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If thee don't kill it." “I merely said,"
Cried he--"Oh,” shrieked she,
“Here in the dark they'll tickle worse.
Hold me, Richard, hold me,” said she,
“The chair is wobbling, it's like a horse,
And my foot is going through the cane
Oh, oh, oh!”
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,
And that the little mouse wasn't here,
But what he meant to say, only she
Interrupted so frightenedly,
Was that there was a mouse at home
That nibbled at the honey-comb.
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--
Don't squeeze my hand!
Oh, Dick, thee shouldn't kiss so loud."

17

WHERE ARE YOUR TREASURES ?-HORACE B. DURANT.

Wrillen expressly for this Collection.
The earth has treasures deep

Beneath the plain and mountain-girded breast,
Where golden mines and flashing jewels sleep,

In their unfathomed rest.
Unseen by mortal eye,

Untouched by eager hand their hidden store;
Yet, to possess them men still vainly sigh,

And seek them evermore.
Rare treasures has the sea-

Far down within its dim and sighing caves;
And some, alas! with blinding tears that we

Saw buried in its waves !
Yet, still the hungry surge,

Moans sadly on with angry tempest tossed ;
And evermore its hollow, solemn dirge

Is chanted for the lost!
The depths of starry skies

Have grandest treasures in their wide domain,
Too vast for thought, too bright for mortal eyes

That, longing, gaze in vain.
There is no broken tone

Within the mighty anthem that they sing,
No shore unto that wave of worlds, alone

Swept by angelic wing!
This world has treasures won

At best through peril, pain and ceaseless strife,
That must be given up when we have run

The fleeting race of life.
Yet, heaven has treasures far

Beyond compare with all our earthly dreams;
Its realms of bliss and fadeless beauties are

Fed by immortal streams.
Beyond the marge of time,

Beyond decay, unknown to sighs or tears,
Its treasures last within that deathless clime,

Throughout eternal years'

CARACTACUS.-A. J. H. DUGASNE. 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 geueral, Plautius, in three pitched battles; but, after a protracted struggle of pine years, was overcome by Ostorius, Roman Governor of Britain, who took captive the chieftain's wife and daughter. Caractacus took refuge with Cartis. mandua, Queen of the Brigantes; but was treacherously delivered up to Ostorius, and carried by him to Rome, where (bis fame having reached the capital) a great concourse of people attended, to witness his introduction to the Emperor Claudius. The behavior of the noblo barbarian, ou this occasion, was firm and magnaninous, as, with an erect presence, he replied to the Cæsar's questions; and the latter had the generosity to admit his defence, and, releasing him from his cbains, ordered his wife and child to be restored to him. Close your gates, O priests of Janus! close your brazen tem

ple 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 nd 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 Martins 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 smiote the host of Plautius with his fierce barbaric

swordTo the Forum, where the captive, trembling, waits the Cæ

sar's word. Caractacus! Caractacus! Oh! full many a Roman child To its mother's breast at midnight has been caught in terror

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.

come:

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 shao

kled 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

lightO'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 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 headProudly bends to the ovation, meed of those whom valor

led. Statue-like, in savage grandeur, stands the chief of Britain's And his bearded lip is wreathing, as with silent scorn, the

while: Bold barbarian ! dost thou mock us, mock us with that bit.

ter 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 Narcus Curtius perished, victim for his coun.

try'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!” 'T'is the Cæsar speaks

to thee!

isle;

"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 fore

head 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 de

plored; They are gone, but gloomy Hertha still enthralls their bap

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 gild

ed 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, barba

rian home!” Ceased the chief, and on the pavement sadly sank his tearAnd the wondering crowds around him held their breath

in mute surprise ; Held their breath-and then, outbursting, clove the air with

sudden cries :

ful eyes,

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