A friendless warfare lingering long

Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng

Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot;

The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown - yet faint thou not!

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn;

For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When those who helped thee flee in fear,

Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave!

THE CHILD'S FUNERAL.*

FAIR is thy site, Sorrento! green thy shore!
Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue

skies,

The sea, whose borders ruled the world of yore, As clear, and bluer still, before thee lies.

Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire, Out-gushing, drowned the cities on his steeps i And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire, Sits on the slope beyond, where Virgil sleeps.

Here doth the earth with flowers of every hue Heap her green breast, when April's sun is bright

Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue,
Or like the mountain frost of silvery white.

* The incident on which this poem is founded, was related to the author while in Europe, in a letter from an English lady. A child died in the south of Italy, and when they went to bury it they found it revived and playing with the flowers which, after the manner of that country, had been brought to grace its funeral.

Currents of fragrance from the orange tree,
And sward of violets, breathing to and fro,
Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea,
Refresh the idle boatman where they blow.
Yet even here, as under harsher climes,

Tears o'er the loved and early lost are shed, That soft air saddens with the funeral chimes, Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead.

Here once a child, a playful, smiling one,

All the day long caressing and caressed, Died, when his little tongue had just begun

To lisp the names of those he loved the best.

The father strove his struggling grief to quell ;
The mother wept, as mothers use to weep;
Two little sisters wearied them to tell

When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep.

Within an inner room his couch they spread,

His funeral couch; with mingled grief and love, They laid a crown of roses on his head,

And murmured, "brighter is his crown above."

They scattered round him, on his snowy sheet, Laburnum's strings of sunny-colored gems,

Sad hyacinth and violet dim and sweet,

And orange blossoms on their dark green stems.

the priest is there,
- they go,

Torches are lit, the bells are tolled,

With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer,
To lay those dear remains in earth below.

The door is opened - hark that quick glad cry – "Carlo has waked- has waked, and is at play!"

The little sisters leap and laugh, and try

To climb the couch on which the infant lay.

And there he sits, alive, and gayly shakes

In his full hands, the blossoms blue and white, And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes From a deep slumber at the morning light.

THE FOUNTAIN.

FOUNTAIN, that springest on this grassy slope, Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly, With the cool sound of breezes in the beech, Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear No stain of thy dark birthplace; gushing up From the red mould and slimy roots of earth, Thou flashest in the sun. The mountain air, In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew

That shines on mountain blossom. Thus doth

God

Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright.

This tangled thicket on the bank above

Thy basin, how thy waters keep it green!
For thou dost feed the roots of the wild vine

That trails all over it,

Ties fast her clusters.

and to the twigs

There the spice-bush lifts

Her leafy lances; the viburnum there,
Paler of foliage, to the sun holds up

Her circlet of green berries. In and out

The chipping sparrow, in her coat of brown,

Steals silently, lest I should mark her nest.