He

gave He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale;

the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale;

So much was he pleased with the thought that each guest Would take from him noise, and restore him to rest.

"And now," said he, "tell me, where mean you to move? I hope to some spot where your trade will improve." "Why, sir,” replied one, with a grin on his phiz, "Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his!"

CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.

The scene, in Croly's tragedy of "Catiline," from which the following is taken, represents the Roman Senate in session, lictors present, a consul in the chair, and Cicero on the floor as the prosecutor of Catiline and his fellow-conspirators. Catiline enters, and takes his seat on the senatorial bench, whereupon the senators go over to the other side. Cicero repeats his charges in Catiline's presence; and the latter rises and replies, "Conscript fathers, I do not rise," etc. Cicero, in his rejoinder, produces proofs, and exclaims:

"Tried and convicted traitor! Go from Rome!"

Catiline haughtily tells the Senate to make the murder as they make the law. Cicero directs an officer to give up the record of Catiline's banishment. Catiline then utters those words: "Banished from Rome," etc.; but when he tells the consul

"He dares not touch a hair of Catiline,"

the consul reads the decree of his banishment, and orders the lictors to drive the "traitor" from the temple. Catiline, furious at being thus baffled, catches at the word "traitor," and terminates the scene with his audacious denunciation, "Here I devote your Senate," etc. At the close, he rushes through the portal, as the lictors and senators crowd upon him.

MONSCRIPT fathers!

CONSO

I do not rise to waste the night in words;

Let that plebeian talk; 't is not my trade;

But here I stand for right- let him show proofs

For Roman right; though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there!
Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves!
His charge is false; - I dare him to his proofs.
You have my answer. Let my actions speak!

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!

Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free From daily contact of the things I loathe?

"Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?

Banished! I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain!
I held some slack allegiance till

But now my sword's my own.

this hour;

Smile on, my lords!
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.

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.

I go; but not to leap the gulf alone.
I 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.

TRUTH AND HONOR.

F wealth thou art wooing, or title and fame,

shame;

There is more in the running than winning the race;
This marks thee as worthy, that brands thee as base.
Oh, then, be a man, and whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honor thy guide!

If a king, be thy kingship right royally shown,
And trust to thy subjects to shelter thy throne;
Rely not on weapons or armies of might,

But on that which endureth-laws loving and right;
Though a king, be a man, and whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honor thy guide.

If a prince, or a noble, depend not on on blood-
The heart truly noble is that which is good;
If the stain of dishonor encrimson thy brow,

Thou art slave to the peasant that sweats at the plough.

Be noble as men; and whatever betide,

Keep truth your companion, and honor your guide.

If a lover, be constant, confiding, and kind,
For doubting is death to the sensitive mind;

Love's exquisite passion a breath may destroy-
Who soweth in faith expects harvests of joy.
In loving, be men, and whatever betide,
Keep truth your companion, and honor your guide.

If a parent, be firm, yet forgiving and true;
If a child, honor him to whom honor is due;
If rich, or if poor, or whatever thou be,
Remember the truthful alone are the free.

Be ever a man, and whatever betide,

Keep truth thy companion, and honor thy guide.

Then, though sickness may come and misfortune may fall,
The trust in thy bosom surviveth them all;

Truth - Honor - Love - Friendship, no tempest can pale:
They're flowers breathing balm in adversity's gale.
Oh, the manlike is godlike, and so shall betide,
While truth's thy companion, and honor thy guide.

W

THE POLISH BOY.

HENCE come those shrieks so wild and shrill,
That cut, like blades of steel, the air,

Causing the creeping blood to chill

With the sharp cadence of despair?

Again they come, as if a heart

Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,

And every string had voice apart

To. utter its peculiar woe.

Whence came they? from yon temple, where
An altar, raised for private prayer,

Now forms the warrior's marble bed,
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led?

The dim funereal tapers throw
A holy lustre o'er his brow,

And burnish with their rays of light
The mass of curls that gather bright
Above the haughty brow and eye
Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

What hand is that, whose icy press
Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,
But meets no answering caress?
No thrilling fingers seek its clasp;
It is the hand of her whose cry
Ran wildly late upon the air,
When the dead warrior met her eye
Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony brow,
She murmurs forth her anguish now.
But hark! the tramp of heavy feet
Is heard along the bloody street!
Nearer and nearer yet they come,
With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
Now whispered curses, low and deep,
Around the holy temple creep;
The gate is burst! a ruffian band
Rush in, and savagely demand,
With brutal voice and oath profane,
The startled boy for exile's chain!

The mother sprang with gesture wild,
And to her bosom clasped her child;
Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye,
Shouted, with fearful energy,

"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread
Too near the body of my dead!

Nor touch the living boy; I stand

Between him and your lawless band!

Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands,

And drag me to Siberia's wild,

To perish, if 't will save my child!"