I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell,

For they reckon not by years or months where he has gone to dwell.

To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were

given,

And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.

I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel,

Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal.

But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,

Where other blessed infants are-on their Saviour's loving breast.

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,
But his sleep is blest with endless dreams of joy forever fresh.
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering
wings,

And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things.

I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may

sever,

But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be;

When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery:

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief

and pain;

Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.

THE GLADIATOR.

Stillness reigned in the vast amphitheatre, and from the countless thousands that thronged the spacious inclosure, not a breath was heard. Every tongue was mute with suspense, and every eye strained with anxiety toward the gloomy portal where the gladiator was momentarily expected to enter. At length the trumpet sounded, and they led him

forth into the broad arena. There was no mark of fear upon his manly countenance, as with majestic step and fearless eye he entered. He stood there, like another Apollo, firm and unbending as the rigid oak. His fine proportioned form was matchless, and his turgid muscles spoke his giant strength.

"I am here," he cried, as his proud lip curled in scorn, "to glut the savage eyes of Rome's proud populace. Aye, like a dog you throw me to a beast; and what is my offense? Why, forsooth, I am a Christian. But know, ye can not fright my soul, for it is based upon a foundation stronger than the adamantine rock. Know ye, whose hearts are harder than the flinty stone, my heart quakes not with fear; and here I aver, I would not change conditions with the blood-stained Nero, crowned though he be, not for the wealth of Rome. Blow ye your trumpet--I am ready."

The trumpet sounded, and a long, low growl was heard to proceed from the cage of a half-famished Numidian lion, situated at the farthest end of the arena. The growl deepened into a roar of tremendous volume, which shook the enormous edifice to its very centre. At that moment, the door was thrown open, and the huge monster of the forest sprang from his den, with one mighty bound to the opposite side of the arena. His eyes blazed with the brilliancy of fire, as he slowly drew his length along the sand, and prepared to make a spring upon his formidable antagonist. The gladiator's eye quailed not; his lip paled not; but he stood immovable as a statue, waiting the approach of his wary foe.

At length, the lion crouched himself into an attitude for springing, and with the quickness of lightning, leaped full at the throat of the gladiator. But he was prepared for him, and bounding lightly on one side, his falchion flashed for a moment over his head, and in the next it was deeply dyed in the purple blood of the monster. A roar of redoubled fury again resounded through the spacious amphitheatre, as the enraged animal, mad with anguish from the wound he had just received, wheeled hastily round, and sprang a second time at the Nazarene.

Again was the falchion of the cool and intrepid gladiator deeply planted in the breast of his terrible adversary; but so

sudden had been the second attack, that it was impossible to avoid the full impetus of his bound, and he staggered and fell upon his knee. The monster's paw was upon his shoulder, and he felt his hot fiery breath upon his cheek, as it rushed through his wide distended nostrils. The Nazarenc drew a short dagger from his girdle, and endeavored to rc gain his feet. But his foe, aware of his design, precipitating himself upon him, threw him with violence to the ground.

The excitement of the populace was now wrought up to a high pitch, and they waited the result with breathless suspense. A low growl of satisfaction now announced the noble animal's triumph, as he sprang fiercely upon his prostrate enemy. But it was of short duration; the dagger of the gladiator pierced his vitals, and together they rolled over and over, across the broad arena. Again the dagger drank deep of the monster's blood, and again a roar of anguish reverberated through the stately edifice.

The Nazarene, now watching his opportunity, sprang with the velocity of thought from the terrific embrace of his enfeebled antagonist, and regaining his falchion which had fallen to the ground in the struggle, he buried it deep in the heart of the infuriated beast. The noble king of the forest, faint from the loss of blood, concentrated all his remaining strength in one mighty bound; but it was too late; the last blow had been driven home to the centre of life, and his huge form fell with a mighty crash upon the arena, amid the thundering acclamations of the populace.

LETTING THE OLD CAT DIE.

Not long ago, I wandered near

A play-ground in the wood;

And there heard words from a youngster's lips,
That I never quite understood.

"Now let the old cat die!" he laughed;

I saw him give a push,

Then gaily scamper away as he spied

My face peep over the bush.

But what he pushed, or where he went,
I could not well make out,

On account of the thicket of bending boughs
That bordered the place about.

"The little villain has stoned a cat,

Or hung it upon a limb,

And left it to die all alone," I said,
"But I'll play the mischief with him."

I forced my way through the bending boughs,
The poor old cat to seek,

And what did I find but a swinging child,
With her bright hair brushing her cheek!

Her bright hair floated to and fro,

Her little red dress flashed by;
But the loveliest thing of all, I thought,
Was the gleam of her laughing eye.
Swinging and swinging, back and forth,
With the rose light in her face,
She seemed like a bird and a flower in one,
And the forest her native place.

"Steady! I'll send you up, my child,"
But she stopped me with a cry,

Go 'way, go 'way! don't touch me, please;
I'm letting the old cat die."

"You're letting him die!" I cried, aghast,
"Why, where's the cat, my dear?"
And lo! the laugh that filled the wood
Was a thing for the birds to hear.

"Why, don't you know," said the little maid, The sparkling, beautiful elf,

"That we call it 'letting the old cat die,' When the swing stops all of itself?"

Then swinging and swinging, and looking back, With the merriest look in her eye,

She bade me "Good-bye," and I left her alɔne, "Letting the old cat die."

By the hopes thou wouldst not wither,
By the love that round thee clings,
Never turn thy footsteps whither
Wild the maniac drunkard sings!
Enter not the poisoned vapor,

Where oaths and fumes together roll,
Kneel and pray by lonely taper,

Pray for strength to shun the bowl.

By bleared eye, and voice whose quaking
Fills the agony within,

By the palsied hand, which shaking
Ever lifts the draft of sin,
By the torment still increasing
Gnawing brain, and harrowing soul,
Thirst unsated and unceasing,
Dearest children, shun the bowl!

By each holy kiss, thy mother
On thy infant forehead pressed,
Love of father, sister, brother,
All that purifies thy breast;
By the hope of Heaven within thee,
Oh! debase not mind and soul,—
Let not sin's own chalice win thee;-
Dearest children, shun the bowl.

A SAILOR'S STORY.-MRS. C. H. N. THOMAS,

My home was on the mountain side,

I ne'er had seen the sea,

But ev'ry tale of ocean life

I read most eagerly.

I fashioned mimic ships and boats

Like the pictures I had seen,

And played with them, while others played Upon the village green.

I learned the songs the sailors sung

About the "deep blue sea,"

And said, that when I grew a man,

A sailor I would be!

My mother's face grew pale; for her

The ocean had no charms,

And she would wake with shivering dread
And fold me in her arms.