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

3. 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. growl deepened into a roar of tremendous volume, which shook the enormous edifice to its very center. At that moment, the door was thrown open, and the huge monster of the forest sprung 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.

4. 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 amphitheater, as the enraged animal, mad with anguish from the wound he had just received, wheeled hastily round, and sprung a second time at the Nazarene.

5. 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 Nazarene drew a short dagger from his girdle, and endeavored to regain his feet. But his foe, aware of his design, precipitating himself upon him, threw him with violence to the ground.

6. 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.

7. The Nazarene, now watching his opportunity, sprung 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 center of life, and his huge form fell with a mighty crash upon the arena, amid the thundering acclamations of the populace.

LIV.-HENRY V. AT HARFLEUR.

SHAKSPEARE.

1. ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

Or close the wall up with our English dead.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility;

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully as doth a gall-ed rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.

2. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full hight. Now on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof;
Fathers, that like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war!

3. And you, good yeomen,

Whose limbs are made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath not noble luster in your eye;
I see you stand like grayhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start: the game 's a-foot;
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge,
Cry, Heaven for Harry, England, and St. George!

LV.-SEVEN AGES OF MAN.

1. ALL the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

SHAKSPEARE.

They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like a pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth.

2. And then, the justice,

In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances:
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history,

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

LVI.-PARRHASIUS.

N. P. WILLIS.

1. PARRHASIUS stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus,
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth
With his far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip,

2.

3.

Were like the winged god's breathing from his flight.

Bring me the captive now !

My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift

From my waked spirit airily and swift;

And I could paint the bow

Upon the bended heavens; around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

"Ha! bind him on his back!

Look! as Prometheus in my picture here!

Quick! or he faints! stand with the cordial near!
Now, bend him to the rack!

Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh !

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

"So! let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!

How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!

"Ah! there's a deathless name!

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn;
And though its crown of flame

Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me;
By all the fiery stars! I'd pluck it on me!

"Ay, though it bid me rifle

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst;
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first;
Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild!

"All! I would do it all,

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot;

Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot.

Oh heavens! but I appall

Your heart, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives
Let him not faint! rack him till he revives!

"Vain-vain-give o'er. His eye

Glazes apace.

He does not feel you now.

Stand back! I'll paint the death dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one-till I eclipse

Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

"Shivering! Hark! he mutters

Brokenly now; that was a difficult breath;
Another? Wilt thou never come, oh, Death?

Look! how his temple flutters!