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 that turned off the balls,-was impressed 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. "Twere 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 Cavilli, 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 a country from mountain to sea,

And King Victor has Italy's crown on his head,

(And I have my dead)

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.

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!

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.-FRANCIS MAHONY.

With deep affection

And recollection

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would,

In the days of childhood,

Fling round my cradle

Their magic spells.

On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee,

With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand, on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine;

While at a glib rate

Brass tongues would vibrate;

But all their music

Spoke naught like thine.
For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of the belfry, knelling
Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand, on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling
From the Vatican;
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets
Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly.

Oh! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand, on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow;

While on tower and kiosk O

In Saint Sophia

The Turkman gets,

And loud in air

Calls men to prayer,

From the tapering summits

Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there's an anthem

More dear to me;
"Tis the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand, on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE.-CHARLES DICKENS.

"I've done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment; "I've been a writin'."

"So I see," replied Mr. Weller. "Not to any young 'ooman, I hope, Sammy."

"Why, it's no use a sayin' it ain't," replied Sam. walentine."

"It's a

"A what?" exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horrorstricken by the word.

"A walentine," replied Sam.

"Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, "I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your father's wicious propensities; arter all I've said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought was a moral lesson as no man could ever ha' forgotten to his dyin'. day! I didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd ha done it." These reflections were too much for the good old man; he raised Sam's tumbler to his lips and drank off the contents. "Wot's the matter now?" said Sam.

"Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, "it'll be a wery agonizin' trial to me at my time o' life, but I'm pretty tough, that's vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked ven the farmer said he vos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market.”

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Wot'll be a trial?" inquired Sam.

"To see you married, Sammy; to see you a deluded wictim and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery capital," replied Mr. Weller. "It's a dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy."

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Nonsense," said Sam, "I ain't a goin' to get married, don't you fret yourself about that. I know you're a judge o' these things; order in your pipe, and I'll read you the letter, -there!"

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and began with a very theatrical air

"Lovely

"Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. "A double glass o' the inwariable, my dear.”

"Very well, sir,” replied the girl, who with great quickness appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared.

"They seem to know your ways here," observed Sam.

Yes," replied his father, "I've been here before, in my time. Go on, Sammy."

'Lovely creetur'," repeated Sam.

""Taint in poetry, is it?" interposed the father.

"No, no," replied Sam.

"Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. "Poetry's unnatʼral. No man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's blackin' or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows. Never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy."

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced and read as follows:

"Lovely creetur' i feel myself a damned” ”—

"That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.

"No: it ain't damned," observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light, "it's 'shamed,' there's a blot there; 'i feel myself ashamed.'”

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'Wery good," said Mr. Weller. "Go on."

"Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir-?' I forget wot this 'ere word is," said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember.

"Why don't you look at it, then?" inquired Mr. Weller. "So I am a lookin' at it," replied Sam," but there's another biot: here's a 'c,' and a 'i', and a 'd.'"

"Circumwented, p'rhaps," suggested Mr. Weller.

"No, it ain't that," said Sam: "circumscribed,' that's it." "That ain't as good a word as circumwented, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, gravely.

"Think not?" said Sam.

"Nothin' like it," replied his father.

“But don't you think it means more?" inquired Sam. "Vell, p'rhaps it's a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller,

after a few moments' reflection. "Go on, Sammy."

"Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in