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 suffer, my brother?"
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, O, 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."
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
* * * * *
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM
FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND.
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame:
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;--
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard, and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free.
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