Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar.
Now in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meat doth this our Cæsar feed,
That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed!
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!
When went there by an age, since the great flood,
But it was famed with more than with one man?"
When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome,
That her wide walks encompassed but one man?
Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough,
When there is in it but one only man.

Oh, you and I have heard our fathers say,

There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked
Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome,
As easily as a king.

THE EXILE TO HIS WIFE.-JOE BRENNAN.

Come to me, darling, I'm lonely without thee;
Day-time and night-time I'm dreaming about thee;
Night-time and day-time in dreams I behold thee,
Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee.
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten;
Come in thy beauty, to bless and to brighten;
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly;
Come in thy loveliness, queenly and holy.

Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin,
Telling of Spring and its joyous renewing;
And thoughts of thy love and its manifest treasure
Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure;
O Spring of my heart! O May of my bosom!
Shine out on my soul till it burgeon and blossom.
The waste of my life has a rose-root within it,
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it.

Figure which moves like a song through the even,
Features lit up with a reflex of Heaven,
Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother,
Where sunshine and shadow are chasing each other;
Smiles coming seldom, but child-like and simple;
And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple;
Oh! thanks to the Saviour that even the seeming
Is left to the exile, to brighten his dreaming.

You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened;
Dear, are you sad to hear I am saddened?

Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love,
As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love;
I cannot smile but your cheeks will be glowing;
You cannot weep but my tears will be flowing;
You will not linger when I shall have died, love,
And I could not live without you at my side, love.

Come to me, darling, ere I die of my sorrow;
h.se on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow;

Come swift and strong as the words which I speak, love,
With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love;
Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary;
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary;

Come to the arms which alone shall caress thee;
Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee.

LET EVERY ONE SWEEP BEFORE HIS OWN
DOOR.-A PARAPHRASE.

Do we heed the homely adage, handed down from days of yore?

Ere you sweep your neighbor's dwelling, clear the rubbish from your door."

Let no filth, no rust there gather,―leave no traces of decay,— Pluck up every weed unsightly, brush the fallen leaves away!

If we faithfully have labored thus to sweep without, with in,

Plucked up envy, evil-speaking, malice, each besetting sin,Weeds that by the sacred portals of the inner temple grow,Poisonous weeds the heart defiling, bearing bitterness and woe ;

Then, perchance, we may have leisure o'er our neighbor watch to keep;

All the work assigned us finished, we before his door may sweep;

Show him where the mosses clinging, tokens ever of decay, Where the thistles, thickly springing, daily must be cleared

away.

But, alas! our work neglecting, oft we mount the judgment seat,

With his failings, his omissions, we our weary brother greet;

In some hidden nook forgotten, searching with a careful

eye,

We the springing weeds discover—some slight blemish there descry.

For his slothfulness, his blindness, we our brother harshly chide,

Glorying in our strength and wisdom, we condemn him in our pride;

Ask not why he has neglected thus before his door to sweep, Why, grown careless, he has slumbered, failed his gardenplot to keep.

On the judgment seat still sitting, we no helping hand extend

To assist our weaker brother his short-comings to amend; For his weariness, his faltering, we no sweet compassion show

From our store no cordial bring him, no encouragement be

stow.

But, while busied with our neighbor, urging him to ceaseless

care

Calling to the thoughtless idlers, to their labor to repair,
Lo! unseen the dust has gathered, weeds are growing where

of yore

Flow'rets rare and sweet were blooming when we swept before our door.

Ah! how easy o'er our brother faithful ward and watch to keep;

But, alas! before our dwelling hard indeed to daily sweep; Harder than to share the conflict, "by the stuff" at home to stay,

Easier far to sit in judgment than to humbly watch and pray.

PATRICK O'ROUKE AND THE FROGS. A COLD WATER STORY.-GEORGE W. BUNGAY.

Saint Patrick did a vast deal of good in his day; he not only drove the snakes out of Ireland, but he also drove away the frogs-at least I judge so from the fact that Patrick O' Rouke was unfamiliar with the voices of these noisy hydro

paths. Pat had been visiting at the house of a friend, and he had unfortunately imbibed more whisky than ordinary mortals can absorb with safety to their persons. On his return home the road was too narrow, and he performed wonderful feats in his endeavors to maintain the centre of gravity. Now he seemed to exert his best efforts to walk on both sides of the road at the same time; then he would fall and feel upward for the ground; then he would slowly pick himself up, and the ground would rise and hit him square in the face. By the time he reached the meadow-lands, located about half-way betwixt his home and the shanty of his friend, he was somewhat sobered by the ups and downs he had experienced on the way.

Hearing strange voices, he stopped suddenly to ascertain if possible the purport of their language. Judge his aston

ishment when he heard his own name distinctly called," Patrick O'Rouke-Patrick O'Rouke."

"Faith, that's my name, sure."

"Patrick O'Rouke-Patrick-O'Rouke-Rouke-Rouke." "What do ye want o' the likes o' me?" he inquired.

“When did you come over-come over-come over?"

'It is jest tree months ago to the minute, and a bad time we had, sure, for we wur all say-sick, and the passage lasted six long wakes."

"What will you do-do-do? What will you do—do—do?” "I have nothing. to do at all at all; but then I can do any thing: I can dig; I can tind mason; and I can hould office, if I can git it."

"You are drunk-you are drunk-drunk-drunk-drunk -drunk."

"By my sowl that's a lie."

"You are drunk-dead drunk-drunk-drunk.”

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Repate that same if ye dare and I will take me shillaly to ye."

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You are drunk-dead drunk-drunk-drunk."

"Jist come out here now and stip on the tail o' my coat, like a man," exclaimed Pat in high dudgeon, pulling off his coat and trailing it upon the ground.

"Strike him-strike him-strike-strike-strike."

“Come on wid ye, and the divil take the hindmost; I am a broth of a boy-come on."

"Knock him down-down-down."

"I will take any one in the crowd, and if Mike Mulligan was here we wud take all of yees at onct."

"Kill him-kill him-kill him."

"Och, murther! sure ye wud not be after murdering meI was not oncivil to ye. Go back to Pate Dogan's wid me ow, and I will trate ivery one of yees."

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"We don't drink rum-rum-rum."

And are ye all Father Mathew men?

"We are cold watermen-watermen."

"Take me advice now, and put a little whasky in the wather, darlings: it will kape the cowld out whin yees git wet, and so it will."

"Moderation--moderation-moderation."

'Yis, that's the talk. I wint to Pate Dogan's, down there in Brownville, and says I, ' Will ye stand trate?' Says he, 'Faith, and I will.' Says I, 'Fill up the glass;' and so he did; "Fill it agin,' said I, and so he did; and agin,' said I, and so he did. Give me the bottle,' said I. 'And I won't do that same,' said he. 'Give me the bottle,' said I, and he kipt on niver heedin' me at all at all, so I struck him wid me fist rite in his partatee thrap, and he kicked me out o' the house, and I took the hint that he didn't want me there, so I lift.” ‘Blackguard and bully--blackguard and bully."

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"Ye wouldn't dare say that to my face in broad day, sure; but ye are a set of futpads and highwaymin, hiding behind the rocks and the traas. Win I onct git to Watertown I will sind Father Fairbanks afther ye, and he will chuck ye into the pond as he did that thafe who stole the public money, and he will hould ye there until ye confess, or he will take yees to the perleese."

"Come on, boys-chase him-chase him."

"Faith and I won't run, but I will jist walk rite along, for if any of me frinds shud find me here in sich company, at this time o' night, they wud think I was thrying for to stale somethin'. Tak me advice, boys, and go home, for it's goin' for to rain, and ye will git wet to the skin if ye kape sich late hours."