Mellows the harsher outlines of the crags.

There! there! within a deep, cavernous gorge,

I see the half-nude forms of savage men

Flitting like phantoms, 'mong the umbrageous trees,
And in their midst I see a manly form

Stretched lowly on the cold and danksome sward.
How deathlike is the pallor of his cheek!
How gleams the fire of madness in his eye,

As the wild fancies of delirium,

Like Etna's flood, roll o'er his fevered brain!
One faithful friend kneels by him, and his head
Is pillowed on his breast as tenderly

As 'twere a mother with a dying child.
'Genius in ruins!' Oh, that noble youth!
Why should death single out a mark so young?
See how he throws the damp locks from his brow
Of marble whiteness! See him clasp his hands!
Hear his appalling shrieks for help, for life!
Mark how he clutches at that kneeling form,
Imploring to be saved! Oh! stones might weep
A rivulet of tears to hear him call

Upon his father's name! See him entwine
His icy fingers, as he vainly shrieks
For his loved sister, twin of his fond soul,
Who weeps for him in a far distant land!
And now his arms are lifted up to heaven,
Praying for mercy; and his language bears
Such fearful agony upon its tones,

The red men move away with noiseless feet,
And leave them quite alone.

""Tis evening now,
And like a warrior's shield, the great white moon
Stalks through the eastern sky. One silver beam,
Piercing the thickness of the clustering leaves,
Lights up the features of the dying youth.
His eyes are fixed and dim; he does not heed

The kindly words his friend pours in his ear.

And now his head sinks back, he gasps for breath, His pulse is still-ah, no, it beats again!

'Twas a mere fancy; it will beat no more,

For death's cold hand is on him, he is dead!
They hollow out a grave within that glen;
Without a shroud they lay him in the earth,
Where he shall sleep until the end of time.
No sculptor's burin ever shall emboss

A marble shaft to mark his lonely tomb.

Dear friends, the youth who died in that strange land Was my twin brother; and he owed his death

To ardent drink. Shall I now taste the cup?

Say, shall I taste the cup?" she cried;

"No! no!" a score of tongues replied;
And he who first for wine did call,
Cried "No!" the loudest of them all.
"Then shun the cup," she cried again,
""Twill brand you with the mark of Cain;
Forswear at once the tempting bowl,
That ruins body, mind and soul!
Think of my brother's lonely grave,
Far by the bland Pacific's wave;
Think of the hungry infant's wail;
Think of the mother's visage pale;
Think of the teeming prison's cell,
Where rum-incited felons dwell;
Think of our lovely sisters' doom,
When wine has nipped them in their bloom;
Ay! pause and think of every shame,

Of every crime too dark to name;

And let the wine-fiend's spell be riven,

And turn your thoughts to home and heaven!

"Grave fathers all, whose foreheads show
The weight of many a winter's snow,
Abjure the wine-cup from to-night,
And with the Temperance Army fight.
Full many a noble youth is here,
Who scarce has felt a barber's shear;
I charge you flee the demon's spell,
As you would flee the curse of hell!
For in the sparkling vintage lies
A monster dressed in tempting guise,
Who'll lure you from the path of right,
By wizard wiles, and false delight.
Rum will destroy your forms divine
As Circe changed her guests to swine.
O lovely maids, to whom are given
The beauties that embellish heaven!
None of you are too pure, or fair
To dally with the dreadful snare.
Never for all Pactolus' wealth,

In wine let lover drink your health"

They feasted late, they feasted long,

The guests were loud in laugh and song;
But no one touched a drop of wine,

Though rich Champagne, and limpid Rhine,
And Muscatel,-all sparkling bright,-
And purple Port, stood full in sight.
Among the crowd were those who'd quaffed
For years the soul-destroying draught;
But then and there they soothly swore
To touch the tempting cup no more,

But ever drink what God had given,

And sent them, on the clouds, from heaven!

VERRES DENOUNCED.-CICERO.

An opinion has long prevailed, Fathers, that, in public prosecutions, men of wealth, however clearly convicted, are always safe. This opinion, so injurious to your order, so detrimental to the State, it is now in your power to refute. A man is on trial before you who is rich, and who hopes his riches will compass his acquittal; but whose life and actions are his sufficient condemnation in the eyes of all candid men. I speak of Caius Verres, who, if he now receive not the sentence his crimes deserve, it shall not be through the lack of a criminal, or a prosecutor; but through the failure of the ministers of justice to do their duty. Passing over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what does the prætorship of Verres exhibit but one continued scene of villainies? The public treasure squandered, a consul stripped and betrayed, an army deserted and reduced to want, a province robbed, the civil and religious rights of a people trampled on! But this prætorship in Sicily has crowned his career of wickedness, and completed the lasting monument of his infamy. His decisions have violated all law, all precedent, all right. His extortions from the industrious poor have been beyond computation. Our most faithful allies have been treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with tortures.

Men the most worthy have been condemned and banished without a hearing, while the most atrocious criminals have, with money, purchased exemption from the punishment due to their guilt.

I ask now, Verres, what have you to advance against these charges? Are you not the tyrant prætor, who, at no greater distance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, dared to put to an infamous death, on the cross, that ill-fated and innocent citizen, Publius Gavius Cosanus! And what was his offence? He had declared his intention of appealing to the justice of his country against your brutal persecutions! For this, when about to embark for home, he was seized, brought before you, charged with being a spy, scourged and tortured. In vain did he exclaim: "I am a Roman citizen! I have served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and who will attest my innocence!" Deaf to all remonstrance, remorseless, thirsting for innocent blood, you ordered the savage punishment to be inflicted While the sacred words, "I am a Roman citizen," were on his lips,—words which, in the remotest regions, are a passport to protection, you ordered him to death, to a death upon the cross! O liberty! O sound once delightful to every Roman ear! O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship, once sacred, now trampled on! Is it come to this? Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman province, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture, and put to an infamous death, a Roman citizen? Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, the tears of pitying spectators, the majesty of the Roman Commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the merciless monster, who, in the confidence of his riches, strikes at the very root of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance? And shall this man escape? Fathers, it must not be! It must not be, unless you would undermine the very foundations of social safety, strangle justice, and call down anarchy, massacre and ruin on the Commonwealth!

THE BOYS.-O. W. HOLMES.

This poem was addressed to the class of 1829, in Harvard College, some thirty years after their graduation. The author, who retains, in a high degree, the freshness and joyousness of youth addresses his classmates as “boys."

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar! we're twenty to-night!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsy,-young jackanapes!-show him the door!
"Gray temples at twenty?"-Yes! white if we please;
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze.

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close, you will see not a sign of a flake!

We want some new garlands for those we have shed,
And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were old:

That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;"
It's a neat little fiction-of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker," the one on the right;

"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?

That's our" Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend "-what's his name?-don't make

me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look

Made believe he had written a wonderful book,

And the Royal Society thought it was true!

So they chose him right in,-a good joke it was too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him "The Justice," but now he's the "Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith;

Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,-
Just read on his medal, "My country," " of thee!"
You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;