Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead! Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!" He looked upon his clients,-but none would work his will; And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home, THROUGH DEATH TO LIFE. Have you heard the tale of the Aloe plant, By humble growth of a hundred years And then a wondrous bud at its crown Have you further heard of this Aloe plant, Is an infant plant, that fastens its roots In the place where it falls on the ground; And, fast as they drop from the dying stem, By dying it liveth a thousand fold In the young that spring from the death of the old. Have you heard the tale of the Pelican,— The Arab's Gimel el Bahr, That lives in the African solitudes, Where the birds that live lonely are? Have you heard how it loves its tender young, It brings them water from fountains afar, In famine it feeds them,-what love can devise!— Have you heard the tale they tell of the swan, For it saves its song till the end of life, 'Mid the golden light of the setting sun, It sings as it soars into heaven. And the blessed notes fall back from the skies; You have heard these tales; shall I tell you one, Have you heard of him whom the heavens adore; O prince of the noble! O sufferer divine! Have you heard this tale, -the best of them all,- He dies, but his life, in untold souls, His seed prevails, and is filling the earth, He taught us to yield up the love of life, His death is our life, his loss is our gain, — Now hear these tales, ye weary and worn, Our Saviour hath told you the seed that would grow, Must pass from the view, and die away, And then will the fruit appear; The grain, that seems lost in the earth below, By death comes life, by loss comes gain; The joy for the tear, the peace for the pain. Henry Harbaugh, FOOTSTEPS ON THE OTHER SIDE Sitting in my humble doorway, Wait I for the loved who comes not, Soft! he comes,-now heart be quick, Gone by on the other side. All the night seems filled with weeping, Journey to the restless sea. I can fancy, sea, your murmur, Branches, bid your guests be silent; In my cheek the blood is rosy, Ah! how many wait forever For the steps that do not come! Many, in the still of midnight, CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON. Now, Mr. Caudle,-Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the house. No, no; There's an end of the marriage state, I think, an end of all confidence between man and wife, -if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still,-not that I care much about it,-still, I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well? And you're not going to let me know the sceret, eh? You mean to say-you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion,-not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a mason, when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason,-when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage. Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!-yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a mason; not at all, Caudle; I dare say it's a very good thing; I dare say it is: it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me,-you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Caudle. D. Jerrold. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. Somewhat back from the village street Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; Never-forever!" Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands, Like a monk who, under his cloak, By day its voice is low and light; And seems to say at each chamber door, Never-forever!" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, |