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Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of

his head.

“ Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art

thou!" she cried, And smiled like Italy on him: he dreamed in her

face and died.

Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second: He was a grave, hard man, whose years by dungeons

were reckoned.

Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life

were sorer. "Art thou a Romagnole?' Her eyes drove light

nings before her.

" Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten

the cord Able to bind thee, O strong one, — free by the stroke

of a sword.

"Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life over

cast To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms

of the past."

Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like

a girl's, Young, and pathetic with dying, - a deep black hole in the curls.

"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou,

dreaming in pain, Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list

of the slain?'

Kind as a mother herself, she, touched his cheeks

with her hands: “ Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she

should weep as she stands."

On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off

by a ball: Kneeling, O more than my brother! how shall

I thank thee for all?

Each of the heroes around us has fought for his

land and line, But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong

not thine.

Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dis

possessed; But blesséd are those among nations who dare to be

strong for the rest!"

Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch

where pined One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope

out of mind.

Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at

the name,

But two great crystal tears were all that faltered

and came.

Only a tear for Venice? — she turned as in passion

and loss, And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she

were kissing the cross.

Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on then

to another, Stern and strong in his death. “ And dost thou

my brother?

suffer,

Holding his hands in hers: “ Out of the Piedmont

lion Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live

or to die on."

Holding his cold, rough hands, -"Well, 0, well

have ye done In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble

alone.”

Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet

with a spring, “That was a Piedmontese! and this is the Court

of the King."

A WOMAN'S ANSWER

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

Do you know you have asked for the costliest thing

Ever made by the Hand above
A woman's heart and a woman's life,

And a woman's most wonderful love?

Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing,

As a child might ask for a toy? Demanding what others have died to win,

With a reckless dash of a boy?

You have written my lesson of duty out,

Manlike you have questioned me
Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul

Until I question thee.

You require your mutton shall always be hot,

Your socks and your shirts shall be whole;
I require your heart to be true as God's stars,

And pure as heaven your soul.

You require a cook for your mutton and beef;

I require a far better thing:
A seamstress you ask for stockings and shirt,

I look for a man and a king.

A king for a beautiful realm called home,

And a man that the Maker, God, Shall look upon as he did the first, “ It is very good.”

And say,

I am fair and young, but the rose will fade

From my soft young cheek one day; Will you love me then 'mid the falling leaves,

As you did 'mid the bloom of May?

Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep

I may launch my all on its tide?
A loving woman finds heaven or hell

On the day she is made a bride.

I require all things that are grand and true,

All things that man should be;
If you give this all I would stake my life

To be all you demand of me.

If you cannot do this a laundress and cook

You can hire, with little to pay;
But a woman's heart and a woman's life

Are not to be won that way.

EVELYN HOPE

BY ROBERT BROWNING

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!

Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think; The shutters are shut, - no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

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