man and heartless woman!
Beneath you swells a threatening flood;
If you and yours remain inhuman,
It yet may drown you in your blood.

You smile, and call this sentimental;
You will not smile in later times!
For cruelty, so fundamental,
Already breeds the worst of crimes.

THE IRON CROWN

On the classic shore of Como,
'Neath a headland steep and bold,
Which, though leaden at the dawning,
In the sunset turns to gold,
Nestles beautiful Varenna,
Still invested with renown
By the legend that connects it
With the Lombards' Iron Crown.

Far above it on the mountain
Stands the castle, old and gray,
With its battlements in ruin
And its towers in decay;
But a subtle charm still lingers
Round that residence sublime,
And the beauty of its story
Is triumphant over time.

As we trace its ancient pavement,
As we tread its roofless halls,
How alluring is the figure
Which this castle still recalls!
For 'tis Queen Theodelinda
Whom its ruined arches frame,
And the passing breeze seems laden
With the music of her name.

As we gaze from ivied ramparts
On the storied lake below,
We forget the world about us
For the world of long ago,
When the Lombards had descended
From the mountains to the plain,
And all Italy lay mourning
For the thousands of her slain;

When their brave, ambitious leader,
Not content to make his home
By these northern lakes of beauty,
Had resolved to capture Rome!
For no longer could her legions
His resistless course withstand,
And the road lay open, southward,
To the conquest of the land.

When his valiant host stood ready
And impatient for the start,
What reversed their king's decision?
What so changed the warlord's heart?
'Twas the passionate entreaty
Of his wife,--a Christian queen;
'Twas the conquest of the pagan
By the lowly Nazarene.

Through her prayers Rome's aged Pontiff
From the threatened doom was freed;
By her aid the Church was strengthened
As the king professed its creed;
And Saint Peter's great successor,
Thus preserved from grievous loss,
Gave to her, his faithful daughter,
A true relic of the Cross.

What to pious Theodelinda
Could be recompense more sweet
Than the nail, forever sacred,
That once pierced her Saviour's feet?
Which, when rounded to a circlet,
(To fine wire beaten down,)
Then became the precious basis
Of the Lombards' Iron Crown.

Through the ages that have followed
What a line of the Renowned
Have been proud to wear this emblem,
As t