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The Face against the Pane.

Mabel, little Mabel,

With her face against the pane,
Looks out across the night,
And sees the beacon light
A trembling in the rain.

She hears the sea bird screech,
And the breakers on the beach
Making moan, making moan,
And the wind about the eaves
Of the cottage sobs and grieves,
And the willow tree is blown
To and fro, to and fro,

Till it seems like some old crone

Standing out there all alone with her woe,

Wringing as she stands

Her gaunt and palsied hands;

While Mabel, timid Mabel,

With her face against the pane,

Looks out across the night
And sees the beacon light
A trembling in the rain.

Set the table, maiden Mabel,
And make the cabin warm,
Your little fisher lover

Is out there in the storm;

And your father, you are weeping,

O, Mabel, timid Mabel,

Go spread the supper table,

And set the tea a steeping;

Your lover's heart is brave,
His boat is staunch and tight,
And your father knows

The perilous reef,

That makes the water white.

But Mabel, Mabel darling,

With her face against the pane,

Looks out across the night

At the beacon in the rain.

The heavens are veined with fire! And the thunder how it rolls!

In the lullings of the storm

The solemn church bell tolls
For lost souls!

But no sexton sounds the knell;
In that belfry old and high,
Unseen fingers sway the bell
As the wind goes tearing by!
How it tolls, for the souls
Of the sailors on the sea.
God pity them! God pity them!
Wherever they may be.

God pity wives and sweethearts
Who wait and wait in vain,
And pity little Mabel,

With her face against the pane!

A boom! the light house gun,
How it echoes, rolls and rolls,
'Tis to warn home bound ships
Off the shoals.

See, a rocket cleaves the sky
From the fort, a shaft of light!
See, it fades, and fading leaves
Golden furrows on the night!
What makes Mabel's cheek so pale?
What makes Mabel's lips so white?
Did she see the helpless sail
That tossing here and there
Like a feather in the air,
Went down and out of sight,

Down, down and out of sight?

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From a shoal of richest rubies
Breaks the morning clear and cold,
And the angel on the village spire,
Frost touched, is bright as gold.
Four ancient fishermen

In the pleasant autumn air,
Come toiling up the sands,
With something in their hands.
Two bodies stark and white,
Ah! so ghastly in the light,
With sea weed in their hair.
O, ancient fishermen
Go up to yonder cot!

You'll find a little child

With face against the pane,

Who looks toward the beach
And looking sees it not.
She will never watch again,
Never watch and wake at night,
For those pretty saintly eyes

Look beyond the stormy skies,
And they see the beacon light.

T. B. Aldrich

Mother and Poet.

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!

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 the west sea rhyme on in her head
Forever instead!

What's art for a woman? To hold on her knees`

Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat
Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees,

And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat;
To dream and to dote.

To teach them. It stings there: I made them, indeed,
Speak plain the word country, I taught them, no doubt,
That a country's a thing men should die for at need.

I prated of liberty, rights, and about

The tyrant turned out.

And when their eyes flashed. O, my beautiful eyes!
I exulted! Nay, let them go forth at the wheels
Of the guns, and denied not.
When one sits quite alone!

But then the surprise

then one weeps, then one kneels!

- God! how the house 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 yet 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 ere long: And "Viva Italia" he died for, our saint,

"Who forbids our complaint."

My Nanni would add he "was safe, and aware

Of a presence that turned off the balls, was imprest
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.

You think Guido forgot?

What!

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 that sorrow that reconciles so
The Above and Below.

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'st thro' the dark
To the face of thy mother! consider I pray,

How we common mothers stand desolate, mark,

Whose sons not being Christ's, die with eyes turned away,
And no last word to say!

Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all

Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. "Twere imbecile hewing out roads to a wall.

And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done
If we have not a son?

Ah! ah! ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then?.
When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport

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