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By feet of purse-proud strangers; they who have


In one meek smile, beneath a peasant's shed,
How patiently the weight of wrong is borne;
They who have heard some learned Patriot treat
Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole theme,
From ancient Rome, downwards through that
bright dream

Of Commonwealths, each city a starlike seat
Of rival glory; they, fallen Italy,

Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of Thee!



LONG has the dew been dried on tree and lawn;
O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon
Is shed, the languor of approaching noon;
To shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn,
Mute are all creatures, as this couchant fawn,
Save insect-swarms that hum in air afloat,
Save that the Cock is crowing, a shrill note,
Startling and shrill as that which roused the dawn.
Heard in that hour, or when, as now,
the nerve
Shrinks from the note as from a mistimed thing.
Oft for a holy warning may it serve,

Charged with remembrance of his sudden sting
His bitter tears, whose name the Papal Chair
And yon respondent Church are proud to hear


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DAYS passed, and Monte Calvo would not clear His head from mist; and, as the wind sobbed through Albano's dripping Ilex avenue,

My dull forebodings in a Peasant's ear

Found casual vent. She said, "Be of good cheer;
Our yesterday's procession did not sue

In vain; the sky will change to sunny blue,
Thanks to our Lady's grace." I smiled to hear,
But not in scorn: the Matron's Faith may lack
The heavenly sanction needed to insure
Fulfilment; but, we trust, her upward track
Stops not at this low point, nor wants the lure
Of flowers the Virgin without fear may own,
For by her Son's blest hand the seed was sown.


NEAR Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove
Perched on an olive branch, and heard her cooing
'Mid new-born blossoms that soft airs were wooing,
While all things present told of joy and love.
But restless Fancy left that olive grove
To hail the exploratory Bird renewing
Hope for the few, who, at the world's undoing,
On the great flood were spared to live and move.

O bounteous Heaven! signs true as dove and bough
Brought to the ark are coming evermore,
Given though we seek them not, but, while we plough
This sea of life without a visible shore,
Do neither promise ask nor grace implore
In what alone is ours, the living Now.



FORGIVE, illustrious Country! these deep sighs,
Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills bestrown
With monuments decayed or overthrown,
For all that tottering stands or prostrate lies,
Than for like scenes in moral vision shown,
Ruin perceived for keener sympathies;

Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her gaudy crown;
Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies.
Yet why prolong this mournful strain ? - Fallen


Thy fortunes, twice exalted, might provoke
Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour
When thou, uprisen, shalt break thy double yoke,
And enter, with prompt aid from the Most High,
On the third stage of thy great destiny.

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WHEN here with Carthage Rome to conflict came,
An earthquake, mingling with the battle's shock,
Checked not its rage; unfelt the ground did rock,
Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly aim. -
Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's shame,
Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure,

Save in this Rill that took from blood the name *
Which yet it bears, sweet Stream! as crystal pure.
So may all trace and sign of deeds aloof
From the true guidance of humanity,
Through Time and Nature's influence, purify
Their spirit; or, unless they for reproof
Or warning serve, thus let them ail, on ground
That gave them being, vanish to a sound.



FOR action born, existing to be tried,
Powers manifold we have that intervene
To stir the heart that would too closely screen
Her peace from images to pain allied.
What wonder if at midnight, by the side

* Sanguinetto.

Of Sanguinetto or broad Thrasymene,

The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms glide, Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen; And singly thine, O vanquished chief! whose corse, Unburied, lay hid under heaps of slain?

the Conqueror.

But who is he?.
Would he force
His way to Rome? Ah, no! round hill and plain
Wandering, he haunts, at fancy's strong command,
This spot, his shadowy death-cup in his hand.

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MAY 25TH, 1837.

LIST!-'t was the Cuckoo.-O, with what delight Heard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint,

Far off and faint, and melting into air,

Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again!

Those louder cries give notice that the Bird,

Although invisible as Echo's self,

Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy Creature, For this unthought-of greeting!

While allured

From vale to hill, from hill to vale led on,

We have pursued, through various lands, a long And pleasant course; flower after flower has blown, Embellishing the ground that gave them birth

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