They sue for peace,-I bid you spurn
The gilded bait they bear!

I bid you still, with aspect stern,
War, ceaseless war, declare!

Fools that they were, could not mine eye,
Through their dissembled calmness, spy
The struggles of despair?

Else had they sent this wasted frame,
To bribe you to your country's shame?
Your land-I must not call it mine;
No country has the slave;
His father's name he must resign,
And even his father's grave;
But this not now-beneath her lies
Proud Carthage and her destinies :
Her empire o'er the wave

Is yours; she knows it well-and you
Shall know, and make her feel it, too!
Ay, bend your brows, ye ministers
Of coward hearts, on me!
Ye know no longer it is hers,
The empire of the sea;-
Ye know her fleets are far and few,
Her bands, a mercenary crew;

And Rome, the bold and free,

Shall trample on her prostrate towers,
Despite your weak and wasted powers.

One path alone remains for me;—
My vows were heard on high.
Thy triumphs, Rome, I shall not see,
For I return to die.

Then tell not me of hope or life;

I have in Rome no chaste, fond wife;
No smiling progeny.

One word concenters for the slave-
Wife, children, country, all-

-THE GRAVE!

REGULUS TO THE CARTHAGINIANS.--E. KELLOGG.

Regulus was a Roman general, who, in the first Punic war, was taken pris oner by the Carthaginians, and after a captivity of several years, was sent by 'hem to Rome, with an embassy to solicit peace, or, at least, an exchange of prisoners. But Regulus earnestly dissuaded his countrymen from both, and, resisting all the persuasions of his friends to remain in Rome, he returned to Carthage, where he is said to have been put to death, with the most cruel tortures. The beams of the rising sun had gilded the lofty domes of Carthage, and given, with its rich and mellow light, a

tinge of beauty even to the frowning ramparts of the outer harbor. Sheltered by the verdant shores, an hundred triremes were riding proudly at their anchors, their brazen beaks glittering in the sun, their streamers dancing in the morning breeze, while many a shattered plank and timber gave evidence of desperate conflict with the fleets of Rome. No murmur of business or of revelry arose from the city. The artisan had forsaken his shop, the judge his tribunal, the priest the sanctuary, and even the stern stoic had come forth from his retirement to mingle with the crowd that, anxious and agitated, were rushing toward the senatehouse, startled by the report that Regulus had returned to Carthage.

Onward, still onward, trampling each other under foot, they rushed, furious with anger and eager for revenge. Fathers were there, whose sons were groaning in fetters; maidens, whose lovers, weak and wounded, were dying in the dungeons of Rome, and gray-haired men and matrons, whom the Roman sword had left childless.

But when the stern features of Regulus were seen, and his colossal form towering above the ambassadors who had returned with him from Rome; when the news passed from lip to lip that the dreaded warrior, so far from advising the Roman senate to consent to an exchange of prisoners, had urged them to pursue, with exterminating vengeance, Carthage and Carthaginians,-the multitude swayed to and fro like a forest beneath a tempest, and the rage and hate of that tumultuous throng vented itself in groans, and curses, and yells of vengeance. But calm, cold, and immovable as the marble walls around him, stood the Roman; and he stretched out his hand over that frenzied crowd, with gesture as proudly commanding as though he still stood at the head of the gleaming cohorts of Rome.

The tumult ceased; the curse, half muttered, died upon the lip; and so intense was the silence, that the clanking of the brazen manacles upon the wrists of the captive fell sharp and full upon every ear in that vast assembly, as he thus addressed them :

"Ye doubtless thought-for ye judge of Roman virtue by your own—that I would break my plighted oath, rather than,

returning, brook your vengeance. I might give reasons for this, in Punic comprehension, most foolish act of mine. J might speak of those eternal principles which make death for one's country a pleasure, not a pain. But, by great Jupiter! methinks I should debase myself to talk of such high things to you; to you, expert in womanly inventions; to you. well-skilled to drive a treacherous trade with simple Africans for ivory and gold! If the bright blood that fills my veins, transmitted free from godlike ancestry, were like that slimy ooze which stagnates in your arteries, I had remained at home, and broke my plighted oath to save my life.

"I am a Roman citizen; therefore have I returned, that ye might work your will upon this mass of flesh and bones, that I esteem no higher than the rags that cover them Here, in your capital, do I defy you. Have I not conquered your armies, fired your towns, and dragged your generals at my chariot wheels, since first my youthful arms could wield a spear? And do you think to see me crouch and cower before a tamed and shattered senate? The tearing of flesh and rending of sinews is but pastime compared with the mental agony that heaves my frame.

"The moon has scarce yet waned since the proudest o Rome's proud matrons, the mother upon whose breast I slep and whose fair brow so oft had bent over me before the noise of battle had stirred my blood, or the fierce toil of war nerved my sinews, did with fondest memory of bygone hours entreat me to remain. I have seen her, who, when my country called me to the field, did buckle on my harness with trembling hands, while the tears fell thick and fast down the hard corselet scales,-I have seen her tear her gray locks and beat her aged breast, as on her knees she begged me not to return to Carthage; and all the assembled senate of Rome, grave and reverend men, proffered the same request. The puny torments which ye have in store to welcome me withal, shall be, to what I have endured, even as the murmur of a summer's brook to the fierce roar of angry surges on a rocky beach.

Last night, as I lay fettered in my dungeon, I heard a strange ominous sound: it seemed like the distant march of some vast army, their harness clanging as they marched,

when suddenly there stood by me Xanthippus, the Spartan general, by whose aid you conquered me, and, with a voice low as when the solemn wind moans through the leafless forest, he thus addressed me: 'Roman, I come to bid thee curse, with thy dying breath, this fated city; know that in an evil moment, the Carthaginian generals, furious with rage that I had conquered thee, their conqueror, did basely murder me. And then they thought to stain my brightest honor. But, for this foul deed, the wrath of Jove shall rest upon them here and hereafter.' And then he vanished.

"And now, go bring your sharpest torments. The woes I see impending over this guilty realm shall be enough to sweeten death, though every nerve and artery were a shooting pang. I die! but my death shall prove a proud triumph; and, for every drop of blood ye from my veins do draw your own shall flow in rivers. Woe to thee, Carthage! Woe to the proud city of the waters! I see thy nobles wailing at the feet of Roman senators, thy citizens in terror, thy ships in flames! I hear the victorious shouts of Rome! I see her eagles glittering on thy ramparts. Proud city, thou art doomed! The curse of God is on thee, -a clinging, wasting curse. It shall not leave thy gates till hungry flames shall lick the fretted gold from off thy proud palaces, and every brook runs crimson to the sea."

THE GHOST OF GOSHEN.

"hrough Goshen Hollow, where hemlocks grow,
Where rushing rills, with flash and flow,

Are over the rough rocks falling;

Where fox, where bear, and catamount hide,
In holes and dens in the mountain side,

A circuit-preacher once used to ride,
And his name was Rufus Rawling.

He was set in his ways, and what was strange,
If you argued with him he would not change,
One could get nothing through him.
Solemn and slow in style was he,
Slender and slim as a tamarack tree,
And always ready to disagree
With every one that knew him.

One night he saddled his sorrel mare,
And started over to Ripton, where

He had promised to do some preaching.
Away he cantered over the hill,

Past the schoolhouse at Capen's mill;
The moon was down and the place was still,
Save the sound of a night-hawk screeching.

At last he came to a deep ravine,
He felt a kind of queer, and mean
Sensation stealing o'er him.

Old Sorrel began to travel slow,

Then gave a snort and refused to go;

The parson chucked, and he holloa'd "whoa,"

And wondered what was before him.

Then suddenly he seemed to hear
A gurgling groan so very near,

It scattered his senses nearly.

"Go 'ome," go 'ome," it loudly cried,

"Go 'ome," re-echoed the mountain side,
"Go 'ome," away in the distance died-
He wished he was home sincerely.

And then before his startled sight,
A light flashed out upon the night
That seemed to "beat all creation."
Then through the bushes a figure stole,
With eyes of fire and lips of coal,
That froze his blood and shook his soul
With horror and consternation.

He lost his sermon, he dropped his book,
His hair stood up, and his saddle shook
Like a saw-mill under motion.

No cry he uttered, no word he said,
But, suddenly turning Sorrel's head,
Away and out of the woods he fled
As fast as he could for Goshen.

Into the streets of Goshen town

The frightened parson came riding down
In a fearful sort of a flutter,

Swift as a wild goose in a gale,

With cloak that flapped like a tattered sail,
With face as white as a basswood pail,
Or a ball of winter butter.

He told the neighbors that he had seen
A fiend of fire in Huff's Ravine,
That had driven him back to Goshen.
He told of its deep and dreadful groans,
Of its doleful cries and dismal moans,
Of its flaming eyes and its rattling bones,
And it got up a great commotion.