Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings round,
As laden boughs in autumn fling their ripe fruits to the ground.
And the best love man can offer to the God of love, be sure,
Is kindness to his little ones, and bounty to his poor.
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen goes coldly on her way;
There's no one looketh out at her, there's no one bids her stay.
Her home is cold and desolate; no smile, no food, no fire,
But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire.
So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet,
And she curleth up beneath her, for warmth, her little feet;
And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky,
And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up on high.
She hears a clock strike slowly, up in a far church tower,
With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight hour.
And she remembered her of tales her mother used to tell,
And of the cradle-songs she sang, when summer's twilight fell;
Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child,
Who was cradled in a manger, when winter was most wild;
Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and lone;
And she thought the song had told he was ever with his own;
And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his,-
"How good of Him to look on me in such a place as this!"
Colder it grows, and colder, but she does not feel it now,
For the pressure at her heart, and the weight upon her brow;
But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and bare,
That she might look around her, and see if He were there.
The single match has kindled, and by the light it threw
It seemed to little Gretchen the wall was rent in two;
And she could see folks seated at a table richly spread,
With heaps of goodly viands, red wine and pleasant bread.
She could smell the fragrant savor, she could hear what they

did say,

Then all was darkness once again, the match had burned away. She struck another hastily, and now she seemed to see

Within the same warm chamber a glorious Christmas tree. The branches were all laden with things that children prize, Bright gifts for boy and maiden, she saw them with her eyes, And she almost seemed to touch them, and to join the welcome shout,

When darkness fell around her, for the little match was ont.

Another, yet another, she had tried-they will not light; Till all her little store she took, and struck with all her might: And the whole miserable place was lighted with the glare, And she dreamed there stood a little child before her in the air. There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spear-wound in his side,

And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands spread wide'

And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that he had known Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow-ay, equal to her own.

And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree, Then up to the cold sky, and said, "Will Gretchen come with me?"

The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim, And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's

hymn:

And she folded both her thin white hands, and turned from that bright board,

And from the golden gifts, and said, "With thee, with thee, O Lord!"

The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies

On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies. In her scant and tattered garment, with her back against the wall,

She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call.

They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, "It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead." The angels sang their greeting for one more redeem'd from sin; Men said, "It was a bitter night; would no one let her in?" And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could not see

How much of happiness there was after that misery.

ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.-E. L. BEERS.

"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey,
In the sunshine bright and strong,
For this world is fading, Pompey-
Massa won't be with you long;

And I fain would hear the south wind
Bring once more the sound to me
Of the wavelets softly breaking
On the shores of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur,
As they still the story tell,

How no vessels float the banner

That I've loved so long and well,

I shall listen to their music,

Dreaming that again I see

Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop,
Sailing up the Tennessee.

"And, Pompey, while old Massa's waiting
For death's last despatch to come,

If that exiled starry banner

Should come proudly sailing home,

You shall greet it, slave no longerVoice and hand shall both be free That shouts and points to Union colors, On the waves of Tennessee."

"

'Pears like she was watching Massa, If Pompey should beside him stay; Mebbe she'd remember better

How for him she used to pray; Telling him that way up yonder White as snow his soul would be, If he served the Lord of heaven While he lived in Tennessee." Silently the tears were rolling

Down the poor old dus ky face, As he stepped behind his master, In his long-accustomed place. Then a silence fell around them, As they gazed on rock and tree Pictured in the placid waters

Of the rolling Tennessee ;Master, dreaming of the battle Where he fought by Marion's side, When he bid the haughty Tarleton Stoop his lordly crest of pride; Man, remembering how yon sleeper Once he held upon his knee, Ere she loved the gallant soldier, Ralph Vervair, of Tennessee. Still the south wind fondly lingers 'Mid the veteran's silvery hair; Still the bondman, close beside him, Stands behind the old arm-chair, With his dark-hued hand uplifted, Shading eyes, he bends to see Where the woodland, boldly jutting, Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows Glide from tree to mountain crest,

Softly creeping, aye and ever,

To the river's yielding breast.

Ha! above the foliage yonder

Something flutters wild and free!
"Massa! Massa! Hallelujah!

The flag's come back to Tennessee!"
"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder,
Help me stand on foot once more,
That I may salute the colors

As they pass my cabin door.
Here's the paper signed that frees you;
Give a freeman's shout with me-
'God and Union!' be our watchword
Evermore in Tennessee."

Then the trembling voice grew fainter,
And the limbs refused to stand;
One prayer to Jesus-and the soldier
Glided to that better land.

When the flag went down the river,
Man and master both were free,
While the ring-dove's note was mingled
With the rippling Tennessee.

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA. E. KELLOGG.

Ye call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who for twelve long years has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad Empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not always thus,-a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men. My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my

cheeks burned, I know not why, and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse,-the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling! To-day I killed a man in the arena; and, when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died;-the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph! I told the prætor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the prætor drew back as I were pollution, and sternly said, "Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans." And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs. O Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe;-to gaze into the glaring eyebails of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled!

Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews, but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? Tis three days since he has tasted flesh; but tomorrow he shall break his fast upon yours,-and a dainty meal for him ye will be! If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher's knife! If ye are men, follow me! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and there do bloody work, as did your sires at old Ther