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 shore,
  And hope rose to fulfilment,—­on the deck,
  When friends seemed almost beckoning unto thee: 
  O God! 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, noble-hearted one! 
  We, who have known thee, know thou art not lost;
  The star that set in storms still shines upon
  The o’ershadowing cloud, and, when we sorrow most,
  In the blue spaces of God’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 noble 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 classic plains,
  The noble-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.