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.

But the wild ocean rolled before her home;

And, listening long unto its fearful moan,

She thought of myriads who had found their rest

Down in its caverns, silent, deep, and lone.

Then rose the prayer within her heart of hearts,

With the dark phantoms of a coming grief,

That "Nino, Ossoli, and I may go

Together;—that the anguish may be brief."

The bark spread out her pennons proud and free,

The sunbeams frolicked with the wanton waves;

Smiled through the long, long days the summer sea,

And sung sweet requiems o'er her sunken graves.

E'en then the shadow of the fearful King

Hung deep and darkening o'er the fated bark;

Suffering and death and anguish reigned, ere came

Hope's weary dove back to the longing ark.

This was the morning to the night of woe;

When the grim Ocean, in his fiercest wrath,

Held fearful contest with the god of storms,

Who lashed the waves with death upon his path.

O night of agony! O awful morn,

That oped on such a scene thy sullen eyes!

The shattered ship,—those wrecked and broken hearts,

Who only prayed, "Together let us die."

Was this thy greeting longed for, Margaret,

In the high, noontide of thy lofty pride?

The welcome sighed for, in thine hours of grief,

When pride had fled and hope in thee had died?

Twelve hours' communion with the Terror-King!

No wandering hope to give the heart relief!

And yet thy prayer was heard,—the cold waves wrapt

Those forms "together," and the woe was "brief."

Thus closed thy day in darkness and in tears;

Thus waned a life, alas! too full of pain;

But O thou noble woman! thy brief life,

Though full of sorrows, was not lived in vain.

No more a pilgrim o'er a weary waste,

With light ineffable thy mind is crowned;

Heaven's richest lore is thine own heritage;

All height is gained, thy "kingdom" now is found.

We hailed thee, Margaret, from the sea,

We hailed thee o'er the wave,

And little thought, in greeting thee,

Thy home would be a grave.

We blest thee in thy laurel crown,

And in the myrtle's sheen,—

Rejoiced thy noble worth to own,

Still joy, our tears between.

We hoped that many a happy year

Would bless thy coming feet;

And thy bright fame grow brighter here,

By Fatherland made sweet.

Gone, gone! with all thy glorious thought,—

Gone with thy waking life,—

With the green chaplet Fame had wrought,—

The joy of Mother, Wife.

Oh! who shall dare thy harp to take,

And pour upon the air

The clear, calm music, that should wake

The heart to love and prayer!

The lip, all eloquent, is stilled

And silent with its trust,—

The heart, with Woman's greatness filled,

Must crumble to the dust:

But from thy great heart we will take

New courage for the strife;

From petty ills our bondage break,

And labor with new life.

Wake up, in darkness though it be,

To better truth and light;

Patient in toil, as we saw thee,

In searching for the light;

And mindless of the scorn it brings,

For 't is in desert land

That angels come with sheltering wings

To lead us by the hand.

Courageous one! thou art not lost,

Though sleeping in the wave;

Upon its chainless billows tost,

For thee is fitting grave.

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! though to this sleep

The cold winds rocked thee, on the ocean's breast,

And strange, wild murmurs o'er the dark, blue deep

Were the last sounds that lulled thee to thy rest,

And while the moaning waves above thee rolled,

The hearts that loved thee best grew still and cold.

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! though the loved tone

That twice twelve months had hushed thee to repose

Could give no answer to the tearful moan

That faintly from thy sea-moss pillow rose.

That night the arms that closely folded thee

Were the wet weeds that floated in the sea.

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! the cold, blue wave

Hath pitied the sad sighs the wild winds bore,

And from the wreck it held one treasure gave

To the fond watchers weeping on the shore;—

Now the sweet vale shall guard its precious trust,

While mourning hearts weep o'er thy silent dust.

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! love's tears are shed

Upon the garlands of fair Northern flowers

That fond hearts strew above thy lowly bed,

Through all our summer's glad and pleasant hours:

For thy sake, and for hers who sleeps beneath the wave,

Kind hands bring flowers to fade upon thy grave.

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! the warm wind sighs

Amid the dark pines through this quiet dell,

And waves the light flower-shade that lies

Upon the white-leaved lily's sculptured bell;—

The "Valley's" flowers are fair, the turf is green;—

Sleep sweetly here, wept-for Eugene!

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! this peaceful rest

Hath early given thee to a home above,

Safe from all sin and tears, for, ever blest

To sing sweet praises of redeeming love.—

The love that took thee to that world of bliss

Ere thou hadst learned the sighs and griefs of this.

High hopes and bright thine early path bedecked,

And aspirations beautiful though wild,—

A heart too strong, a powerful will unchecked,

A dream that earth-things could be undefiled.

But soon, around thee, grew a golden chain,

That bound the woman to more human things,

And taught with joy—and, it may be, with pain—

That there are limits e'en to Spirit's wings.

Husband and child,—the loving and beloved,—

Won, from the vast of thought, a mortal part,

The impassioned wife and mother, yielding, proved

Mind has itself a master—in the heart.

In distant lands enhaloed by, old fame

Thou found'st the only chain thy spirit knew,

But captive ledst thy captors, from the shame

Of ancient freedom, to the pride of new.

And loved hearts clung around thee on the deck,

Welling with sunny hopes 'neath sunny skies:

The wide horizon round thee had no speck,—

E'en Doubt herself could see no cloud arise.

Thy loved ones clung around thee, when the sail

O'er wide Atlantic billows onward bore

Thy freight of joys, and the expanding gale

Pressed the glad bark toward thy native shore.

The loved ones clung around thee still, when all

Was darkness, tempest, terror, and dismay,—

More closely clung around thee, when the pall

Of Fate was falling o'er the mortal clay.

With them to live,—with them, with them to die,

Sublime of human love intense and fine!—

Was thy last prayer unto the Deity;

And it was granted thee by Love Divine.

In the same billow,—in the same dark grave,—

Mother, and child, and husband, find their rest.

The dream is ended; and the solemn wave

Gives back the gifted to her country's breast.

Over his millions Death has lawful power,

But over thee, brave Ossoli! none, none!

After a long struggle, in a fight

Worthy of Italy to youth restored,

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 woman's courage in a virtuous breast.

She would not leave behind her those she loved:

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 assailed the walls

Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,

Renowned 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.