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The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!
'Twixt us and thee;

The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
That we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,
But present still,

And waiting for the coming hour
Of God's sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead,
Our Saviour dear!

We lay in silence at thy feet

This sad, sad year.

Harriet Beecher Stowe [1811-1896]

THE WIDOW'S MITE

A WIDOW-she had only one!

A puny and decrepit son;

But, day and night,

Though fretful oft, and weak and small,
A loving child, he was her all-

The Widow's Mite.

The Widow's Mite! ay, so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained,
Though friends were fewer:
And while she toiled for daily fare,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.

I saw her then,-and now I see

That, though resigned and cheerful, she
Has sorrowed much:

She has, He gave it tenderly,

Much faith; and, carefully laid by,

A little crutch.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

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shed . . . O my beautiful eyes! .

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te alone! Then one weeps, then one

ise feels!

At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled

With my kisses,-of camp-life and glory, and how
They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled,
In return would fan off every fly from my brow
With their green laurel-bough.

Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free!”
And some one came out of the cheers in the street,
With a face pale as stone, to say something to me.
My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet,
While they cheered in the street.

I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained

To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained
To the height he had gained.

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong,
Writ now but in one hand, "I was not to faint,-
One loved me for two . . . would be with me erelong:
And Viva l'Italia !-he died for, our saint,

Who forbids our complaint."

was impressed

My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and aware
Of a presence that turned off the balls.
It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,
And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed,

To live on for the rest."

On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line

Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta:-Shot. Tell his mother. Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother;-not "mine,"

No voice says "My mother" again to me. What!
You think Guido forgot?

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven,
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe?
I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven
Through THAT Love and Sorrow which reconciled so
The Above and Below.

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htry from mountain to sea,
Italy's crown on his head,
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ck me. Ah, ring your bells low,
faintly! My country is there,
by the last peak of snow:
th my brave civic Pair,
bair!

hen bear children in strength,
of their pain in self-scorn;
nations will wring us at length
s-and we sit on forlorn
ld is born.

hot by the sea in the east,
bt in the west by the sea.
If in keeping the feast
ong for your Italy free,

me!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

A MOTHER IN EGYPT

"About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt: and all the first-born in the land of Egypt shall die, from the first-born of Pharaoh that sitteth upon his throne, even unto the first-born of the maid-servant that is behind the mill.”

Is the noise of grief in the palace over the river

For this silent one at my side?

There came a hush in the night, and he rose with his hands a-quiver

Like lotus petals adrift on the swing of the tide.

O small cold hands, the day groweth old for sleeping!

O small still feet, rise up, for the hour is late!

Rise up, my son, for I hear them mourning and weeping In the temple down by the gate!

Hushed is the face that was wont to brighten with laughter When I sang at the mill;

And silence unbroken shall greet the sorrowful dawns hereafter,

The house shall be still.

Voice after voice takes up the burden of wailing

Do you heed, do you hear?-in the high priest's house by the wall.

But mine is the grief, and their sorrow is all unavailing.
Will he wake at their call?

Something I saw of the broad dim wings half folding
The passionless brow.

Something I saw of the sword that the shadowy hands were holding,

What matters it now?

I held you close, dear face, as I knelt and harkened

To the wind that cried last night like a soul in sin,

When the broad bright stars dropped down and the soft sky darkened

And the presence moved therein.

I have heard men speak in the market-place of the city,
Low-voiced, in a breath,

Of a God who is stronger than ours, and who knows not

changing nor pity,

Whose anger is death.

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