And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when

To come back and be forgiven.

But O the smell of that jasmine flower!
And O that music; and O the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
Non ti scordar di me,

Non ti scordar di me !

86.—THE PETRIFIED FERN.

M. B. BRANCH.

In a valley, centuries ago,

Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender,
Veining delicate and fibres tender;

Waving when the wind crept down so low;
Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it,
Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,
Drops of dew stole in by night, and crowned it,
But no foot of man e'er trod that way;
Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main,

Stately forests waved their giant branches,
Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches,
Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain,
Nature revelled in grand mysteries;
But the little fern was not of these,

Did not number with the hills and trees,
Only grew and waved its wild sweet way,
No one came to note it day by day.

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,

Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion
Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean;
Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,
Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,

Covered it, and hid it safe away.

Oh, the long, long centuries since that day!
Oh, the agony, oh, life's bitter cost,
Since that useless little fern was lost!

Useless! Lost! there came a thoughtful man
Searching nature's secrets far and deep;
From a fissure in a rocky steep

He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran,
Fairy pencillings, a quaint design,

Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and fine,
And the fern's life lay in every line!
So, I think, God hides some souls away,
Sweetly to surprise us the last day.

87.—ABOU BEN ADHEM.

LEIGH HUNT.

Abou Ben Adhem-(may his tribe increase!)—
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence ir, the room he said,

"What writest thou?' The vision raised its head,
And with a voice made all of sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel. . . Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And, lo, Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

88. THE DRUNKARD.

J. O. ROCKWELL.

“Pray, Mr. Dram-drinker, how do you do?
What in perdition's the matter with you?
How did you come by that bruise on the head;
And why are your eyes so infernally red?
Why do you mutter that infidel hymn?
And why do you tremble in every limb?

Who has done this ?-let the reason be shown,

And let the offender be pelted with stone."

"

And the Dram-drinker said: If you listen to me,

You shall hear what you hear, and shall see what you see

I had a father;—the grave is his bed:

I had a mother; she sleeps with the dead.

Freely I wept when they left me alone;

But I shed all my tears on their grave and their stone.
I planted a willow, I planted a vew.

And left them to sleep till the last trumpet blew.
Fortune was mine; and I mounted her car—
Pleasure from virtue had beckoned me far.
Onward I went, like an avalanche, down,
And the sunshine of fortune was changed to a frown.
Fortune was gone, and I took to my side
A young, and a lovely, and beautiful bride!
Her I entreated with coldness and scorn-
Tarrying back till the dawn of the morn;
Slighting her kindness, and mocking her fears-
Casting a blight on her tenderest years!
Sad, and neglected, and weary I left her:
Sorrow and care of her reason bereft her;
Till, like a star, when it falls from its pride,
She sank on the bosom of misery, and died.
I had a child; and it grew like the vine;
Fair as the rose of Damascus was mine:
Fair and I watched o'er her innocent youth,
As an angel from heaven would watch over truth.
She grew like her mother in feature and form;
Her blue eye was languid, her cheek was too warm.
Seventeen summers had shone on her brow-
The seventeenth winter beheld her laid low!
Yonder they sleep in their graves, side by side—
A father, a mother, a daughter, a bride.

Go to your children, and tell them the tale:
Tell them his cheek, too, was lividly pale;
Tell them his eye was all bloodshot and cold;
Tell them his purse was a stranger to gold;

Tell them he passed through the world they are in
The victim of sorrow, and misery, and sin;

Tell them, when life's shameful conflicts were passed,
In horror and anguish he perished at last."

89.-ELEGY ON MADAME BLAIZE.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madame Blaize;
Who never wanted a good word—
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please,
With manner wondrous winning;
She never followed wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew-
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver
By twenty beaux, or more;
The king himself has followed her-
When she has walked before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all,

Her doctors found, when she was dead-
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore;

For Kent-street well may say,

That, had she lived a twelvemonth more-
She had not died to-day.

90.-BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CÆSAR.

SHAKSPEARE.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers!

Hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly-any dear friend of Cæsar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Cæsar was no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Cæsar less but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune; honor, for his valor; and death, for his ambition! Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.

None?

Then none have I offended. to Cæsar than you shall do to Brutus.

I have done no more

The question of his

death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth—as which of you shall not? With this I depart,—that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

91.—OUR DUTY TO THE REPUBLIC.
JOSEPH STORY.

The Old World has already revealed to us, in its unsealed books, the beginning and end of all its own marvelous struggles in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece,

"The land of scholars and the nurse of arms,"

where sister republics, in fair procession, chanted the praises of liberty and the gods,-where and what is she? For two thousand years the oppressor has ground her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery. The fragments of her columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruins. She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were united at Thermopyla and Marathon, and the tide of her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of her own people. The man of Macedonia did not the work of destruction. It was already done, by her own corruptions, banishments and dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the rising and the setting sun,—where and what is she? The Eternal City yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in her decline, venerable in the majesty of religion, and calm as in the composure of death. The malaria has but traveled in the paths worn by her destroyers. More than eighteen centuries have mourned over the loss of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals before Cæsar had crossed the Rubicon; and Brutus did not restore her health by the deep probings of the Senate chamber. The Goths, and Vandals, and Huns, the swarms of the North, completed only what was already begun at home. Romans betrayed Rome. The legions were bought and sold; but the people offered the tribute-money.