"Why did He take the mother from those scraps, No bigger than my fist. 'Tis hard to read; A learned man might understand, perhaps-- So little, they can neither work nor need. "Go fetch them, wife; they will be frightened sore, If with the dead alone they waken thus. That was the mother knocking at our door, And we must take the children home to us. "Brother and sister shall they be to ours, And they will learn to climb my knee at even; When He shall see these strangers in our bowers, More fish, more food, will give the God of Heaven. "I will work harder; I will drink no wine-- Go fetch them. Wherefore dost thou linger, dear? Not thus were wont to move those feet of thine." She drew the curtain, saying, "They are here!" BP. ALEXANDER LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY. MENTANA. [1] (VICTOR HUGO TO GARIBALDI.) _("Ces jeunes gens, combien étaient-ils.")_ [LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY, December, 1868.] I. Young soldiers of the noble Latin blood, How many are ye--Boys? Four thousand odd. How many are there dead? Six hundred: count! Their limbs lie strewn about the fatal mount, Blackened and torn, eyes gummed with blood, hearts rolled Out from their ribs, to give the wolves of the wold A red feast; nothing of them left but these Pierced relics, underneath the olive trees, Show where the gin was sprung--the scoundrel-trap Which brought those hero-lads their foul mishap. See how they fell in swathes--like barley-ears! Their crime? to claim Rome and her glories theirs; To fight for Right and Honor;--foolish names! Come--Mothers of the soil! Italian dames! Turn the dead over!--try your battle luck! (Bearded or smooth, to her that gave him suck The man is always child)--Stay, here's a brow Split by the Zouaves' bullets! This one, now, With the bright curly hair soaked so in blood, Was yours, ma donna!--sweet and fair and good. The spirit sat upon his fearless face Before they murdered it, in all the grace Of manhood's dawn. Sisters, here's yours! his lips, Over whose bloom the bloody death-foam slips, Lisped house-songs after you, and said your name In loving prattle once. That hand, the same Which lies so cold over the eyelids shut, Was once a small pink baby-fist, and wet With milk beads from thy yearning breasts.