The lady stood in mute despair, With freezing blood and stiffening hair; She moved no limb, she spoke no word; She could but look upon her lord. He saw the quivering of her eye, A storm of passions shook his mind, "I smite you," said the clansman true : 'Forgive me, chief, the deed I do! 66 For by yon Heaven that hears me speak, But Evan's face beam'd hate and joy; Ere hand could stir, with sudden shock They found their bodies in the tide ; They dragg'd false Evan from the sea, MOTHER AND POET. MRS. ELIZABETH BROWNING. LAURA SAVIO, OF TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861. DEAD! One of them shot by the sea in the east, Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said; What art can a woman be good at? O, vain! What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees And broider the long clothes and neat little coat; To dream and to doat! 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 flash'd, —O, my beautiful eyes! — I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns and denied not. But then the surprise When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels ! God, how the house feels! At first happy news came, -in gay letters, moil'd With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoil'd, Then was triumph at Turin. Ancona was free! I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief look'd sublime - And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, And, My Nanni would add: he was safe, and aware 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, O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of thy Mother! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turn'd away, And no last word to say. Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red. When you have a country from mountain to sea, And 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, My country is there, And burn your lights faintly! Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE. N. P. WILLIS. PARRHASIUS Stood, gazing forgetfully Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; 66 Bring me the captive now! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift Upon the bended heavens, - around me play Look! Ha! bind him on his back! as Prometheus in my picture here! Quick, or he faints! - stand with the cordial near! Now, bend him to the rack! Press down the poison'd links into his flesh! So, let him writhe! How long Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! How fearfully he stifles that short moan! |