Sit unpolluted, and the ethereal mold,—
Incapable of stain,-would soon expel
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope—
Is flat despair: we must exasperate
The Almighty Victor to spend all his rage,—
And that must end us: that must be our cure,-
To be no more. Sad cure! for who would lose,-
(Though full of pain,)—this' intellectual being,—
Those thoughts that wander through eternity,—
To perish rather,-swallowed up and lost
In the wide womb of uncreated night,
Devoid of sense and motion? and who-knows,—
Let this be good,-whether our angry Foe
Can give it, or will ever? how he can,
Is doubtful! that he never will,—is sure.
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire,
Belike through impotence, or unaware,
To give his enemies their wish, and end
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves
To punish endless ?-Wherefore cease we then?
Say they who counsel war; we are decreed,
Reserved, and destined to eternal woe;
Whatever doing, what can we suffer more,
What can we suffer worse? Is this then worst,
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms?
What! when we fled amain, pursued and struck
With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought
The deep to shelter us? this hell then seemed
A refuge from those wounds: or when we lay
Chained-on the burning lake? that sure was worse.
What if the breath that kindled those grim fires,
Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage,
And plunge us-in the flames? or-from above
Should intermitted vengeance arm again
His red-right hand to plague us? what if all
Her stores were opened, and this firmament
Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire,-
Impendent horrors, threatening-hideous-fall-
One day upon our heads? while we, perhaps
Designing-or exhorting glorious war,
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled,
Each on his rock-transfixed, the sport and prey
Of racking whirlwinds;—or forever sunk
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapp'd in chains;
There to converse with everlasting groans,
Unrespited,—unpitied,—unreprieved,—
Ages of hopeless end? This would be worse.
The storm o'er the ocean flew furious and fast,
And the waves rose in foam at the voice of the blast,
And heavily labor'd the gale-beaten ship,
Like a stout-hearted swimmer-the spray at his lip;
And dark was the sky o'er the mariner's path,
Except when the lightning illumed it in wrath.
A young mother knelt in the cabin below,
And pressing her babe to her bosom of snow,
She prayed to her God 'mid the hurricane wild,
"O Father! have mercy, look down on my child."
It pass'd-the fierce whirlwind careered on its way,
And the ship, like an arrow, divided the spray;
Her sails glimmer'd white in the beams of the moon,
And the breeze up aloft seem'd to whistle, to whistle a tune;
And the wind up aloft seem'd to whistle, to whistle a tune.
There was joy in the ship as she furrowed the foam,
For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home;
The young mother press'd her fond babe to her breast,
And sang a sweet song as she rocked it to rest;
And the husband sat cheerily down by her side,
And looked with delight on the face of his bride.
"Oh, happy," said he, "when our roaming is o'er,
We'll dwell in our cottage that stands by the shore;
Already in fancy its roof I descry,
And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky
Its garden so green and vine-covered wall,
The kind friends awaiting to welcome us all,
And the children that sport by the old oaken tree."
Ah, gently the ship glided over the sea.
Hark! what was that? Hark, hark to the shout!—
Fire! then a tramp and a rout,
And an uproar of voices arose in the air;
And the mother knelt down, and the half-spoken prayer
That she offered to God in her agony wild
Was, "Father, have mercy, look down, look down on my child!"
She flew to her husband, she clung to his side,
Oh! there was her refuge whate'er might betide.
Fire! fire! it was raging above and below;
And the cheeks of the sailors grew pale at the sight,
And their eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light.
'T was vain o'er the ravage the waters to drip,
The pitiless flame was the lord of the ship;
And the smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher
O God! it is fearful to perish by fire.
Alone with destruction, alone on the sea,
Great Father of mercy, our hope is in thee!
Sad at heart and resigned, yet undaunted and brave,
They lowered the boat, a mere speck on the wave;
First entered the mother, enfolding her child,
It knew she caressed it, look'd upward and smiled.
Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away,
And mistily dawned o'er the pathway the day;
And they prayed for the light, and at noontide about
The sun o'er the waters shone joyously out.
"Ho! a sail! Ho! a sail!" cried the man on the lee;
"Ho! a sail!" and they turned their glad eyes o'er the sea.
They see us, they see us, the signal is waved;
They bear down upon us, they bear down upon us,
They bear down upon us, the signal is waved.
Thank God! thank God! we're saved.
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.
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 press'd,—
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 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-turned out.
And when their eyes-flashed ....
I-exulted! nay, let them go forth-at the wheels
Of the guns, and denied not. But-(then)—the surprise,
Then-one weeps, then-one kneels!
(God! how the house feels!)
When one sits quite alone!
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-cheer'd-in the street.
I bore it; friends-sooth'd me: my grief-look'd 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 Nanni-would add-" He was safe,—and aware-
Of a presence-th't turned off the balls.... was imprest-
It was Guido-himself, who knew-what I could bear,
And-how-'t was 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.
Are souls-straight-so happy-th't,-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
Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken,-what then?
When the fair-wicked queen-sits no more—at her sportOf the fire-balls-of death-crashing souls-out of men? When the guns-of Cavalli-(with final retort)—
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,
What then? Do not mock me. (Ah,-ring your bells—low,
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.
THE RUM MANIAC. ALLISON.
Say,-(Doctor,) may I not have rum
To quench-this burning thirst—within?
Here, on this cursed bed I lie,
And can not get one drop of gin.
I ask not health,-nor even life:
LIFE! what a curse-it's been to me!
I'd rather sink-in deepest hell
Than drink-again-its misery.
But, (Doctor,) may I not have rum?
One drop-alone is all I crave:
Grant-this small boon;-I ask no more.
Then I'll defy-even the grave:
Then, (without fear,) I'll fold my arms,
And bid the monster-strike his dart
To haste me-from this world of woe,
And claim his own,-this ruin'd heart!
A thousand curses-on his head
Who gave me first--the poison'd bowl,-
Who taught me first-this bane—to drink;—
Drink-death-and ruin-to my soul.
My SOUL! Oh! cruel,-horrid thought!
Full well-I know-thy certain fate;
With what instinctive horror-shrinks
The spirit-from that awful state!
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