CXXXVII.-OUT IN THE COLD.

WITH blue, cold hands, and stockingless feet,
Wandered a child in the cheerless street;
Children were many, who, housed and fed,
Lovingly nestled, dreaming in bed-
Carolled their joy in a land of bliss,
Without a care or thought of this;
They were warm in humanity's fold,
But this little child was out in the cold-
Out in the cold.

Bleak blew the wind through the cheerless street;
Dashing along through the merciless sleet,

All furred and shawled, man, woman, and child
Hurried along, for the storm grew wild;

They could not bear the icicle's blast,
Winter so rude on their pathway was cast;
Alas! none pitied-no one consoled

The little wanderer out in the cold

Out in the cold.

She had no father, she had no mother,

Sisters none, and never a brother;

They had passed on to the star world above—
She remained here, with nothing to love,
"Nothing to love,"-oh! men did not know
What wealth of joy that child could bestow;
So they went by and worshiped their gold,
Leaving the little one out in the cold—

Out in the cold.

Wandered she on till the shades of night
Veiled the shivering form from sight;
Then, with cold hands over her breast,

She prayed to her Father in Heaven for rest.
When hours had fled, 'neath the world's dark frown,
Hungered and chilled, she laid herself down;
Lay down to rest while the wealthy rolled

In carriages past her out in the cold—

-Out in the cold.

Out in the cold-lo! an angel form

Brought her white robes that were rich and warm;
Out in the cold on the sleeping child
The sainted face of a mother smiled;
A sister pressed on her brow a kiss-
Led her 'mid scenes of heavenly bliss;
And angels gathered into their fold
That night the little one out of the cold—
Out of the cold.

CXXXVIII.—RICHELIEU AND FRANCE.

My liege, your anger can recall your trust,
Annul my office, spoil me of my lands,
Rifle my coffers; but my name,—my deeds,—
Are royal in a land beyond your scepter.
Pass sentence on me, if you will;—from kings,
Lo, I appeal to time! Be just, my liege.
I found your kingdom rent with heresies,
And bristling with rebellion;-lawless nobles
And breadless serfs; England fomenting discord;
Austria, her clutch on your dominion; Spain
Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind

To armed thunderbolts. The arts lay dead;
Trade rotted in your marts; your armies mutinous,
Your treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke
Your trust, so be it! and I leave you sole,
Supremest monarch of the mightiest realm
From Ganges to the Icebergs. Look without,—
No foe not humbled! Look within,-the arts
Quit, for our schools, their old Hesperides,
The golden Italy! while throughout the veins
Of your vast empire flows in strengthening tides
Trade, the calm health of nations! Sire, I know
That men have called me cruel:-
-

I am not; I am just! I found France rent asunder:
The rich men despots and the poor banditti;

Sloth in the mart and schism within the temple;

Brawls festering to rebellion; and weak laws
Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths.
I have re-created France; and, from the ash
Of the old feudal and decrepit carcass,
Civilization, on her luminous wings,

Soars, phoenix-like, to Jove! What was my art?
Genius, some say;-some, fortune;-witchcraft, some.
Not so, my art was justice!

-Sir E. Bulwer Lytton.

CXXXIX.—THE WINE-CUP.

LYCIUS, the Cretan prince, of race divine,
Like many a royal youth, was fond of wine;
So, when his father died and left him king,
He spent his days and nights in reveling.
Show him a wine-cup, he would soon lay down
His scepter, and for roses change his crown,
Neglectful of his people and his state,

The noble cares that make a monarch great.
One day in summer-so the story goes-
Among his seeming friends, but secret foes,

He sat, and drained the wine-cup, when there came
A gray-haired man, and called him by his name,

Lycius!" It was his tutor, Philocles,

Who held him when a child upon his knees.
'Lycius," the old man said, "it suits not you
To waste your life among this drunken crew.
Bethink you of your sire, and how he died
For that bright scepter lying by your side,
And of the blood your loving people shed
To keep that golden circlet on your head.
Ah! how have you repaid them?” "Philocles,"
The prince replied, "what idle words are these?
I loved my father, and I mourned his fate;
But death must come to all men, soon or late.
Could we recall our dear ones from their urn,
Just as they lived and loved, 't were well to mourn;
But since we can not, let us smile instead:

I hold the living better than the dead.
My father reigned and died, I live and reign.
As for my people, why should they complain?
Have I not ended all their deadly wars,

Bound up their wounds, and honored their old scars? They bleed no more,-enough for me and mine. The blood o' th' grape,-the ripe, the royal wine! Slaves, fill my cup again!" They filled, and crowned His brow with roses, but the old man frowned, "Lycius," he said once more, "the state demands Something besides the wine-cup in your hands; Resume your crown and scepter,-be not blind: Kings live not for themselves, but for mankind." "Good Philocles," the shamèd prince replied, His soft eye lighting with a flash of pride, "Your wisdom has forgotten one small thingI am no more your pupil but your king. Kings are in place of gods; remember, then, They answer to the gods, and not to men.' "Hear, then, the gods, who speak to-day through me, The sad but certain words of prophecy: 'Touch not the cup; small sins in kings are great; Be wise in time, nor further tempt your fate.'” "Old man! there is no fate, save that which lies In our own hands, that shapes our destinies; It is a dream. If I should will and do "A deed of ill, no good could thence ensue; And willing goodness, shall not goodness be Sovereign, like ill, to save herself and me?

I laugh at fate." The wise man shook his head:
"Remember what the oracles have said;
'What most he loves, who rules this Cretan land,
Shall perish by the wine-cup in his hand.'
"Prophet of ill! no more, or you shall die!
See how my deeds shall give your words the lie,
And baffle fate, and all who hate me-so!"
Sheer through the casement, in the court below,
He dashed the half-drained goblet in disdain,
That scattered as it flew a bloody rain;

His courtiers laughed. But now a woman's shriek

Rose terrible without, and blanched his cheek:
He hurried to the casement in a fright,
And, lo! his eyes were blasted with a sight
Too pitiful to think of-death was there,
And wringing hands, and madness, and despair!
There stood a nurse, and on her bosom lay
A dying child, whose life-blood streamed away,
Reddening its robe like wine! It was his own,

His son, the prince that should have filled the throne
When he was dead, and ruled the Cretan land,—
Slain by the wine-cup from his father's hand!

CXL. SCENE FROM HAMLET.

Horatio, Hamlet, Marcellus, and Bernardo."

Hor. HAIL to your lordship!

Ham.

I am glad to see you well:

Horatio, or I do forget myself.

Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.
Ham. Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you:
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?—
Marcellus?

Ham. I am very glad to see you. [To BER.] Good even, sir.

But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg

Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord.

Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so,
Nor shall you do mine ear that violence,
To make it truster of your own report
Against yourself: I know you are no truant.
But what is your affair in Elsinore?

We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.
Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.
Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;
I think it was to see my mother's wedding.
Hor. Indeed, my lord, it follow'd hard upon.
Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.