I could not try the woman’s trick: 
    Between us straightway fell the blush
  Which kept me separate, blind, and sick. 
    A wind came with thee in a flush,
    As blow through Horeb’s bush.

  But now that Italy invokes
    Her young men to go forth and chase
  The foe or perish,—­nothing chokes
    My voice, or drives me from the place: 
    I look thee in the face.

  I love thee! it is understood,
    Confest:  I do not shrink or start: 
  No blushes:  all my body’s blood
    Has gone to greaten this poor heart,
    That, loving, we may part.

  Our Italy invokes the youth
    To die if need be.  Still there’s room,
  Though earth is strained with dead, in truth. 
    Since twice the lilies were in bloom
    They had not grudged a tomb.

  And many a plighted maid and wife
    And mother, who can say since then
  “My country,” cannot say through life
    “My son,” “my spouse,” “my flower of men,”
    And not weep dumb again.

  Heroic males the country bears,
    But daughters give up more than sons. 
  Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares
    You flash your souls out with the guns,
    And take your heaven at once!

  But we,—­we empty heart and home
     Of life’s life, love! we bear to think
  You’re gone,... to feel you may not come,... 
     To hear the door-latch stir and clink
     Yet no more you,... nor sink.

  Dear God! when Italy is one
     And perfected from bound to bound,... 
  Suppose (for my share) earth’s undone
     By one grave in’t! as one small wound
     May kill a man, ’tis found!

  What then?  If love’s delight must end,
     At least we’ll clear its truth from flaws. 
  I love thee, love thee, sweetest friend! 
     Now take my sweetest without pause,
     To help the nation’s cause.

  And thus of noble Italy
     We’ll both be worthy.  Let her show
  The future how we made her free,
     Not sparing life, nor Giulio,
     Nor this ... this heart-break.  Go!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

AMERICA

  O mother of a mighty race,
  Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! 
  The elder dames, thy haughty peers,
  Admire and hate thy blooming years;
      With words of shame
  And taunts of scorn they join thy name.

  For on thy cheeks the glow is spread
  That tints thy morning hills with red;
  Thy step,—­the wild deer’s rustling feet
  Within thy woods are not more fleet;
      Thy hopeful eye
  Is bright as thine own sunny sky.

  Ay, let them rail, those haughty ones,
  While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. 
  They do not know how loved thou art,
  How many a fond and fearless heart
      Would rise to throw
  Its life between thee and the foe.