And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, 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 Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven, O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark 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, Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, 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 Sweet Cork, of thee, With thy bells of Shandon, Of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming Cathedral shrine; While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate; But all their music Spoke naught like thine. I've heard bells tolling But thy sounds were sweeter Pealing solemnly. Oh! the bells of Shandon 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 More dear to me; 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.” 66 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." 66 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.'” 66 '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 |