POETRY.
ENGLAND TO ITALY.
"THE colder hand," we say, "the warmer heart ! "
And here, beneath the chill November skies, Not soon nor lightly shall our fingers part, Linked by a hundred sacred memories.
Hither, long since, from many a grim bastille, From Bourbon and from Austrian dungeons, fled Thine exiled sons; our fathers saw them kneel And kiss the soil that sheltered them and fed.
Yea, and thy bonds were rent by English hands, Those errant knights, how many and how brave ! Who fought in Garibaldi's ragged bands, And to thy cause their stainless manhood gave.
Ours too the poet and his poet-wife, Whose noble music made thy soul so strong : They who from Casa Guidi watched the strife, And told its story in heroic song.
And 80 to-day, beside our Northern sea,
Where long ago thy great deliverer came, Our country bids thee welcome, Italy, Calling thee by a sister's tender name.
EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.
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