If thee don't kill it." "I merely said," Richard ran Like a man, And held her, you know, For it was plain She needed support. And then the report Has it he told her he loved her dear, Was that there was a mouse at home Her "oh's" were stopped. Her voice it dropped. "Dick," said she, "you men are so Prone to go Wrong when you had better go right. Pick up the lamp, and make a light. I'm rather sorry the table split, For mother set great store by it. But pick up the lamp and make a light." "But," said he, "Ray, did thee think the mouse Was in this house?" "I think," said she, a little mouse Grows big as an elephant when there's cause. And the way of the wind can be told by straws It is only a man that see-saws, And a woman's wit can sometimes hit An expedient even if 'tis a mouse That sojourns in another house. Let the little mouse stay in thy home And have its fill of honey-comb. Now make a light, and give me my cloud, I'm sure I've dropped some stitches and-- Oh, Dick, thee shouldn't kiss so loud." WHERE ARE YOUR TREASURES?-HORACE B. DURANT. Written expressly for this Collection. The earth has treasures deep Beneath the plain and mountain-girded breast, Unseen by mortal eye, Untouched by eager hand their hidden store; Rare treasures has the sea Far down within its dim and sighing caves; Yet, still the hungry surge, Moans sadly on with angry tempest tossed; The depths of starry skies Have grandest treasures in their wide domain, There is no broken tone Within the mighty anthem that they sing, This world has treasures won At best through peril, pain and ceaseless strife, Yet, heaven has treasures far Beyond compare with all our earthly dreams; Beyond the marge of time, Beyond decay, unknown to sighs or tears, CARACTACUS.-A. J. H. DUGANNE. Caractacus was a British prince, who placed himself at the head of the Silures, a people of North Wales, in a revolt against the Romans. He defeated the Ro man general, Plautius, in three pitched battles; but, after a protracted struggle of nine years, was overcome by Ostorius, Roman Governor of Britain, who took captive the chieftain's wife and daughter. Caractacus took refuge with Cartismandua, Queen of the Brigantes; but was treacherously delivered up to Ostorius, and carried by him to Rome, where (his fame having reached the capital) a great concourse of people attended, to witness his introduction to the Emperor Claudius. The behavior of the noble barbarian, on this occasion, was firm and magnanimous, as, with an erect presence, he replied to the Caesar's questions; and the latter had the generosity to admit his defence, and, releasing him from his chains, ordered his wife and child to be restored to him. Close your gates, O priests of Janus! close your brazen temple gates! For the bold Ostorius Scapula invokes the peaceful fates; And the brave Britannic Legion at the Arch of Triumph waits. Bold Ostorius-home returning-for the island war is o'er; And the wild Silurian rebels shall arise in arms no more: Captive stands their savage monarch on the Tiber's golden shore. Crowded are the banks of Tiber, crowded is the Appian way; And through all the Via Sacra ye may mark the dense ar ray Of the tramping throngs who celebrate a Roman gala-day. From the joyous Campus Martius to the lonely Aventine, From the Capitolian Palace to Apollo's Tiber shrine, Hurrying onward to the Forum, sweeps the long, unbroken line, To the Forum, where the captive, chief of Britain's savage horde, He who smote the host of Plautius with his fierce barbaric sword To the Forum, where the captive, trembling, waits the Cæ sar's word. Caractacus! Caractacus! Oh! full many a Roman child wild, When some fearful dream of Britain's chief her sleeping sense beguiled. Thrice in battle sank our Eagles-shame that Romans lived to tell! Thrice three years our baffled legions strove this rebel chief to quell: Vain were all our arms against him, till by treachery he fell. Now, behold, he is our captive! in the market place he stands, And around him are the lictors and the stern Prætorian bands: Stands he like a king among them, lifting high his shackled hands. Sure he sees the steel-clad cohorts, sure he marks the lic tors nigh, Yet he stands before our monarch with a glance as proudly high As if he, in truth, were Cæsar, and 'twere Claudius that should die. Gazes he o'er prince and people, with a glance of wondering light O'er the Rostra, o'er the Forum, up the Palatinian height, O'er the serried ranks of soldiers stretching far beneath his sight. Grandly swell the crash of cymbals, blare of trump, and roll of drum, As adown that storied market-place the veteran cohorts come: Then, at once, the clamorous shoutings sink into a brooding hum. Tramping onward move the legions, tramping on with iron tread, While Ostorius, marching vanward, proudly bends his mar tial head Proudly bends to the ovation, meed of those whom valor led. Statue-like, in savage grandeur, stands the chief of Britain's isle; And his bearded lip is wreathing, as with silent scorn, the while : Bold barbarian! dost thou mock us, mock us with that bitter smile? Lo! thou standest where the Brutus sware by chaste Lucre tia's blood; Where the Roman sire, Virginius, o'er his virgin daughter stood; And where Marcus Curtius perished, victim for his country's good. Lo! thou standest in the Forum, where the stranger's voice is free, Where the captive may bear witness-thus our Roman laws decree! "Lift thy voice, O chief of Britons!" "Tis the Cæsar speaks to thee! "Lift thy voice, O wondering stranger! Thou hast marked our Roman state: All the terrors, all the glories, that on boundless empire wait! Boldly speak thy thought, O Briton, be it framed in love or hate!' Thus our monarch to the stranger. Then, from off his forehead fair, Backward with a Jove-like motion, flung the chief his gol den hair: And he said, "O King of Romans! freely I my thought declare. "Vanquished is my warlike nation, stricken by the Roman sword; Lost to me my wife and children, long have I their fate deplored; They are gone- but gloomy Hertha still enthralls their hap less lord. "Yet I murmur not, but wonder-wonder, as in Jotna dreams, At each strange and glittering marvel that before my vision gleams; At the blaze of Roman glory which upon my senses streams. "Romans! even as gods ye prosper, boundless are your gifts and powers! Ye have fields with grain o'erladen, gardens thick with fruits and flowers, Halls of shining marble builded, cities strong with battling towers. "I have marked your gorgeous dwellings, and your works of wondrous art; Bridges high in air suspended, columned shrine, and gilded mart, And I marveled-much I marveled-in my poor barbarian heart. "For this day I saw your mighty gods beneath the Pantheon dome, Gods of gold, and bronze, and silver,-and I marveled, King of Rome, That such wealthy gods should envy me my poor, barbarian home!" Ceased the chief, and on the pavement sadly sank his tearful eyes, And the wondering crowds around him held their breath in mute surprise; Held their breath-and then, outbursting, clove the air with sudden cries: |