ON THE PEACE SIGNED AT VILLA FRANCA, JULY, 1859.
The game is over, the stakes are won,
By whom? could you doubt, Napoleon;
He holds the key which turns the lock,
And doth at parchment treaties mock.
For so much blood and what is the gain;
For so much blood poured out like rain,
Refreshing the soil in this time of drought,
And causing the grass and the herb to sprout.
Emmanuel gets, how long will he keep,
The Lombard plains with their flocks of sheep;
With their beautiful vineyards and fields of rice,
He has got, but must he not pay the price?
And Venice, the Adria's Queen of old,
With her gallant ships and her heaps of gold;
What has she got, of the Hapsburg breed,
Archduke to clothe and feed!
And what has Italy got? a cheat!
Compelled for Master the Pope to greet;
For so much blood is this the price,
Poured out like rain on the fields of rice.
But I pause, and in God my faith repose,
Looking with hope to the drama's close,
The plans of the wisest he can blast,
His purpose shall come, though late, at last.
July 15, 1859.
What beauty's not, rather than what,
It is I could be telling;
I can but guess, I must confess,
Like the child learning spelling.
Whence comes the charm, a pretty arm,
Or pretty foot is leaving;
A well shaped nose, a cheek which glows,
Say, is it all deceiving?
Is it a spell? I cannot tell,
But in its power to bind us,
Or will, or nil, spell is it still,
And tie our hands behind us.
The high, the low, beneath it bow,
The wise, the fool are bending;
Yes every day, beneath its sway,
And still its power's extending.
From the bright sun, its power it
As thence to earth it travelled;
Oh chains of light, as silver bright,
Its busy hand unravelled.
Fetters designed, all hearts to bind,
Beneath yon blue sky beating
And as it flew those chains it drew,
Round all whom it was meeting.
I own its sway, yes every day,
In nature dead and living,
Woman, tree, flower, proof of its power,
In my heart vanquished giving.
THE RESULT OF THE LATE WAR.
It is something to have wrested
Milan from the eagle's beak;
From the eagle double crested,
Marked with many a bloody streak.
It is not a bad beginning,
To high deeds of valour due, Milan, jewel, worth the winning, Milan, worth the wearing too.
Unto Genoa's crown attached,
Unto Victor's noble brow,
From a Tyrant's forehead snatched,
Who the jewel misses now.
Covenants made of parchment sealed,
Written o'er with ink and pen, With a pen, or quill, or steeled, Bind the consciences of men.
But than bond or covenant better,
Is the word of honest men,
They will keep it to the letter,
Though they never used a pen.
Such a bond the Lombard taketh,
From his Monarch brave and young,
In the promise which he maketh,
With a noble soldier's tongue.
Love's a heavenly seal revealing,
Whence that holy feeling came,
Hearts of men and women sealing,
With its everlasting name.
Deeply on the heart impressing,
Lines which never are effaced;
Pledge and spring of every blessing,
'Tis our privilege to taste.
'Tis the main spring of our being,
Broken, it would cease to move,
All the joys of taste and seeing,
The life pulses are of love.
|