But this I will avow, that I have scorned,
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong!
Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword,
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back,
Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts
The gates of honor on me-turning out
The Roman from his birthright; and, for what?

To fling your offices to every slave!

[Looking round him.

Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb,
And, having wound their loathsome track to the top
Of this huge, mouldering monument of Rome,
Hang hissing at the nobler man below!

Come, consecrated lictors, from your thrones;

[To the Senate.

Fling down your sceptres; take the rod and axe,

And make the murder as you make the law!

Who says this? my head?

It breaks this hour;

my

chain!

Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free
From daily contact of the things I loathe?
"Tried and convicted traitor!"
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on
Banished! I thank you for 't.
I held some slack allegiance till
But now my sword's my own.
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.

Smile on, my lords!

But here I stand and scoff you! here, I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face!
Your consul's merciful. For this, all thanks.
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline!

"Traitor!" I go; but I return. This-trial! Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs To stir a fever in the blood of age,

Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.

This day's the birth of sorrow! This hour's work
Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my lords!
For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus!—all shames and crimes:
Wan treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ;
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup;
Naked rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Till anarchy comes down on you like night,
And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.

J

I go; but not to leap the gulf alone.

go; but, when I come, 't will be the burst

Of ocean in the earthquake-rolling back

In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well;
You build my funeral pile; but your best blood
Shall quench its flame! Back, slaves!

I will return.

[To the lictors.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.-MRS. SOUTHEY.

TREAD Softly! bow the head

In reverent silence bow!

No passing bell doth toll;
Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger, however great,

With holy reverence bow!
There's one in that poor shed-
One by that paltry bed-

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state:
Enter!-no crowds attend;

Enter!-no guards defend
This palace gate.

That pavement damp and cold
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound

An infant wail alone;

A sob suppressed—again

That short deep gasp-and then
The parting groan !

Oh, change!-oh! wondrous change!

Burst are the prison bars!

This moment, there, so low,

So agonized, and now.

Beyond the stars!

Oh, change!-stupendous change!

There lies the soulless clod!

The sun eternal breaks;

The new immortal wakes

Wakes with his God!

MAUD MULLER.-WHITTIER.

MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast,-

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks!" said the Judge; " a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

And all should bless me who left our door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair.

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay:

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold,
And his mother vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.