Part 29 (1/2)

But he's gone across the sea!

Who so good and kind to me?

He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

To the churchyard, near the bay, Went the mother in her grief, For her soul was moved to pray For relief; And deep sobs convulsed her breast, As she knelt upon the sod, Where her husband lay at rest, Safe in G.o.d.

For the boy was o'er the sea, Whom she rocked upon her knee; He had gone to Tripoli, Tripoli!

She was buried yesterday With her husband, side by side; Ere two months had pa.s.sed away She had died!

For one morning she had read Of her son among the slain, And they saw her old gray head Sink in pain.

Nevermore across the sea Will he come to Italy!

He was killed in Tripoli, Tripoli!

There was nothing more to tell Of a lad so little known; He was reckoned ”one who fell,”

That alone.

Was he wounded? Did he lie Long ill-treated by the foe?

And not know!

Yes, he lies beyond the sea!

(Can it be that _that_ is he?) In the sands of Tripoli, Tripoli!

She had asked for nothing more, But in silence slowly failed, Dreaming ever of the sh.o.r.e, Whence he sailed.

Till her face, so wan and white, Flushed at last with sweet surprise, And a strangely tender light Filled her eyes.

Then for her was ”no more sea”!

She had found the soul set free From the sands of Tripoli, Tripoli!

INFLUENCE

We know not what mysterious power Lies latent in our words and deeds,-- Sweet as the perfume of a flower, Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds; But something certainly survives The pa.s.sing of our fleeting lives.

A look, a pressure of the hand, A sign of hope, a song of cheer, May journey over sea and land, Outliving many a sterile year, To find at last the destined hour When they shall leap to bud and flower.

We write, we print, then--nevermore To be recalled--our thoughts take flight, Like white-winged birds that leave the sh.o.r.e, And scattering, lose themselves in light; For good or ill those words may be The arbiters of destiny.

Perchance some fervid plea may find A heart to rise to its appeal; Some statement rouse a dormant mind, Or stir a spirit, quick to feel; Nay, through some note of gentler tone Even love may recognize its own.

Fain would I deem not wholly dead The spoken words of former years, And every printed page, when read, A source of smiles, instead of tears; That friends, whom I shall never see, May, for a time, remember me.

LEO

I made a journey o'er the sea, I bade my faithful dog good-bye, I knew that he would grieve for me, But did not dream that he would die!

And how could I explain That I would come again?