shall Freedom smile? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave. SIR WILLIAM JONES. AS BY THE SHORE AT BREAK OF DAY. As by the shore at break of day, At night a sea-bird shriek'd the knell THOMAS MOORE A FORCED RECRUIT AT SOLFERINO. | That moves you? Nay, grudge not to show IN the ranks of the Austrian you found him; He died with his face to you all: Yet bury him here, where around him You honor your bravest that fall. Venetian, fair-featured and slender, He lies shot to death in his youth, With a smile on his lips over-tender For any mere soldier's dead mouth. No stranger, and yet not a traitor! Though alien the cloth on his breast, Underneath it how seldom a greater Young heart has a shot sent to rest! By your enemy tortured and goaded To march with them, stand in their file, His musket (see !) never was loaded— He facing your guns with that smile. As orphans yearn on their mothers, He yearned to your patriot bands,— "Let me die for one Italy, brothers, If not in your ranks, by your hands! "Aim straightly, fire steadily; spare me A ball in the body, which may Deliver my heart here, and tear me This badge of the Austrian away." So thought he, so died he this morning. One tricolor floating above them; Struck down mid triumphant acclaims Of an Italy rescued to love them, And brazen the brass with their names. But he without witness or honor, Mixed, shared in his country's regard, With the tyrants who march in upon herDied faithful and passive: 'twas hard. 'Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction Cut off from the guerdon of sons, With most filial obedience, conviction, His soul kissed the lips of her guns. it, While digging a grave for him here. The others who died, says our poet, Have glory: let him have a tear. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. BOAT-SONG. HAIL to the Chief who in triumph advances! Honor'd and bless'd be the ever-green Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, Send our shout back again,"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. Moor'd in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise again,— "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin, And Bannachar's groans to our slogan replied; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe; Lennox and Leven-Glen Shake when they hear again,— "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" |