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POEMS.
    Mid the steeps    Where he sleeps,Dreaming of the elder years,Startled Thrasymenus hears.
Sweeping Arno, swelling Po, Murmur freedom to their meads.Tiber swift and Liris slow Send strange whispers from their reeds.    Italy    Shall be free,Sing the glittering brooks that slide,Toward the sea, from Etna's side.
Long ago was Gracchus slain; Brutus perished long ago;Yet the living roots remain Whence the shoots of greatness grow.    Yet again,    God-like men,
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