But stay! arcades,

These walls, these ivy-clad I know thou'rt skilled in mason's work;
Thine is the power to frame

These mouldering plinths, these sad and Rome's Coliseum vast and wide,
blackened shafts,

These vague entablatures, this crumbling

frieze,

These shattered cornices, this wreck, this ruin,
These stones-alas! these gray stones,-are
they all,

All of the famed and the colossal left
By the corrosive hours to fate and me?

Not all," the echoes answer me—" not all!
Prophetic sounds, and loud, arise for ever
From us, and from all ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men; we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent, we pallid stones;
Not all our power is gone, not all our fame,
Not all the magic of our high renown,
Not all the wonder that encircles us,
Not all the mysteries that in us lie,
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

An honor to thy name.

And thousands gazed, in brutal joy,
To watch the Christians die,
But one beside Vespasian leaned
With a strange light in his eye.
What thoughts welled up within his breast
As on that group he gazed?
What gleams of holy light from heaven
Upon his dark soul blazed?

Had he by password gained access

To the dark catacomb,

And learned the hope of Christ's beloved
Beyond the rack, the tomb?
The proud Vespasian o'er him bends:
"My priceless architect,
To-day I will announce to all

Thy privilege elect—

"A free-made citizen of Rome."

Calmly Gaudentis rose,
And, folding o'er his breast his arms,

Turned to the Saviour's foes;
And in a strength not all his own,
With life and death in view,
The fearless architect exclaimed,
"I am a Christian too."

Only a few brief moments passed,
And brave Gaudentis lay

Within the amphitheatre,

A lifeless mass of clay.
Vespasian promised him the rights
Of proud imperial Rome,

But Christ with martyrs crowned him king
Beneath heaven's cloudless dome.

ANNE HARRIET.

THE KNIFE-GRINDER.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

Was it the squire for killing of his game, or
Covetous parson for his tithes distraining,
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little

All in a lawsuit?

(Have you not read The Rights of Man, by
Tom Paine?)

Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.

KNIFE-GRINDER.

"Story"!. God bless you, I have none to

tell, sir;

Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see,

were

Torn in a scuffle.

Constables came up for to take me into

NEEDY Knife-Grinder, whither are you Custody; they took me before the justice;

going?

Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order;
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a

hole in't;

Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish

Stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink Your Honor's health in

A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;

Weary Knife-grinder, little think the proud But, for my part, I never love to meddle

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse

JOHN FREDERICK HERRING.

ERRING was the son of a native of New York, of Dutch descent, but was born in Surrey, England, in 1795. He was for some years a leading member of the Society of British Artists, at whose exhibitions, as likewise those of the British Institution, he principally appeared before the public. He was entirely self-taught. His desire to depict the English race-horse was kindled by the first sight he had of a race-the St. Leger at Doncaster when he was nineteen years of age. He painted the winner of that important race for thirty-three years in succession, and thus obtained a wide connection in the sporting world. Yet, although he continued to paint the St. Leger winners and studies of other celebrated thoroughbreds, he did not feel quite competent to carry out what he had thus begun. He took to driving, and was nearly four years on the road, finishing his career as coachman on the old and celebrated coach the "York

Her Majesty had eight horses painted by him;
he was also sent for by august personages in
France to paint their favorite horses. More
interesting compositions, however, to the lover
of art are his richly-colored studies from the
farm-yard, with its motley population of horses,
cows, pigs and poultry. Many of his choicest
productions have been purchased for America,
where he is held in as high esteem as Sir Ed-
win Landseer is in England. Amongst his
last works are his "Returning from Epsom,"
"Derby
'Derby Day," "The Scene near the Wind-
mill Inn on Clapham Common,' "Market-
Day," "Horse Fair" on a heath near a town,
also a "Horse Fair" in a country village,
"The Road," anterior to rails, likewise four
pictures of "Spring," "Summer," "Autumn'
and "Winter." Died 1865.

EDWARD WALFORD.

[In this work we give two pictures by Herring, "The Long Drop" and "The Last Leap."]

and London Highflyer." While thus engaged BRA

RODRICK.

RAVE Rodrick was the hero of a wild

he was continually requested to relinquish that
occupation and resume the pencil. At length
Mr. Frank Hawksworth promised him if he
would give up driving he would ensure him
full employment for a twelvemonth in paint-
ing hunters and hounds; on the strength of
this offer he at once abandoned the ribbons
for the easel, and innumerable were his racing
scenes and portraits of high-mettled racers. The tyrant's minions kept he still at bay.

No tribute paid, no man as master styled,
Nor favor sought, nor mercy from a lord;
His wild dominion held he by his sword.
The gallant leader of an outlawed band,
The rude defender of his native land,
By mountain-pass and steep cliff's rugged

way