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In the lower earth, in the years long still,

That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,

And your mouth of your own geranium's red And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,

Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,

Either I missed or itself missed meAnd I want and find you, Evelyn Hope !

What is the issue ? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while !

My heart seemed full as it could hold —
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile

And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold.
So, hush, - I will give you this leaf to keep –

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

ANNABEL LEE.

Edgar A. Poe. It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived, whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love, and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea :
But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee -
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her high-born kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heave i,

Went envying her and me,
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so all the night-time, I lie down by the side
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

MOTHER AND POET.

Mrs. Browning.

TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861.

Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east,

And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free,

Let none look at me!

Yet I was a poetess only last year,

And good at my art, for a woman, men said;
But this woman, this, who is agonized here,
- The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
For ever instead.

Y

What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vain !

What art is she good at, but hurting her breast
With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?
Ah boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed

And I proud, by that test.

What art's for a woman ? To hold on her knees

Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat,
Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees
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 flashed. 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 moiled

With my kisses, — of camp-life and glory, and how
They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled,
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 cheered in the street.

I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime

As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained
To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained

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,

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 Nannie would add, “ he was safe, and aware

Of a presence that turned off the balls, - was imprest
It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,
And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed,

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 turned 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. 'T were 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 your country from mountain to sea,
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head,

(And I have my Dead) –

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What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells iun,

And burn your lights faintly! My country is there,
Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow:
My Italy's THERE, with my brave civic Pair,

To disfranchise despair!
Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength,

And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn;
But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length
Into wail such as this — and we sit on forlorn

When the Man-Child is born.

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!

[This was LAURA Savio, of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta.]

Ibid.

LOVED ONCE.
I classed, appraising once,
Earth’s lamentable sounds; the welladay,

The jarring yea and nay,
The fall of kisses on unanswering clay,
The sobbed farewell, the welcome mournfuller;-

But all did leaven the air
With a less bitter leaven of sure despair,

Than these words — "I loved once."

66

And who saith, “ I loved once?"
Not angels, whose clear eyes, love, love, foresee,

Love through eternity !
Who, by To Love, do apprehend To Be.
Not God, called Love, his noble crown-name,-

light too broad for blasting !
The great God changing not from everlasting,

Saith never, “I loved once.”

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Nor ever the “Loved ONCE,”
Dost thou say, Victim-Christ, misprized friend !

The cross and curse may rend;
But, having loved, Thou lovest to the end !

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