I heard my own condemnation about to be pronounced by the lips of my own child. Wound up to the last degree of suffering, I tore my hair, leaped upon the bars before me, and plunged into the arena by her side. The height stunned me; I tottered a few paces and fell. The lion gave a roar and sprang upon me. I lay helpless under him, I heard the gnashing of his white fangs above me. An exulting shout arose. I saw him reel as if struck,gore filled his jaws. Another mighty blow was driven to his heart. He sprang high in the air with a howl. He dropped; he was dead. The amphitheatre thundered with acclama tions. With Salome clinging to my bosom, Constantius raised me from the ground. The roar of the lion had roused him from his swoon, and two blows saved me. The falchion had broken in the heart of the monster. The whole multitude stood up, supplicating for our lives in the name of filial piety and heroism. Nero, devil as he was, dared not resist the strength of popular feeling. He waved a signal to the guards ; the portal was opened, and my children, sustaining my feeble steps, showered with garlands and ornaments from innumerable hands, slowly led me from the arena. I'll trust ye no more; But with giant hand I'll pluck From Norway's frozen shore Her tallest pine, and dip its top Into the crater of Vesuvius, And upon the high and burnished heavens I'll write "Agnes, I love thee!" And I would like to see any Dog-goned wave wash that out. OUT IN THE SOBBING RAIN.-DORA SHAW. I loved him long, and I loved him well, Not dreaming then of pain ;— Not dreaming then what the year would bring, I was no city maid, with eyes The innocent thoughts I would gathering hold But the shepherd slept, and the thief grew bold,- Aye, the thief grew bold: now my peace is gone! I but clasp my hands o'er an aching breast, Oh, alas for my home on the distant moor! Alas for the flowers that bloom on the heath, To-night I passed by his castle old,- Her pale face drooped 'neath his glowing eye, Her white arms were veiled with laces rare, Whilst hers with jewels are e'en weighed down,- Here in the sobbing rain. Aye, his bride is she, and what then am I, I loved, alas, in vain! And yet, though no saintly prayer was said, See the lightning flash in yonder sky, My feet are so weary, my feet are so sore, Would they bear me, I wonder, as far as the moor? What darkness is this which veileth mine eyes? There! strange lights are gleaming from you open door, And strange voices call me-I ne'er heard before.-- NOT LOST. The look of sympathy, the gentle word, The sacred music of a tender strain, Wrung from a poet's heart by grief and pain, The silent tears that fall at dead of night, Over soiled robes which once were pure and white, The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth. The kindly plans devised for others' good, Not lost, O Lord, for in thy city bright, THE HERITAGE.-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick and stone and gold; And tender flesh that fears the cold, A heritage, it seems to me, The rich man's son inherits cares: The bank may break, the factory burn; A heritage, it seems to me, The rich man's son inherits wants: A heritage, it seems to me, One would not care to hold in fee. What does the poor man's son inherit? A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What does the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things; A rank adjudged by toil-won merit; Content that from employment springs; A heart that in his labor sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What does the poor man's son inherit? To make the outcast bless his door: A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. O rich man's son! there is a toil But only whitens, soft, white hands; Worth being rich to hold in fee. O poor man's son, scorn not thy state! Work only makes the soul to shine, Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, |