What art can woman be good at? Oh, vain! What art _is_ she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And _I_ proud by that test. 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, oh, my beautiful eyes! I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise, When one sits quite alone! 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 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. { Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the West by the sea: p2.jpg} 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. What! You think Guido forgot? Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affection, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that Love and Sorrow which reconciled so The Above and Below.