On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball: 
  Kneeling,...  “O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all?

  “Each of the heroes round us has fought for his land and line,
  But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine.

  “Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed;
  But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the
          rest!”

  Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where pined
  One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind.

  Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name,
  But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came.

  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.

  The ocean eagle soared
    From his nest by the white wave’s foam,
  And the rocking pines of the forest roared,—­
    This was their welcome home.

  There were men with hoary hair
    Amidst that pilgrim-band: 
  Why had they come to wither there,
    Away from their childhood’s land?

  There was woman’s fearless eye,
    Lit by her deep love’s truth;
  There was manhood’s brow serenely high,
    And the fiery heart of youth.