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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.

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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,
Now with hate I burn like a fiend of hell,
And curse the day in his arms I fell,

Not dreaming then of pain ;—

Not dreaming then what the year would bring,
For my soul was white as an angel's wing;
Now here I am wandering, a lone, lost thing,
Out in the sobbing rain!

I was no city maid, with eyes
Burned black with passion, looking lies;
No, mine were blue as the bluest skies,
And told, ah! wondrous plain,

The innocent thoughts I would gathering hold
Like spotless lambs to my bosom-fold,

But the shepherd slept, and the thief grew bold,-
Aye, sob, thou sobbing rain!

Aye, the thief grew bold: now my peace is gone!
Like a God-cursed thing, I keep wandering on,
Nor heed the bleak storm, as it breaks upon
My weary, weary brain,—

I but clasp my hands o'er an aching breast,
And shriek out a prayer for the grave and rest,
But the winds laugh aloud down the darkening west
At the sobs of the sobbing rain.

Oh, alas for my home on the distant moor!
Alas! the dear eyes that watch by the door,
Watch for a pale form they will never see more,—
Heart, cease, oh, cease thy pain!

Alas for the flowers that bloom on the heath,
Which the frost, like a lover, kisses to death!
Would I were a flower, to fall 'neath his breath,
In the sobs of the sobbing rain!

To-night I passed by his castle old,-
The one he bought when his heart he sold ;
In his arms his young bride I saw him fold,
Near by the window-pane;

Her pale face drooped 'neath his glowing eye,
Like a northern flower 'neath a tropic sky,-
A withering bud, 'neath his blasting sigh,-
Aye, sob, thou sobbing rain!

Her white arms were veiled with laces rare,
While mine are thin, and blue, and bare
To the o'er-keen knife of the midnight air;
My fingers ache with pain,

Whilst hers with jewels are e'en weighed down,-
Jewels to flash in an empress' crown,-
While of hunger I die, in tears I drown,

Here in the sobbing rain.

Aye, his bride is she, and what then am I,
That the world, with its scorn, should pass me by,-
With its mocking lip and jeering eye?

I loved, alas, in vain!

And yet, though no saintly prayer was said,
No bride's veil hid my love-bowed head,
A God looked down, and we were wed,-
Aye, sob, thou sobbing rain!

See the lightning flash in yonder sky,
Like a bold, bad thought in a villain's eye;
What a night for death! oh, that I could die,
And so end all this pain!

My feet are so weary, my feet are so sore,

Would they bear me, I wonder, as far as the moor?
Would they take me in, who watch by the door,--
In from this sobbing rain?

What darkness is this which veileth mine eyes?
Oh! 'tis my tears, or the mists of the skies,--
But then my heart, and my breath, how it flies!
And yet I feel no pain.

There! strange lights are gleaming from you open door,
But 'tis not the one on the distant moor,

And strange voices call me-I ne'er heard before.--
Out of the sobbing rain.

NOT LOST.

The look of sympathy, the gentle word,
Spoken so low that only angels heard;
The secret art of pure self-sacrifice,
Unseen by men, but marked by angels' eyes;
These are not lost.

The sacred music of a tender strain,

Wrung from a poet's heart by grief and pain,
And chanted timidly, with doubt and fear,
To busy crowds who scarcely pause to hear;
It is not lost.

The silent tears that fall at dead of night,

Over soiled robes which once were pure and white,
The prayers that rise like incense from the soul,
Longing for Christ to make it clean and whole;
These are not lost.

The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth.
When dreams had less of self and more of truth;
The childlike faith, so tranquil and so sweet,
Which sat like Mary at the Master's feet;
These are not lost.

The kindly plans devised for others' good,
So seldom guessed, so little understood;
The quiet, steadfast love that strove to win
Some wanderer from the woeful ways of sin;
These are not lost.

Not lost, O Lord, for in thy city bright,
Our eyes shall see the past by clearer light!
And things long hidden from our gaze below,
Thou wilt reveal, and we shall surely know
They were not lost.

THE HERITAGE.-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

The rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick and stone and gold;
And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares:

The bank may break, the factory burn;
Some breath may burst his bubble shares;
And soft, white hands would hardly earn
A living that would suit his turn;

A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants:
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One would not care to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart;
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;

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?
A patience learned by being poor;
Courage, if sorrow comes, to bear it;
A fellow feeling that is sure

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
That with all other level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whitens, soft, white hands;
That is the best crop from the lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son, scorn not thy state!
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great;

Work only makes the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both children of the same dear GoD;
Prove title to your heirship vast,
By record of a well-filled past;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

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