And burst the curb and bounded, And whirling down in fierce career, Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "Now yield thee to our grace." Round turn'd he, as not deigning The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river "O Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank; All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain; And fast his blood was flowing; And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armour, And spent with changing blows; And oft they thought him sinking, But still again he rose. Never, I ween, did swimmer, Struggle through such a raging flood But his limbs were borne up bravely And our good father Tiber Bare bravely up his chin. "Curse on him !" quoth false Sextus; We should have sack'd the town !" For such a gallant feat of arms And now he feels the bottom; And now with shouts and clapping, When the goodman mends his armour, Goes flashing through the loom; With weeping and with laughter How well Horatius kept the bridge A WOMAN NEVER VEXT.-WILLIAM ROWLEY. The Woman never Vext states her Case to a Divine. Doc. You sent for me, gentlewoman? I have some scruples in my conscience; Sir, you now behold a wondrous woman; I can approve it good: guess at mine age. Doc. At the half-way 'twixt thirty and forty. years, Wid. 'Twas not much amiss; yet nearest to the last. I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought That even those things that I have meant a cross, And to you alone belonging: you are the moon, For there are none of like condition. Full oft and many have I heard complain Wid. Aye, Sir, 'tis wonderful, but is it well? For it is now my chief affliction. I have heard you say that the Child of Heaven Shall suffer many tribulations; Nay, kings and princes share them with their subjects: Then I that know not any chastisement, How may I know my part of childhood? Doc. 'Tis a good doubt; but make it not extreme. 'Tis some affliction that you are afflicted For want of affliction: cherish that: Yet wrest it not to misconstruction; For all your blessings are free gifts from heaven, Wid. It was, but very small: no sooner I At his best good, that I esteemed best; And thus this slender shadow of a grief Doc. All this was happy, nor Can you wrest it from a heavenly blessing. Do not The magistrate; the time is not past, but You may feel enough.— Wid. One taste more I had, although but little, In crossing of the Thames, To drop that wedlock ring from off my finger, It sunk; I prized it dear; the dearer, 'cause it kept Yet I grieved the loss; and did joy withal, Doc. This is but small. Wid. Nay, sure, I am of this opinion, That had I suffer'd a draught to be made for it, THE SENSE OF BEAUTY-CHANNING. BEAUTY is an all-pervading presence. It unfolds in the num berless flowers of the spring. It waves in the branches of the trees and the green blades of grass. It haunts the depths of the earth and sea, and gleams out in the hues of the shell and the precious stone. And not only these minute objects, but the ocean, the mountains, the clouds, the heavens, the stars, the rising and setting sun, all overflow with beauty. The universe is its temple; and those men who are alive to it, cannot lift their eyes without feeling themselves encompassed with it on every side. Now, this beauty is so precious, the enjoyments it gives are so refined and pure, so congenial with our tenderest and noble feelings, and so akin to worship, that it is painful to think of the multitude of men as living in the midst of it, and living almost as blind to it as if, instead of this fair earth and glorious sky, they were tenants of a dungeon. An infinite joy is lost to the world by the want of culture of this spiritual endowment. Suppose that I were to visit a cottage, and to see its walls lined with the choicest pictures of Raphael, and every spare nook filled with statues of the most exquisite workmanship, and that I were to learn that neither man, woman, nor child ever cast an eye at these miracles of art, how should I feel their privation; how should I want to open their eyes, and to help them to comprehend and feel the loveliness and grandeur which in vain courted their notice! But every husbandman is living in sight of the works of a diviner Artist; and how much would his existence be elevated, could he see the glory which shines forth in their forms, hues, proportions, and moral expression! I have spoken only of the beauty of nature, but how much of this mysterious charm is found in the elegant arts, and especially in literature? The best books have most beauty. The greatest truths are wronged if not linked with beauty, and they win their way most surely and deeply into the soul when arrayed in this their natural and fit attire. Now, no man receives the true culture of a man, in whom the sensibility to the beautiful is not cherished; and I know of no condition in life from which it should be excluded. Of all luxuries this is the cheapest and most at hand; and it seems to me to be most important to those conditions, where coarse labor tends to give a grossness to the mind. From the diffusion of the sense of beauty in ancient Greece, and of the taste for music in modern Germany, we learn that the people at large may partake of refined gratifications, which have hitherto been thought to be necessarily restricted to a few. THE POET OF THE FUTURE-ALEXANDER SMITH I have a strain of a departed bard; A bright-haired child; and that, when these he left The trees were gazing up into the sky, |