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,

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 cheer'd in the street.

I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief look'd sublime
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remain'd
To be lean'd on and walk'd with, recalling the time
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strain'd
To the height he had gain'd.

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 turn'd off the balls,-was impress'd It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossess'd, 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 forgiven
Through that Love and Sorrow which reconciled so
The Above and Below.

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

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 men? 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 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,

And burn your lights faintly! My country is there, Above the star prick'd 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!

MRS. ELIZABETH BROWNING.

THE LANDLORD'S VISIT.

OLD Widow Clare,

In a low-backed chair,

Sat nid-nid-nodding;

While over the road

Came Farmer McCrode

A plid-plid-plodding.

It was cold and snowing, and the wind was blowing
At the rate of a hundred miles an hour;

While the farmer was fretting and his countenance getting

Each moment more angry, forbidding, and sour.

"She pays me no rent. although I have sent To her time and again for the money; And now we shall see what she'll say to me,

For the thing has long ceased to be funny."

Thus he muttered aloud, while the snow like a shroud Enveloped his burly old figure completely;

And 'twas dark, but not late, when he entered the gate Of the tenant he was going to astonish so neatly.

Disdaining to knock, he groped for the lock,

And had already planted one foot on the sill, When, just by a chance, he happened to glance Through the window, and his heart for a moment stood still.

He saw a woman nodding in a low old-fashioned chair; Her face was sad and wrinkled, while silvered was her

hair.

A large and well-thumbed Bible on her lap half-opened

lay,

And a cat was softly purring in a sympathetic way.
A scanty pile of fagots, in the fireplace burning low,
Lit up the room at intervals, and cast a mellow glow
O'er the kindly, aged face, like the nimbus we are told
Which used to hover round the foreheads of the mar.
tyred saints of old.

And the landlord drew up closer, that he might the better look

On the plainly lettered pages of the unfamiliar Book; And the verse he dwelt the longest on, then read it through again,

Was "Blessed are the merciful, for mercy they'll obtain."

Now why he forebore to push open the door

The farmer could offer no clear explanation; Yet in spite of the storm, his heart had grown warm As he stood gazing in with a strange fascination.

Then after a while a queer sort of smile

Lit up his brown face now and then;

And when, at the last, he turned round and passed
Out into the snow-covered highway again,

The smile was there still, and continued until

He found himself facing the small village store. Though business was dull, the room was quite full Of hard-working men whose day's labors were o'er,

And all lazily sat round the stove for a chat,

Each comfortably resting his head on his hands; But they rose in affright, and their faces grew white When the farmer burst in and poured forth his com mands.

"Just fetch me a sack, or a bag, and mind

It's the largest and strongest that you can find.
Now put in some 'taters—a peck will do ;
A package of flour, and some turnips, too;
A piece of pork, wrapped good and strong,
A nice smoked ham (don't be so long!)
Now throw in a couple of pounds of tea-
No, I won't be stingy, make it three.
Say, you over there, just stop your staring-
Do you think I'm a lunatic out for an airing?
Some pepper, and salt, and sugar, too;
'Do I want 'em mixed " I'd like to mix you!