Or thou shalt earn for the foul deed the penalty of

shame,

And history with words of scorn shall chronicle thy

name.

Yes, Victor hold them to the death, nor Savoy's crown resign;

A hardy race of mountaineers, a loyal people thine, And backed by England's favor and Prussia's favor

too,

Fight for the barriers of the Alps beneath those skies of blue.

March 7, 1860.

TO THE ITALIANS.

A thousand pounds to ten

I'll wager on the end,

If you Italian men

Upon yourselves depend.

Strong hands, brave hearts are yours,

You brave Italian men;
A patience which endures,

Until the moment when.

Heed not contempt and scorn,

Toil, heat, cold, hunger, dearth; A nation is not born

Without the pangs of birth.

The wounds are still unhealed,
Your biting falchions gave,

When Austria in the field,
You met yon spirits brave.

Heed not her empty threats,
She has no heart to fight;
O'erburdened with her debts
She is in sorry plight.

Napoleon, if he would,

Dares not your purpose thwart;

After such waste of blood,

"Twould be a foolish part.

And that he would not do,

For his would be the cost,

Unto his folly due,

If once Napoleon lost.

Then wisely play the game,

The stake before you lies;

Onward in glory's name,
And win the noble prize.

March 9, 1860.

TO DEATH.

Oh monarch of the human throng,
Oh tyrant cruel, stern, and strong,
Who can resist thy sovereign will
When thou hast spoke the word to kill.

The infant on its mother's knee
Oft, tyrant, is a prey to thee,

Thy ruthless shaft its life doth seek,
Regardless of its mother's shriek.

The maiden in her summer bower,
With beauty crowned in richest dower,
May meet thee with a scornful lip
But thou wilt have her on the hip."

The man with ninety summers white,
Still master of his ears and sight,
Of steady hand and cloudless mind,
Thy shaft e'en him at last doth find.

Oh tyrant of the human throng,

Cease, cease thy loud triumphal song,
When the last Judgment's trumpet peals,
O'er thee shall drive Christ's chariot wheels.

March 16, 1860.

THE SCEPTIC.

An unbelieving mind

Springs from a root of sin,
And who to truth is blind,
His heart is wrong within.

What I cannot explain,

Is that a cause to doubt;
How falls the summer rain?

Whence come the cold and drought?

Whence comes the wind? and where
Does it return again?

What fibre makes the air?

Answer ye doubting men.

Body and soul unite

To make a living man;

Tell me, O cunning wight,
Upon what mode or plan.

What's life? the beating breast,
The cogitating mind,

Of life each is a part,

What is it which doth bind?

What golden thread doth run

All through the woven skeins,
And binds all into one,

Heart, muscles, nerves, and veins?

Indeed you cannot tell,

Let others say more wise;
Then say not there's no hell,

No heaven in yonder skies;

No devil and no God;

Oh man without a creed;

Unto thyself a rod,

Thine own the wounds which bleed.

Believe ere 'tis too late;

The devils do so and quake,

Or thou shalt be their mate

Upon the fiery lake!

March 24, 1860.