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 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, By humble growth of a hundred years And then a wondrous bud at its crown Have you further heard of this Aloe plant, How every one of its thousand flowers, In the place where it falls on the ground; 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, In famine it feeds them-what love can devise!-- Have you heard the tale they tell of the swan, It noiselessly floats on the silvery wave, For it saves its song till the end of life, Mid the golden light of the setting sun, It sings as it soars into heaven. And the blessed notes fall back from the skies; You have heard these tales; shall I tell you one, Have you heard of him whom the heavens adore; How he left the choirs and anthems above, To suffer the shame and pain of the cross, O prince of the noble! O sufferer divine! Have you heard this tale,-the best of them all,— He dies, but his life, in untold souls, His seed prevails, and is filling the earth, He taught us to yield up the love of life, His death is our life, his loss is our gain,— Now hear these tales, ye weary and worn, 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, Wait I for the loved who comes not, Soft! he comes,-now heart be quick, Gone by on the other side. All the night seems filled with weeping I can fancy, sea, your murmur, Branches, bid your guests be silent; In my cheek the blood is rosy, Ah! how many wait forever For the steps that do not come! Many, in the still of midnight, In the streets have lain and died, 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 |