At Home And Abroad Part 41

BY C.P. CRANCH.

O still, sweet summer days! O moonlight nights!

After so drear a storm how can ye s.h.i.+ne?

O smiling world of many-hued delights, How canst thou 'round our sad hearts still entwine The accustomed wreaths of pleasure? How, O Day, Wakest thou so full of beauty? Twilight deep, How diest thou so tranquilly away?

And how, O Night, bring'st thou the sphere of sleep?

For she is gone from us,--gone, lost for ever,-- In the wild billows swallowed up and lost,-- Gone, full of love, life, hope, and high endeavor, Just when we would have welcomed her the most.

Was it for this, O woman, true and pure!

That life through shade and light had formed thy mind To feel, imagine, reason, and endure,-- To soar for truth, to labor for mankind?

Was it for this sad end thou didst bear thy part In deeds and words for struggling Italy,-- Devoting thy large mind and larger heart That Rome in later days might yet be free?

And, from that home driven out by tyranny, Didst turn to see thy fatherland once more, Bearing affection's dearest ties with thee; And as the vessel bore thee to our sh.o.r.e, And hope rose to fulfilment,--on the deck, When friends seemed almost beckoning unto thee: O G.o.d! the fearful storm,--the splitting wreck,-- The drowning billows of the dreary sea!

O, many a heart was stricken dumb with grief!

We who had known thee here,--had met thee there Where Rome threw golden light on every leaf Life's volume turned in that enchanted air,-- O friend! how we recall the Italian days Amid the Caesar's ruined palace halls,-- The Coliseum, and the frescoed blaze Of proud St. Peter's dome,--the Sistine walls,-- The lone Campagna and the village green,-- The Vatican,--the music and dim light Of gorgeous temples,--statues, pictures, seen With thee: those sunny days return so bright, Now thou art gone! Thou hast a fairer world Than that bright clime. The dreams that filled thee here Now find divine completion, and, unfurled Thy spirit-wings, find out their own high sphere.

Farewell! thought-gifted, n.o.ble-hearted one!

We, who have known thee, know thou art not lost; The star that set in storms still s.h.i.+nes upon The o'ershadowing cloud, and, when we sorrow most, In the blue s.p.a.ces of G.o.d's firmament Beams out with purer light than we have known.

Above the tempest and the wild lament Of those who weep the radiance that is flown.

THE DEATH OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI.

BY MARY C. AMES.

O Italy! amid thy scenes of blood, She acted long a woman's n.o.ble part!

Soothing the dying of thy sons, proud Rome!

Till thou wert bowed, O city of her heart!

When thou hadst fallen, joy no longer flowed In the rich sunlight of thy heaven; And from thy glorious domes and shrines of art, No quickening impulse to her life was given.

From the deep shadow of thy cypress hills, From the soft beauty of thy cla.s.sic plains, The n.o.ble-hearted, with, her treasures, turned To the far land where Freedom proudly reigns.

After the rocking of long years of storms, Her weary spirit looked and longed for rest; Pictures of home, of loved and kindred forms, Rose warm and life-like in her aching breast.

But the wild ocean rolled before her home; And, listening long unto its fearful moan, She thought of myriads who had found their rest Down in its caverns, silent, deep, and lone.

Then rose the prayer within her heart of hearts, With the dark phantoms of a coming grief, That "_Nino_, Ossoli, and I may go _Together_;--that the anguish may be brief."

The bark spread out her pennons proud and free, The sunbeams frolicked with the wanton waves; Smiled through the long, long days the summer sea, And sung sweet requiems o'er her sunken graves.

E'en then the shadow of the fearful King Hung deep and darkening o'er the fated bark; Suffering and death and anguish reigned, ere came Hope's weary dove back to the longing ark.

This was the morning to the night of woe; When the grim Ocean, in his fiercest wrath, Held fearful contest with the G.o.d of storms, Who lashed the waves with death upon his path.

O night of agony! O awful morn, That oped on such a scene thy sullen eyes!

The shattered s.h.i.+p,--those wrecked and broken hearts, Who only prayed, "_Together let us die_."

Was this thy greeting longed for, Margaret, In the high, noontide of thy lofty pride?

The welcome sighed for, in thine hours of grief, When pride had fled and hope in thee had died?

Twelve hours' communion with the Terror-King!

No wandering hope to give the heart relief!

And yet thy prayer was heard,--the cold waves wrapt Those forms "together," and the woe was "brief."

Thus closed thy day in darkness and in tears; Thus waned a life, alas! too full of pain; But O thou n.o.ble woman! thy brief life, Though full of sorrows, was not lived in vain.

No more a pilgrim o'er a weary waste, With light ineffable thy mind is crowned; Heaven's richest lore is thine own heritage; All height is gained, thy "kingdom" now is found.

TO THE MEMORY OF MARGARET FULLER.

BY E. OAKES SMITH.

We hailed thee, Margaret, from the sea, We hailed thee o'er the wave, And little thought, in greeting thee, Thy home would be a grave.

We blest thee in thy laurel crown, And in the myrtle's sheen,-- Rejoiced thy n.o.ble worth to own, Still joy, our tears between.

We hoped that many a happy year Would bless thy coming feet; And thy bright fame grow brighter here, By Fatherland made sweet.

Gone, gone! with all thy glorious thought,-- Gone with thy waking life,-- With the green chaplet Fame had wrought,-- The joy of Mother, Wife.

Oh! who shall dare thy harp to take, And pour upon the air The clear, calm music, that should wake The heart to love and prayer!

The lip, all eloquent, is stilled And silent with its trust,-- The heart, with Woman's greatness filled, Must crumble to the dust:

But from thy _great heart_ we will take New courage for the strife; From petty ills our bondage break, And labor with new life.

Wake up, in darkness though it be, To better truth and light; Patient in toil, as we saw thee, In searching for the light;

And mindless of the scorn it brings, For 't is in desert land That angels come with sheltering wings To lead us by the hand.

Courageous one! thou art not lost, Though sleeping in the wave; Upon its chainless billows tost, For thee is fitting grave.

SLEEP SWEETLY, GENTLE CHILD.[A]

[The only child of the Marchioness Ossoli, well known as Margaret Fuller, is buried in the Valley Cemetery, at Manchester, N.H. There is always a vase of flowers placed near the grave, and a marble slab, with a cross and lily sculptured upon it, bears this inscription: "In Memory of Angelo Eugene Philip Ossoli, who was born at Rieti, in Italy, 5th September, 1848, and perished by s.h.i.+pwreck off Fire Island, with both his parents, Giovanni Angelo and Margaret Fuller Ossoli, on the 19th of July, 1850."]

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! though to this sleep The cold winds rocked thee, on the ocean's breast, And strange, wild murmurs o'er the dark, blue deep Were the last sounds that lulled thee to thy rest, And while the moaning waves above thee rolled, The hearts that loved thee best grew still and cold.