The daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1878, 1866-10-10
MI$CEhLANX
.eNIothcr and Poet "

''CSAA OAANO
TEdHor magnolia.
"DEAD." One of them shot by the sea in
the East,
And ono of them shot in the West by the
sea.
Dead! both my boys, When You sit at the
feast,
And are wanting great song for Italy
Let none look at n,ct
Yet was poetess only last year,
And good at my art for woman, men
said
But 0tis woman, Htis, who is agonized here,
The East sea and the West sea rhyme on
IN her head,
Forever in stead.
What art can woman be good at? Oh,
What art is she good at but hurting her
breast
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile
at the pain?
All, boys, how you hurt You were
strong as you pressed,
And Iproud by that test.
What arts for woman? To hold on her
Both darlings; to feel all their arms
around her throat,
Cling, struggle a little. to sew by degrees,
And broider the long clothes and neat
To dream and to dote.
To teach them. 1t stings there. Imade
them, indeed,
Speak plain the word country"
taught them, no doubt,
That u countrys q thing men should die
for at need;
Iprated of liberty, rights, and about
The tvrant turned out.
And when their eyes hashed o, my beau
tiful eyes!
1 exulted! Nay, let them so forth at
the wheels
OF the guns, and denied not. But then
the surprise,
When opa sits quite alone. Then one
weeps, then one kneels!
God how the house feels!
At first, happy news came, in gay letters
mailed,
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
freel'
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! fell down at his
feet,
While they cheered in the street.
I bore it, friends soothed me, my grief
looked sublime,
NAMED
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 camc-shorter, saddcr.
more strong,
to faint.
One loved me for two-would be with me
ere long;
And Viva Italia he died for our saint,
Who forbids our complaint"
NV Nanni would add-he was safe and
aware
OF presence that turned off the balls
was imprest
1t was Guido himself, who knew what l
could bear,
And how twas impossible. quite dispos-
sessed,
To live on for the rest
On which, without pause, up the telegraph
line
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta
Slot.
Tell 1is aaotler All, ah-'his,' their
mother-not smine."
No voice says, "My mother" again to me
what!
You think Guido forgot?
Are souls straight so happy, that, dizzy
with Heaven,
They drop earths affections, conceive
not of Voc?
| think not. Themselves were too lately
forgiven,
Through the love and sorrow which re-
conciled so
The above and below.
oh! Christ of the seven wounds, who
lookest through the dark,
To the face Of thy mother, consider, /
pray,
How we common mothers stand desolate,
mark,
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with
eyes turned away,
And no last word to say.
Both boys dead! but that's ont Of nature
We all
Have been patriots, yet each house must
always keep one:
'Twerc imbeclle, hewing out roads to a
wall,
And. when Italy's made, for end it is
done,
If zee hare not u son.
All, all, ah when Gaeta's taken, what then?
When the fair, wicked Queen sits no more
at her sport
OF the fre-balls of death, crushing souls
out of men,
When four guns of Carvalli, with fatal
rctOrt,
Have cut the same short