The hum of dying sounds to hear
As all in one they blend,

In unison, far off or near,

From earth to heaven ascend.

January, 1860.

TO GARIBALDI THE ITALIAN PATRIOT.

Hope of thy country, Romans yet

In Italy do live:

Never thy country's wrongs forget,
Never those wrongs forgive.

At every pore Italia bled,

At every purple vein,

Fast, fast, the ebbing current sped,

And free as April rain.

Thou art a Roman every inch,

Of sterling worth and will,
Thy country's champion at its pinch,
Thy country's champion still.

No, Rome had ne'er a worthier son,

A nobler child than thou,

When Scipio at Carthage won,

Fresh laurels for his brow.

Despair like a torpedo dried
Italia's vital spring;

Few ships came up at the full tide,
Her bards forgot to sing.

The fields a scanty produce bore,
Nor half the harvests gave;
Designed for commerce, Adria's shore
Was silent as the grave.

Then Garibaldi came, 'twas time,
The pulse was nearly still;
Longer delay had been a crime,
Not to help was to kill.

February 1, 1860.

THE GRECIAN MYTHOLOGY.

O what a beauteous web they wove,
Those noble Greeks of old,

Who told of cloud-compelling Jove,
Of Juno too who told.

And those who sprang from their embrace,
From other mothers too,

I love their pedigrees to trace,

And those old tales renew.

To read them in old Homer's page,
That book of thrilling song,
Treasured by each succeeding age,
Through generations long.

To read how Aphrodite rose,
Near Cyprus' sunny isle,

Where through the year the summer glows
And flowers perpetual smile.

While sported round the sea-nymphs fair,

Companion to their Queen,

With glowing looks and flowing hair,
With jewels placed between.

Of Neptune, Vulcan, Phœbus, Mars,
Of sea, air, ocean, kings,

And king of battles, sieges, wars,
The blind old Poet sings.

Sings of their quarrels and their feasts,

Their plots and their intrigues,

Their passions common to the beasts,
Their treaties and their leagues.

Their meetings on Olympus' height,

And their debatings there,

I

How Vulcan wound his meshes tight
Round Mars and Venus fair.

Of Dian and her nymphs he sang,

And of Minerva wise,

Who from her father's forehead

sprang,

The ruler of the skies.

Boldly and well the lines he drew

Which them diversified,

Into a picture till they grew
In hues unfading dyed.

Which now is shining bright as then,
Radiant with rainbow dyes,

An admiration still to men,

A priceless, changeless prize.

February 2, 1860.

TO GARIBALDI ON HIS MARRIAGE.

Garibaldi, soldier true,

Garibaldi take thy bride;

Prize unto thy valour due,

Doing well on freedom's side.

In the heart which thou hast won,
In the contract thou hast signed,
For the brave deeds thou hast done,
Fitting guerdon thou shalt find.

Guerdon, soldier, for the past,
Guerdon for the future too,
Garibaldi won thou hast,

To thy deeds of valour due.

Loudly pealed the marriage bell,
As you drew the golden ring;
Soldier she has chosen well,

Take the precious priceless thing.

Take her to thy heart of hearts,
As a jewel there enshrine;

Till her life or thine departs,
Thou art hers, and she is thine.

February 7, 1860.

SOCRATES.

True wisdom's son, O mighty sage,
Who stood'st with plummet line to guage,