And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor, Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn ! KILLED AT THE FORD. HE is dead, the beautiful youth, Hushed all murmurs of discontent. Only last night, as we rode along, song: "Two red roses he had on his cap, And another he bore at the point of his sword." Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was still; Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill; I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some one is lying dead; But he made no answer to what I said. We lifted him up to his saddle again, And through the mire and the mist and the rain Carried him back to the silent camp, Two white roses upon his cheeks, And I saw in a vision how far and fleet Till it reached a house in a sunny street, And the neighbors wondered that she should die. O STAR of morning and of liberty! O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines Above the darkness of the Apennines, Forerunner of the day that is to be! The voices of the city and the sea, The voices of the mountains and the pines, Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights, Through all the nations, and a sound is heard, As of a mighty wind, and men devout, Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes, In their own language hear thy wondrous word, And many are amazed and many doubt. Derrière eux un Bordelais, Riait, chantait, plein de vie, "Bons amis, J'ai soupé chez Agassiz!' Avec ce beau cadet roux, Mais le dernier de ces preux, |