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The Roman guards keep watch and ward,
And beats the muffled drum.

The consuls, proctors, soothsayers,
Within the Forum group around,
Young Curtius in the saddle sits,-
There yawns the severed ground.

Each pulse is stayed, he lifts his helm,
And bares his forehead to the sky,
And to the broad, blue heaven above,
Upturns his flashing eye.

"O Rome! O country best beloved,
Thou land in which I first drew breath,
I render back the life thou gav'st,
To rescue thee from death.'

Then spurring on his gallant steed,
A last and brief farewell he said,
And leapt within the gaping gulf,—
Which closed above his head.

MALIBRAN AND THE YOUNG MUSICIAN.

In a humble room, in one of the poorest streets of London, little Pierre, a fatherless French boy, sat humming by the bedside of his sick mother. There was no bread in the closet; and for the whole day he had not tasted food. Yet he sat humming, to keep up his spirits. Still, at times, he thought of his loneliness and hunger; and he could scarcely keep the tears from his eyes; for he knew nothing would be so grateful to his poor invalid mother as a good sweet orange; and yet he had not a penny in the world.

The little song he was singing was his own,—one he had composed with air and words; for the child was a genius. He went to the window, and looking out saw a man putting up a great bill with yellow letters, announcing that Madame Malibran would sing that night in public.

“Oh, if I could only go!" thought little Pierre; and then, pausing a moment, he clasped his hands; his eyes lighted with a new hope. Running to the little stand, he smoothed

down his yellow curls, and, taking from a little box some old stained paper, gave one eager glance at his mother, who slept, and ran speedily from the house.

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"Who did you say is waiting for me?" said the lady to her servant. "I am already worn out with company."

"It is only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, who says if he can just see you, he is sure you will not be sorry; and he will not keep you a moment."

"Oh! well, let him come," said the beautiful singer, with a smile; "I can never refuse children."

Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm; and in his hand a little roll of paper. With manliness unusual for a child, he walked straight to the lady, and bowing said,— "I came to see you, because my mother is very sick, and we are too poor to get food and medicine. I thought that, perhaps, if you would only sing my little song at some of your grand concerts, may be some publisher would buy it, for a small sum; and so I could get food and medicine for my mother."

The beautiful woman rose from her seat; very tall and stately she was;--she took the little roll from his hand, and lightly hummed the air.

"Did you compose it?" she asked,—“ you, a child! And the words?-Would you like to come to my concert?" she asked, after a few moments of thought.

"O yes!" and the boy's eyes grew bright with happiness, -"but I couldn't leave my mother."

"I will send somebody to take care of your mother, for the evening; and here is a crown, with which you may go and get food and medicine. Here is also one of my tickets: come to-night; that will admit you to a seat near me."

Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some oranges, and many a little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid, telling her, not without tears, of his good fortune.

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When evening came, and Pierre was admitted to the concert-hall, he felt that never in his life had he been in so grand a place. The music, the myriad lights, the beauty,

the flashing of diamonds and rustling of silks, bewildered his eyes and brain.

At last she came; and the child sat with his glance riveted upon her glorious face. Could he believe that the grand lady, all blazing with jewels, and whom everybody seemed to worship, would really sing his little song?

Breathless he waited,-the band, the whole band struck up a little plaintive melody; he knew it, and clapped his hands for joy. And oh, how she sung it! It was so simple, so mournful, so soul-subduing;—many a bright eye dimmed with tears; and naught could be heard but the touching words of that little song,-Oh, so touching!

Pierre walked home as if he were moving on the air What cared he for money now? The greatest singer in all Europe had sung his little song, and thousands had wept at his grief.

The next day he was frightened at a visit from Madame Malibran. She laid her hand on his yellow curls, and turning to the sick woman said, "Your little boy, madam, has brought you a fortune. I was offered, this morning, by the best publisher in London, three hundred pounds for his little song and after he has realized a certain amount from the sale, little Pierre, here, is to share the profits. Madam, thank God that your son has a gift from heaven."

The noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept together. As to Pierre, always mindful of Him who watches over the tried and tempted, he knelt down by his mother's bedside, and uttered a simple but eloquent prayer, asking God's blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to notice their affliction.

The memory of that prayer made the singer even more tender-hearted; and she who was the idol of England's nobility went about doing good. And in her early, happy death, he who stood by her bed, and smoothed her pillow, and lightened her last moments by his undying affection, was the little Pierre of former days,-now rich, accomplished, and the most talented composer of the day.

All honor to those great hearts who, from their high sta tions, send down bounty to the widow, and to the father less child.

SCHLAUSHEIMER DON'T GONCILIATE.-VON BOYLE His name vas Schlausheimer, vot mendedt furnitoor and put cane seats in de pottoms of a shair. He had vone vife py his secondt marriages, und she called him her secondthandt huspandt on accoundt he vas marriedt pefore to anoder vomans py de name Gretchen, vot had red hair und green eyes. Schlausheimer used to say he vas pooty vell marriedt, not on accoundt he vas marriedt many, like old Brigham Young, but on accoundt he vas marriedt mooch250 pounds avoirdutroy,—dot vas his vife.

Mrs. Schlausheimer she vas fat like a peer barrels, und Schlausheimer he vas fat like a match.

Dey had ten shildren petween dem. Two vas boys, two vas girls, dree vas a dwin, two vas a driplet, und vone vas a quadruped-or I tink dey called dot douple pair dwins a quartette, on accoundt of de noises dey made.

Und he had on accoundt of his first vife py de name Gretchen, also, ten shtep-shildrens Und efery single vone of dot shtep-shildrens vas dwins.

I vent vone tay to Schlausheimer's on accoundt he did not brought a shair he vas mending pack, und I found dem playing de Franco-Prussian war.

"Vot's all dot droubles?" said I.

Vell, Mrs. Schlausheimer had a proomshtick her hand in, und she vas drying to poke a cat or sometings from oudt de ped unter. She look up und say:

"Mr. Von Boyle, I can do notings mit dot Schlausheimer." "Did you tried moral bersuasion mit him once?" says I. Vell, pefore she could answer dot, dot cat comes vrom de ped unter oudt, und it vasn't not any cat at all; it vas Schlausheimer, und he says:

"Mr. Von Boyle, I vill told you de kindt of moral bersuasions my vife makes use mit me oudt. She calls me tay pehindt yesterday a oldt lager-peer saloon."

Den Mrs. Schlausheimer broke in:

"But didn't you told me I vas a voman's rights confention?"

Den Schlausheimer broke oudt:

"But didn't you nearly, mit a proomshtick on accoundt of dot, proke my arm?"

Den Mrs. Schlausheimer she says:

"But dot vas his own fault, Mr. Von Boyle. I vas shoost going to rap him a little on de head, und if he didn't put up his arm it vouldn't got hurt, like a fool. Schlausheimer, efery cent he gets, he shpend him in vhisky. Und den he haf sooch a pad indisposition he comes und peats me home."

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'Vell,” says I, “can you not in some manner gonciliate aim?"

"I do eferytings I can found oudt," says she," to gonciliate him. I schold him, I pull his eyes, und scratch his hair, I kicks him de bedt oudt,-but he don't gonciliate."

ONE IN BLUE AND ONE IN GRAY.

Each thin hand resting on a grave,
Her lips apart in prayer,

A mother knelt and left her tears
Upon the violets there.

O'er many a rood of vale and lawn,
Of hill and forest gloom,

The reaper death had reveled in

His fearful harvest home.

The last red Summer's sun had shone
Upon a fruitless fray ;-

From yonder forest charged the blue,

Down yonder slope the gray.

The hush of death was on the scene,
And sunset o'er the dead,

In that oppressive stillness

A pall of glory spread.

I know not, dare not question how
I met the ghastly glare

Of each upturned and stirless face
That shrunk and whitened there.
I knew my noble boys had stood
Through all that withering day,—
I knew that Willie wore the blue,
That Harry wore the gray.

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