"The time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand this way;
See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey;
With all his wit he little deems that spurned, betrayed, bereft,
Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left:

He little deems that, in my hand, I clutch what still can save
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave;
Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow,—
Foul outrage, which thou knowest not,-which thou shalt never
know.

Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more

kiss;

'And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this!" With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died. Then, for a little moment, all the people held their breath; And through the crowded forum was stillness as of death; And in another moment broke forth from one and all

A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall;

Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh,
And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife on high:
"O dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain,
By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain;
And e'en as Appius Claudius has dealt by me and mine,
Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!"
So spake the slayer of his child; then where the body lay,
Pausing, he cast one haggard glance, and turned and went his way.
Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead!
Ten pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!"
He looked upon his clients, but none would work his will;
He looked upon his lictors, but they trembled and stood still.
And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft,
Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left;

And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home,

And there ta'en horse, to tell the camp what deeds are done in Rome.

THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD

BY CLEMENT SCOTT

Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!
And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.
It's only a tale of a life-boat, of the dying and the dead,

Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles
Head!

Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south;

Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth;

It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual

way,

And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.

Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands

alone,

In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or when

There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men.

When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he!

Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the

sea,

Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said,

Had saved some hundred lives apiece-at a shilling or so a head!

So the father launched the life-boat, in the teeth of the tempest's

roar,

And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar.

Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! Leaving the weeping women, and booming of signal guns;

Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love;

Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!

Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed,

For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?

It didn't go well with the life-boat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew!

And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drown

ing crew;

And then the anchor parted-'twas a tussle to keep afloat!

But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old

boat.

Then at last on the poor doomed life-boat a wave broke mountains high!

"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-by!" Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, But the father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.

Up at the lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,
And saw in the boiling breakers a figure,—a fighting form;

It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath;

It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death;

It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships.

They had seen the launch of the life-boat, they had seen the worst, and more,

Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.

There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the

land.

'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,

But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?
What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men
Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir-
and then

Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent,

Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!

"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come back!"

As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack.

"Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea,

"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!" "Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint

and pale,

"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale !"

"Come back?" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town.

We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!"

"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand!

Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land!

Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more,

And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore."

Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,

They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know

the rest

Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head !"

WILLIAM TELL AND HIS BOY

BY WILLIAM BAINE

"Place there the boy," the tyrant said;
"Fix me the apple on his head.
Ha! rebel, now!

There's a fair mark for your shaft;
To yonder shining apple waft

An arrow." And the tyrant laughed.
With quivering brow.

Bold Tell looked there; his cheek turned pale;
His proud lips throbbed as if would fail
Their quivering breath.

"Ha! doth he blanch?" fierce Gesler cried,
"I've conquered, slave, thy soul of pride."
No voice to that stern taunt replied,
All mute as death.

"And what the meed?" at length Tell asked.
"Bold fool, when slaves like thee are tasked,
It is my will.

But that thine eye may keener be,
And nerved to such nice archery,

If thou cleav'st yon, thou goest free.
What! pause you still?

Give him a bow and arrow there

One shaft-but one." Gleams of despair
Rush for a moment o'er the Switzer's face:
Then passed away each stormy trace,
And high resolve came in their place,
Unmoved, yet flushed,

"I take thy terms," he muttered low,
Grasped eagerly the proffered bow-
The quiver searched,

Sought out an arrow keen and long,
Fit for a sinewy arm, and strong,
And placed it on the sounding thong
The tough yew arched.