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 such wail as this!—­and we sit on forlorn
      When the man-child is born.

Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the west,
   And one of them shot in the east 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!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O’ THE SUN.

     FROM “CYMBELINE,” ACT IV, SC. 2.

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
   Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
   Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: 
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o’ the great,
   Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe, and eat;
   To thee the reed is as the oak: 
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash
   Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
   Thou hast finished joy and moan: 
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

SHAKESPEARE.

HIGHLAND MARY.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
   The castle o’ Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
   Your waters never drumlie! 
There Simmer first unfald her robes
   And there she langest tarry! 
For there I took the last fareweel
   O’ my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk! 
   How rich the hawthorn’s blossom! 
As underneath their fragrant shade
   I clasped her to my bosom! 
The golden hours, on angel wings,
   Flew o’er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
   Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi’ monie a vow and locked embrace
   Our parting was fu’ tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
   We tore ourselves asunder;
But, oh! fell death’s untimely frost,
   That nipt my flower sae early! 
Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay,
   That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips
   I aft hae kissed sae fondly! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
   That dwelt on me sae kindly! 
And mould’ring now in silent dust
   That heart that lo’ed me dearly! 
But still within my bosom’s core
   Shall live my Highland Mary.