Our very hearts, that were so high, sink down beneath your will: Riches, and lands, and power, and state, ye have them-keep them still!

Still keep the holy fillets; still keep the purple gown,

The axes, and the curule chair, the car, and laurel crown;

Still press us for your cohorts, and, when the fight is done,

Still fill your garners from the soil which our good swords have won,
Still like a spreading ulcer, which leech-craft may not cure,
Let your foul usance eat away the substance of the poor;
Still let your haggard debtors bear all their fathers bore;
Still let your dens of torment be noisome as of yore;
No fire, when Tiber freezes; no air, in dog-star heat;

And store of rods for free-born backs, and holes for free-born feet;
Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still the grate;
Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your cruel hate:-
But, by the Shades beneath us, and by the Gods above,
Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more cruel love!
Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs
From Consuls, and high Pontiffs, and ancient Alban Kings?
Ladies, who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet-

Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering

street

Who, in Corinthian mirrors, their own proud smiles behold,
And breathe of Capuan odours, and shine with Spanish gold?
Then leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life-

The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife—
The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures-
The kiss, in which he half forgets even such a yoke as yours!
Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,

That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood to flame;
Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,

And learn, by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare!"

(The night has passed in safety; but there was wrath in Rome,
To see Virginia, young and fair, thus severed from her home:
Next day the foul decree is spoke: —was ever plot more clear?
Yet, wicked Appius may be foiled-for, see, her father's here!)
Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside,

To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide;
Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood,

Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood.
Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down-

Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown;

And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell,

And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child, farewell!

Oh! how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be,
To thee, thou know'st, I was not so.

Who could be so to thee?
And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hear
My footstep on the threshold, when I came back last year!
And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown,

And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my gown.

...

Now all those things are over-yes, all thy pretty ways—
Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays;

And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return,
Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn:
The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,
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! See, how he 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 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!
When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and sank down,
And hid his face, some little space, with the corner of his gown,
Till, with white lips, and blood-shot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh,
And stood before the judgment-seat and held the knife on high:
"Oh! dweliers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain,
By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain;
And even 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 into the Sacred Street.

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.

LX.-MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.-H. G. Bell.

I LOOKED far back into other years, and lo! in bright array,

I saw,

as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away.

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls,

And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep

falls;

And o'er the antique dial-stone the creeping shadow passed,
And all around the noon-day sun a drowsy radiance cast.
No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim,
The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn.

And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees,

In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please; And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers, That Scotland knew no prouder names-held none more dear than

theirs

And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine,

Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line :
Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight,
And, as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light.

The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon, And 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers throng; And proudly kindles Henry's eye-well pleased, I ween, to see The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry :But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide, Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride! The homage of a thousand hearts-the fond, deep love of oneThe hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun,They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek, They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak:

Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours,

She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers?
The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way,
And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay;
And on its deck a Lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes
Upon the fast receding hills, that dim and distant rise.

No marvel that the lady wept-there was no land on earth
She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth;
It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends,-

It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends,-
The land where her dead husband slept-the land where she had known
The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendours of a throne:
No marvel that the lady wept,-it was the land of France-
The chosen home of chivalry-the garden of romance!

The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark;
The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark!

One gaze again-one long, last gaze—“Adieu, fair France, to thee!"
The breeze comes forth-she is alone on the unconscious sea!
The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood,
And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood

Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds,
That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds.

The touch of care had blanched her cheek-her smile was sadder now,
The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow;
And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field;

The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she could not wield. She thought of all her blighted hopes-the dreams of youth's brief day,

And summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play
The songs she loved in early years-the songs of gay Navarre,
The songs perchance that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar;
They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles,
They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils:-
But hark! the tramp of armed men! the Douglas' battle-cry!
They come-they come!-and lo! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye;

And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words are vain

The ruffian steel is in his heart-the faithful Rizzio's slain!

Then Mary Stuart dashed aside the tears that trickling fell:

"Now for my father's arm!" she said; "my woman's heart, farewell!"
The scene was changed. It was a lake with one small lonely isle,
And there, within the prison-walls of its baronial pile,
Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to sign
The traitorous scroll that snatched the crown from her ancestral line:-
My lords, my lords," the captive said, "were I but once more free,
With ten good knights on yonder shore, to aid my cause and me,
That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows,
And once more reign a Stuart-queen o'er my remorseless foes!"
A red spot burned upon her cheek-streamed her rich tresses down,
She wrote the words-she stood erect-a queen, without a crown!
The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner bore,
And the faithful of the land stood round their smiling queen once

more;

She stayed her steed upon a hill-she saw them marching by-
She heard their shouts she read success in every flashing eye.--
The tumult of the strife begins-it roars-it dies away;

And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers-where are they?
Scattered and strown, and flying far, defenceless and undone,-
Alas! to think what she has lost, and all that guilt has won!
-Away! away! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part;
Yet vain his speed-for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart!

The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman stood, And gleamed the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with

blood.

With slow and steady step there came a Lady through the hall,
And breathless silence chained the lips, and touched the hearts of all.
I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom,-
I saw that grief had decked it out-an offering for the tomb!
I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone;
I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every tone;
I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold;
I knew that bounding grace of step-that symmetry of mould!
Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent isle,

I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile,-
Even now I see her bursting forth, upon the bridal morn,
A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born!
Alas! the change!-she placed her foot upon a triple throne,
And on the scaffold now she stands-beside the block-alone!
The little dog that licks her hand-the last of all the crowd
Who sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her footstep
bowed!

-Her neck is bared-the blow is struck-the soul is passed away!
The bright-the beautiful-is now a bleeding piece of clay!
The dog is moaning piteously; and, as it gurgles o'er,

Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor!-
The blood of beauty, wealth, and power-the heart-blood of a queen,-
The noblest of the Stuart race-the fairest earth has seen,-
Lapped by a dog! Go, think of it, in silence and alone;
Then weigh, against a grain of sand, the glories of a throne!

LXI. THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.-Coates.

DARK is the night! how dark!-no light! no fire!
Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire!
Shivering she watches by the cradle-side,

For him who pledged her love-last year a bride!
"Hark! 'tis his footstep! No-'tis past: 'tis gone:
Tick-Tick!-How wearily the time crawls on!
Why should he leave me thus? He once was kind!
And I believed 'twould last :-how mad!-how blind!
"Rest thee, my babe!-rest on !-'Tis hunger's cry!
Sleep!-for there is no food! the fount is dry!
Famine and cold their wearying work have done;
My heart must break!-And thou!"-

-The clock strikes one.

"Hush! 'tis the dice-box! Yes, he's there, he's there!
For this, for this, he leaves me to despair!

Leaves love! leaves truth! his wife! his child!-for what?
The wanton's smile-the villain-and the sot!

"Yet I'll not curse him! No! 'tis all in vain!

'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again!
And I could starve and bless him, but for you,

My child! his child!-O fiend !”- -The clock strikes two
"Hark! how the sign-board creaks! The blast howls by!
Moan!-Moan!-A dirge swells through the cloudy sky!
Ha! 'tis his knock! he comes! -he comes once more-
-'Tis but the lattice flaps! Thy hope is o'er !

"Can he desert me thus? He knows I stay
Night after night in loneliness to pray
For his return-and yet he sees no tear!
No! no! it cannot be. He will be here.

"Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart!

Thou'rt cold! thou'rt freezing! But we will not part.
Husband!—I die!-Father!-It is not he!

O Heaven! protect my child !"

-The clock strikes three.

They're gone! they're gone! The glimmering spark hath fled,
The wife and child are numbered with the dead!

On the cold hearth, out-stretched in solemn rest,

The child lies frozen on its mother's breast!
-The gambler came at last-but all was o'er-

Dead silence reigned around-he groaned—he spoke no more!

LXII.-THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.-Thomas Davis.

THE summer's sun is falling soft on Carb'ry's hundred isles-
The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles.
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard:
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray :-
And full of love, and peace, and rest-its daily labour o'er-
Upon that cozy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.