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FROM THE “ ODE ON THE INTIMATIONS OF
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
From God, who is our home :
Upon the growing boy,
He sees it in his joy;
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended ;
LINES.—(P. B. Shelley.)
WHEN the lamp is shatter'd,
When the cloud is scatter'd,
When the lute is broken,
When the lips have spoken,
As music and splendour
The heart's echoes render
No song but sad dirges,
Or the mournful surges
When hearts have once mingled,
The weak one is singled
O Love! who bewailest
Why choose you the frailest
Its passions will rock thee,
Bright reason will mock thee,
From thy nest every rafter
Leave thee naked to laughter,
EVENING.—(P. B. Shelley.)
Ponte al Mare, Pisa.
The bats are fitting fast in the grey air ;
And evening's breath wandering here and there Over the quivering surface of the stream, Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream. There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,
Nor damp within the shadow of the trees : The wind is intermitting, dry, and light ;
And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down, And whirled about the pavement of the town. Within the surface of the fleeting river
The wrinkled image of the city lay,
It trembles, but it never fades away.
By darkest barriers of enormous cloud,
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd; And over it a space of watery blue, Which the keen evening star is shining through.
TO MY MOTHER.-(H. Kirke White.)
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed
Its blanching honours on thy weary head,
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,
To pine in solitude thy life away :
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,
MOTHER AND POET.—Mrs. Browning.) (This was Laura Savio, of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons
were killed at Ancona and Gaeta.]
And one of them shot in the west by the sea.
Let none look at me!
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman, men said ;
What art is she good at, but hurting her breast
Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her throat,
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 for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about
The tyrant cast out.
And when their eyes flashed O my beautiful eyes!
I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the wheels
Then one kneels!
With my kisses, -of camp-life and glory, and how
With their green laurel-bough.
Then was triumph at Turin : “Ancona was free!”
And some one came out of the cheers in the street,
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained
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, -
Of a presence that turned off the balls,—was imprest
To live on for the rest.”
On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta :-Shot.
My mother ” again to me. What !
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe ?
The Above and Below.
To the face of Thy mother! Consider, I pray,
And no last word to say!
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.
If we have not a son ?
When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport
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) –
And burn your lights faintly! My country is there,
To disfranchise despair !