On The Death Of M. DOssoli And His Wife Margaret Fuller

Over his millions Death has lawful power,
But over thee, brave DOssoli! none, none.
After a longer struggle, in a fight
Worthy of Italy, to youth restord,
Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge
Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach
Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all
Precious on earth to thee... a child, a wife!
Proud as thou wert of her, America
Is prouder, showing to her sons how high
Swells womans courage in a virtuous breast.
She would not leave behind her those she lovd:
Such solitary safety might become
Others; not her; not her who stood beside
The pallet of the wounded, when the worst
Of France and Perfidy assaild the walls
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,
Renownd for strength of genius, Margaret!
Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few,
And shortly none will hear my failing voice,
But the same language with more full appeal
Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song
Whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains
Worthy to sing of thee: the hour is come;
Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.

Walter Savage Landor

Walter Savage Landor was an English writer, poet, and dramatist. He is best known for his prose work, the 'Imaginary Conversations,' but also wrote numerous poems and plays. Landor had a tempestuous character and often found himself in conflict with authorities and contemporaries. Despite his combative nature, he was highly regarded by other literary figures such as Charles Dickens and Robert Browning. His works reflect his classical education and strong individualism.

Walter Savage Landor

On Lucretia Borgias Hair

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

Ianthes Troubles

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

Pleasure! why thus desert the heart

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

To Age

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

English

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Farewell To Italy

I Leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more
From the high terraces, at even-tide,
To look supine into thy depths of sky,
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses            
Bordering the channel of the milky way.
Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico
Murmur to me but in the poets song.
I did believe (what have I not believd?),            
Weary with age, but unoppressd by pain,
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day
And rest my bones in the mimosas shade.
Hope! Hope! few ever cherishd thee so little;
Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raisd;            
But thou didst promise this, and all was well.
For we are fond of thinking where to lie
When every pulse hath ceasd, when th...

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Death Of Sir John.

What news to all alike brings startling sorrow?
And he is dead, the vigorous chieftain dead?
Nor e'en for him would death still brook to-morrow?
No more shall followers vaunt and foemen dread;
No more by him the hot debate be led;
No more the lively tale, the clever jest
Of him the State's most skilful, ablest head,
Albeit not her sternest, not her best,
But such is over now, then let his ashes rest.

When all was anarchy, he seized the reins,
And broke and trained the fiery coursers young,
And from so many wide and fair domains
One great Dominion 'neath his guidance sprung,
Which he made glorious, till the nations rung
With our renown and his immortal name.
But now his day was o'er; his work was done.
'Twas well. - He lived to hear his land's acclaim,

W. M. MacKeracher

Mother And Poet

I.
Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east,
And one of them shot in the west by the sea.
Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast
And are wanting a great song for Italy free,
Let none look at me!

II.
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman, men said;
But this woman, this, who is agonized here,
The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
For ever instead.

III.
What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain!
What art is she good at, but hurting her breast
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?
Ah boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed,
And I proud, by that test.

IV.
What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees
Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her thr...

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

To Laura In Death. Sonnet I.

Oimè il bel viso! oimè il soave sguardo!

ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA.


    Woe for the 'witching look of that fair face!
The port where ease with dignity combined!
Woe for those accents, that each savage mind
To softness tuned, to noblest thoughts the base!
And the sweet smile, from whence the dart I trace,
Which now leaves death my only hope behind!
Exalted soul, most fit on thrones to 've shined,
But that too late she came this earth to grace!
For you I still must burn, and breathe in you;
For I was ever yours; of you bereft,
Full little now I reck all other care.
With hope and with desire you thrill'd me through,
When last my only joy on earth I left:--
But caught by winds each word was lost in air.

ANON., OX., 17...

Francesco Petrarca

Epitaphs Ii. Perhaps Some Needful Service Of The State

Perhaps some needful service of the State
Drew TITUS from the depth of studious bowers,
And doomed him to contend in faithless courts,
Where gold determines between right and wrong.
Yet did at length his loyalty of heart,
And his pure native genius, lead him back
To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses,
Whom he had early loved. And not in vain
Such course he held! Bologna's learned schools
Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and hung
With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains.
There pleasure crowned his days; and all his thoughts
A roseate fragrance breathed. O human life,
That never art secure from dolorous change!
Behold a high injunction suddenly
To Arno's side hath brought him, and he charmed
A Tuscan audience: but full soon was called
To the p...

William Wordsworth

Vittoria Colonna.

VITTORIA COLONNA, on the death of her hushand, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarime), and there wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of Divine.

Once more, once more, Inarime,
    I see thy purple hills!--once more
I hear the billows of the bay
    Wash the white pebbles on thy shore.

High o'er the sea-surge and the sands,
    Like a great galleon wrecked and cast
Ashore by storms, thy castle stands,
    A mouldering landmark of the Past.

Upon its terrace-walk I see
    A phantom gliding to and fro;
It is Colonna,--it is she
    Who lived and loved so long ago.

Pescara's beautiful young wife,
    The type of perfect womanhood,
Whose life was love, the life of life,
    That time and change...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

On The Death Of M. DOssoli And His Wife Margaret Fuller

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On The Death Of M. DOssoli And His Wife Margaret Fuller