Corpses along the plain,
Did not enough of ye die

On the field where none died in vain,
Lion-hearts of young Italy!

Fields where death was victory,

Blood that gushed not in vain When the deadly rifle of France Crashed with its iron rain;

'Neath the pine-dotted slopes of Tivoli The triumph is with the slain, Lion-hearts of young Italy!

Noble error, if error,

To make their fatherland one! Through her five-and-twenty centuries Rome counts no worthier son

Than he who led them to die

Where death and triumph were one, Lion-hearts of young Italy!

For the blood of Mentana

To the blood of Thermopylae calls, And the blood of Marathon answers, Not in vain, not in vain he falls Who stakes his life on the die When the voice of freedom calls, Lion-hearts of young Italy!

Passionate instinct for truth,

Children and heroes in one,

Reason higher than reason,
Light from beyond the sun;
Did not enough of ye die

To knit your country in one,
Lion-hearts of young Italy?

Pity not them as they lie

Crowned with the fortunate dead,

Pity not them, but the foe,

For the precious drops that they shed

Sow but the seed of victory!

Pity the foe, not the dead,

Lion-hearts of young Italy!

Yours to be gallant and true,
Yours for your country to die,
Yours to be men of Mentana,
Highly esteemed 'mong the high:
Theirs to look on at your victory!
For did not enough of ye die,
Lion-hearts of young Italy?

Brief the day of November,

Long to the remnant that fought; Boys too young for the battle

Naked and hunger-distraught;

No, not too young to die,

Falling where each one fought,
Lion-hearts of young Italy!

Francis Turner Palgrave.

YES!

Messina.

MESSINA.

! pleased, on our land, from his azure way, The Sun ever smiles with unclouded ray.

But never,

fair isle, shall thy sons repose

Mid the sweets which the faithless waves enclose.
On their bosom they wafted the corsair bold
With his dreaded barks to our coast of old.
For thee was thy dower of beauty vain,

'Twas the treasure that lured the spoiler's train.
O, ne'er from these smiling vales shall rise
A sword for our vanquished liberties;
"T is not where the laughing Ceres reigns,
And the jocund lord of the flowery plains:
Where the iron lies hid in the mountain cave
Is the cradle of Empire, · the home of the brave!
Friedrich Schiller. Tr. A. Lodge.

Milan.

MILAN.

MILAN with plenty and with wealth o'erflows,

And numerous streets and cleanly dwellings shows;

The people, blessed with nature's happy force,
Are eloquent and cheerful in discourse;

A circus and a theatre invites

The unruly mob to races and to fights.
Moneta consecrated buildings grace,

And the whole town redoubled walls embrace;
Here spacious baths and palaces are seen,
And intermingled temples rise between;
Here circling colonnades the ground enclose,
And here the marble statues breathe in rows:
Profusely graced the happy town appears,
Nor Rome itself her beauteous neighbor fears.
Ausonius. Tr. Joseph Addison.

SAINT AMBROSE.

YOUR Excellency is not pleased with me

Because of certain jests I made of late, And, for my putting rogues in pillory,

Accuse me of being anti-German. Wait, And hear a thing that happened recently

When wandering here and there one day as fate Led me, by some odd accident I ran

O the old church St. Ambrose, at Milan.

one of those

My comrade of the moment was, by chance,
The young son of one Sandro,
Troublesome heads, an author of romance,
Promessi Sposi, your Excellency knows
The book perhaps?has given it a glance?
Ah, no? I see! God give your brain repose:
With graver interests occupied, your head
To all such stuff as literature is dead.

I enter, and the church is full of troops:
Of Northern soldiers, of Croatians, say,
And of Bohemians, standing there in groups
As stiff as dry poles stuck in vineyards,
As stiff as if impaled, and no one stoops
Out of the plumb of soldierly array;
All stand, with whiskers and mustache of tow,
Before their God like spindles in a row.

I started back: I cannot well deny

nay,

That being rained down, as it were, and thrust, Into that herd of human cattle, I

Could not suppress a feeling of disgust Unknown, I fancy, to your Excellency,

By reason of your office. Pardou! I must Say the church stank of heated grease, and that The very altar-candles seemed of fat.

But when the priest had risen to devote
The mystic wafer, from the band that stood
About the altar, came a sudden note

Of sweetness over my disdainful mood:
A voice that, speaking from the brazen throat
Of warlike trumpets, came like the subdued
Moan of a people bound in sore distress,
And thinking on lost hopes and happiness.

"T was Verdi's tender chorus rose aloof,

That song the Lombards, there, dying with thirst, Send up to God,-" Lord, from the native roof,"

-

O'er countless thrilling hearts the song has burst,