Brief, however, was Foresti's enjoyment of the distinction and resource thus secured for him through the considerate efforts of his American friends. "I write to you," says his last letter to one of them, dated immediately after the reception of his commission, "with my left hand pressed on a heart overflowing with gratitude for the means thus honorably afforded to solace the last years of the old prisoner of Spielberg." Three months after, that noble heart ceased to beat; an effusion on the chest, which ultimately defied the best medical skill and the most assiduous friendly devotion, ended fatally on the morning of the 14th of September, 1858, "By his death," said one of his eulogists, "is broken one of the links that bind the New World to the Old"; and as if to evidence the sympathy of mourners in two hemispheres and attest the varied associations which embalm the example and memory of Foresti, his funeral was typical of his life, and so illustrative of his character, that we can imagine no peculiar honor wanting, grateful to the patriot, the liberal, the martyr, or the man. In that ancient city of Genoa, of old renowned for commercial glory and maritime valor, the birthplace of the discoverer of the land of his adoption, now the refuge of more who had sacrificed all for their country, and the state where that country's best prospects are centred and her highest aspirations cherished, in the home of the moral, civic, and social vanguard of modern Italy, he found a grave. The American flag was his pall; American mariners carried his bier; before it was borne the Cross. His remains were followed from the Piazza della Maddelena, through the principal streets and the Porta Romana to the Campo Santo, by the officers and crew of the United States frigate "Wabash," the captains of the American merchantmen in port, the Society of Operatives, the industrial representative of a progressive state, of which he was an honorary member, a vast multitude of emigrants from the less favored Italian provinces, and a numerous body of literary, official, and private gentlemen who enjoyed his personal friendship. * * * * * LARVAE. My little maiden of four years old (No myth, but a genuine child is she, With her bronze-brown eyes, and her curls of gold) Came, quite in disgust, one day, to me. Rubbing her shoulder with rosy palm,-- As the loathsome touch seemed yet to thrill her, She cried,--"Oh, mother, I found on my arm A horrible, crawling caterpillar!" And with mischievous smile she could scarcely smother, Yet a glance, in its daring, half-awed and shy, She added,--"While they were about it, mother, I wish they'd just finished the butterfly!" They were words to the thought of the soul that turns From the coarser form of a partial growth, Reproaching the Infinite Patience that yearns With an unknown glory to crown them both.