Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal

gloom,

And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.

"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, be

reft,

Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left;

He little deems that, in this 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 people held their breath;
And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death;
And in another moment break 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 hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!" So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, and went his way:

But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body lay, And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, and then, with

steadfast feet,

Strode right across the market-place unto the Sacred Street.

T*

Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead! Ten thousand 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.

THROUGH DEATH TO LIFE.-HENRY HARBAUGH.

Have you heard the tale of the Aloe plant,
Away in the sunny clime?

By humble growth of a hundred years
It reaches its blooming time;

And then a wondrous bud at its crown
Breaks into a thousand flowers;
This floral queen, in its blooming seen,
Is the pride of the tropical bowers;
But the plant to the flower is a sacrifice,
For it blooms but once, and in blooming dies.

Have you further heard of this Aloe plant,
That grows in the sunny clime,

How every one of its thousand flowers,
As they drop in the blooming time,
Is an infant plant, that fastens its roots

In the place where it falls on the ground;
And, fast as they drop from the dying stem,
Grow lively and lovely around?

By dying it liveth a thousand fold

In the young that spring from the death of the old.

Have you heard the tale of the Pelican,—

The Arab's Gimel el Bahr,

That lives in the African solitudes,

Where the birds that live lonely are?

Have you heard how it loves its tender young,

And cares and toils for their good?

It brings them water from fountains afar,
And fishes the seas for their food.

In famine it feeds them-what love can devise!--
The blood of its bosom, and feeding them dies.

Have you heard the tale they tell of the swan,
The snow-white bird of the lake?

It noiselessly floats on the silvery wave,
It silently sits in the brake;

For it saves its song till the end of life,
And then, in the soft, still even,

Mid the golden light of the setting sun,

It sings as it soars into heaven.

And the blessed notes fall back from the skies;
'Tis its only song, for in singing it dies.

You have heard these tales; shall I tell you one,
A greater and better than all?

Have you heard of him whom the heavens adore;
Before whom the hosts of them fall?

How he left the choirs and anthems above,
For earth in its wailings and woes,

To suffer the shame and pain of the cross,
And die for the life of his foes?

O prince of the noble! O sufferer divine!
What sorrow and sacrifice equal to thine!

Have you heard this tale,-the best of them all,—
The tale of the Holy and True?

He dies, but his life, in untold souls,
Lives on in the world anew.

His seed prevails, and is filling the earth,
As the stars fill the sky above;

He taught us to yield up the love of life,
For the sake of the life of love.

His death is our life, his loss is our gain,—
The joy for the tear, the peace for the pain.

Now hear these tales, ye weary and worn,
Who for others do give up your all;

Our Saviour hath told you the seed that would grow,

Into earth's dark bosom must fall,

Must pass from the view, and die away,

And then will the fruit appear;

The grain, that seems lost in the earth below,

Will return many fold in the ear.

By death comes life, by loss comes gain;

The joy for the tear, the peace for the pain.

FOOTSTEPS ON THE OTHER SIDE.

Sitting in my humble doorway,
Gazing out into the night,
Listening to the stormy tumult
With a kind of sad delight,—

Wait I for the loved who comes not,
One whose step I long to hear,
One who, though he lingers from me,
Still is dearest of the dear.

Soft! he comes,-now heart be quick,
Leaping in triumphant pride;—
Oh! it is a stranger footstep,

Gone by on the other side.

All the night seems filled with weeping
Winds are wailing mournfully,
And the rain-tears together
Journey to the restless sea.

I can fancy, sea, your murmur,
As they with your waters flow,
Like the griefs of single beings
Making up a nation's woe.

Branches, bid your guests be silent;
Hush a moment, fretful rain;
Breeze, stop sighing,-let me listen,
God grant not again in vain!

In my cheek the blood is rosy,
Like the blushes of a bride.
Joy! Alas! a stranger footstep
Goes by on the other side.

Ah! how many wait forever

For the steps that do not come!
Wait until the pitying angels
Bear them to a peaceful home.

Many, in the still of midnight,

In the streets have lain and died,
While the sound of human footsteps
Went by on the other side.

CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON.-D. JERROLD.

Now, Mr. Caudle,-Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the house. No, no; There's an end of the marriage state, I think,-an end of all confidence between man and wife,-if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still,-not that I care much about it,― still, I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?

And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say-you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion,-not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a mason,-when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason,--when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage.

Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute! —yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you