MARULLUS TO THE ROMAN POPULACE.

SHAKESPEARE.

Wherefore rejoice that Cæsar comes in triumph? What conquest brings he home?

What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts-you cruel men of Rome

Know ye not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows-yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The life-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome;
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?

And do you now put on your best attire ?
And do you now cull out a holiday?

And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?

Begone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,

Pray to the gods to intermit the plague

That needs must light on this ingratitude!

"INTRA, MINTRA, OUTRA, CORN."

Ten small hands upon the spread,
Five forms kneeling beside the bed,
Blue Eyes, Black Eyes, Curly Head,
Blonde, Brunette, in a glee and a glow,
Waiting the magic word. Such a row!
Seven years, six years, five, four, two!

Fifty fingers all in a line

(Yours are thirty and twenty are mine), Ten sweet eyes that sparkle and shine.

Motherly Mary, age of ten,

Evens the finger tips again,

Glances along the line, and then

"Intra, mintra, cutra, corn,
Apple-seed and apple-thorn,
Wire, briar, limber lock,
Three geese in a flock,

Rible, roble, rable and rout,

Y. O. U.

T.

Out!"

Sentence falls on Curly Head;

One wee digit is "gone and dead,"
Nine and forty are left on the spread.

"Intra, mintra," the fiat goes,
Who'll be taken nobody knows—
Only God may the lot dispose.

Is it more than a childish play?
Still you sigh and turn away.

Why? What pain in the sight, I pray?

Ah! too true; as the fingers fall,
One by one the magic call,
Till, at last, chance reaches all.

So, in the fateful days to come,

The lot shall fall in many a home
That breaks a heart and fills a tomb-

Shall fall, and fall, and fall again,

Like a law that counts our love but vain,
Like a fate unheeding our woe and pain.

One by one-and who shall say
Whether the lot may fall this day
That calleth these dear babes away?

True, too true! Yet hold, dear friend; Evermore doth the lot depend

On Him who loved, and loves to the end.

Blind to our eyes that fiat goes,
Who'll be taken no mortal knows;
But only Love will the lot dispose.

Only Love, with his wiser sight;
Love alone, in his infinite might;
Love, who dwells in eternal light.

Now are the fifty fingers gone

To play some new play under the sun-
The childish fancy is past and gone.

So let our boding prophecies go
As childish, for do we not surely know
The dear God holds our lot below?

OUTWARD BOUND.

HENRY ASTEN.

The slanting deck betokens wind,
The cordage all begins to crack;
Of snapping shroud and groaning mast,
And salt sea-breeze, there is no lack.

The schooners creep along the coast;
A steamer's smoke outlines the sky;
The larger sail an offing make,

The jolly pilot shouts "Good-by!"

Then back to wife and friends and home His boat stands shoreward on our lee; He soon will anchor in the bay,

While we are rushing out to sea.

The sun has set-the stretch of shore Now smaller, thinner seems to shrink,

And, on the headland of the cape,

The tower-light begins to blink.

Our captain speaks the destined course,
Then walks the deck with measured tread,
And, as he scans alow, aloft,

The beacon stars gleam overhead,

And we two by the taffrail stand;

Then, turning from the darkening skies,
We touch each other's hands and lips,
And landward look with longing eyes.

For, though we hope for brighter scenes,
And leave behind us hurt and wound,
Our eyes still seck the lessening light-

We're outward bound! we're outward bound!

INOIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

ROBERT BROWNING.

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon;

A mile or so away,

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming-day,

With neck out-thrust--you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,

As if to balance the prone brow,

Oppressive with its mind.

Just as, perhaps, he mused: "My plans,
That soar to earth, may fall,

Let once my army-leader, Lannes,
Waver at yonder wall"-

Out 'twixt the battery-smoke there flew

A rider, bound on bound

Full galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,

And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy;

You hardly could suspect

(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)—
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace,

We've got you Ratisbon!

The Marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans

Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathies

A film the mother eagle's eye,

When her bruised eaglet breathes:

"You're wounded!" แ

'Nay," his soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, sire!" and his chief beside,

Smiling, the boy fell dead.

THE BELLS.

EDGAR A. POE.

Hear the sledges with the bells

Silver bells

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.