There is a city, that for slaves Has kings, and nations, winds, and waves: St. Mark is conscious of her power, His winged lion marks her tower. - Letitia Elizabeth Landon

His cheek was pale as marble, and as cold;
But his lip trembled not, and his dark eyes
Glanced proudly round. But when they bared his breast
For the death-shot, and took a portrait thence,
He clenched his hands, and gasped, and one deep sob
Of agony burst from him; and he hid
His face awhile—his mother's look was there.
He could not steel his soul when he recalled
The bitterness of her despair. It passed—
That moment of wild anguish; he knelt down;
That sunbeam shed its glory over one,
Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy;
The next fell over cold and bloody clay. . . .

By turns the woman and the queen,
And each as the other had never been.

We talk of unsophisticated nature—I should like to know where it is to be found.