some ten years ago. As with Dall' Ongaro literature had always been but an instrument for the redemption of Italy, even after his appointment to a university professorship he did not forget this prime object. In nearly all that he afterwards wrote, he kept the great aim of his life in view, and few of the events or hopes of that dreary period of suspense and abortive effort between the conclusion of peace at Villafranca and the acquisition of Venice went unsung by him. Indeed, some of his most characteristic “Stornelli” belong to this epoch. After Savoy and Nice had been betrayed to France, and while the Italians waited in angry suspicion for the next demand of their hated ally, which might be the surrender of the island of Sardinia or the sacrifice of the Genoese province, but which no one could guess in the impervious Napoleonic silence, our poet wrote: THE IMPERIAL EGG. (Milan, 1862.) Who knows what hidden devil it may be Under yon mute, grim bird that looks our way?-- Yon silent bird of evil omen,--he That, wanting peace, breathes discord and dismay. Quick, quick, and change his egg, my Italy, Before there hatch from it some bird of prey,-- Before some beak of rapine be set free, That, after the mountains, shall infest the sea; Before some ravenous eaglet shall be sent After our isles to gorge the continent. I'd rather a goose even from yon egg should come,-- If only of the breed that once saved Rome! The flight of the Grand Duke from Florence in 1859, and his conciliatory address to his late subjects after Villafranca, in which by fair promises he hoped to win them back to their allegiance; the union of Tuscany with the kingdom of Italy; the removal of the Austrian flags from Milan; Garibaldi's crusade in Sicily; the movement upon Rome in 1862; Aspromonte,--all these events, with the shifting phases of public feeling throughout that time, the alternate hopes and fears of the Italian nation, are celebrated in the later Stornelli of Dall' Ongaro. Venice has long since fallen to Italy; and Rome has become the capital of the nation. But the unification was not accomplished till Garibaldi, who had done so much for Italy, had been wounded by her king's troops in his impatient attempt to expel the French at Aspromonte. TO MY SONGS. Fly, O my songs, to Varignano, fly! Like some lost flock of swallows homeward flying, And hail me Rome's Dictator, who there doth lie Broken with wounds, but conquered not, nor dying; Bid him think on the April that is nigh, Month of the flowers and ventures fear-defying. Or if it is not nigh, it soon shall come, As shall the swallow to his last year's home, As on its naked stem the rose shall burn, As to the empty sky the stars return, As hope comes back to hearts crushed by regret;-- Nay, say not this to his heart ne'er crushed yet!