tore the ground with his talons; he lashed his streaming sides with his tail; he lifted up his mane and bared his fangs; But his approaching was no longer with a bound; he dreaded the sword, and came snuffing the blood on the sand, and stealing round the body in circuits still diminishing.

The confusion in the vast assemblage was now extreme. Voices innumerable called for aid. Women screamed and fainted, men burst into indignant clamors at this prolonged cruelty. Even the hard hearts of the populace, accustomed as they were to the sacrifice of life, were roused to honest curses. The guards grasped their arms, and waited but for a sign from the emperor. But Nero gave no sign.

I looked upon the woman's face; it was Salome! I sprang upon my feet. I called on her name,-called on her, by every feeling of nature, to fly from that place of death, to come to my arms, to think of the agonies of all that loved her.

She had raised the head of Constantius on her knee, and was wiping the pale visage with her hair. At the sound of my voice, she looked up, and, calmly casting back the locks from her forehead, fixed her eyes upon me. She still knelt; one hand supported the head,-with the other she pointed to it as her only answer. I again adjured her. There was the silence of death among the thousands around me. A fire dashed into her eye,-her cheek burned,—she waved her hand with an air of superb sorrow.

"This The

"I am come to die," she uttered, in a lofty tone. bleeding body was my husband,-I have no father. world contains to me but this clay in my arms. Yet," and she kissed the ashy lips before her, " yet, my Constantius, it was to save that father that your generous heart defied the peril of this hour. It was to redeem him from the hand of evil that you abandoned your quiet home!-Yes, cruel fath er, here lies the noble being that threw open your dungeon, that led you safe through the conflagration, that, to the last moment of his liberty, only sought how he might preserve and protect you." Tears at length fell in floods from her eyes. But," said she, in a tone of wild power, "he was betrayed, and may the Power whose thunders avenge the cause of his people, pour down just retribution upon the head that dared"

66

I heard my own condemnation about to be pronounced by the lips of my own child. Wound up to the last degree of suffering, I tore my hair, leaped upon the bars before me, and plunged into the arena by her side. The height stunned me; I tottered a few paces and fell. The lion gave a roar and sprang upon me. I lay helpless under him, I heard the gnashing of his white fangs above me.

An exulting shout arose. I saw him reel as if struck,gore filled his jaws. Another mighty blow was driven to his heart. He sprang high in the air with a howl. He dropped; he was dead. The amphitheatre thundered with acclama

tions.

With Salome clinging to my bosom, Constantius raised me from the ground. The roar of the lion had roused him from his swoon, and two blows saved me. The falchion had broken in the heart of the monster. The whole multitude

stood up, supplicating for our lives in the name of filial piety and heroism. Nero, devil as he was, dared not resist the strength of popular feeling. He waved a signal to the guards; the portal was opened, and my children, sustaining my feeble steps, showered with garlands and ornaments from innumerable hands, slowly led me from the arena.

I'll trust ye no more;

But with giant hand I'll pluck

From Norway's frozen shore

Her tallest pine, and dip its top

Into the crater of Vesuvius,

And upon the high and burnished heavens
I'll write-

Agnes, I love thee!"-
And I would like to see any
Dog-goned wave wash that out.

OUT IN THE SOBBING RAIN.-DORA SHAW.

I loved him long, and I loved him well,
Now with hate I burn like a fiend of hell,
And curse the day in his arms I fell,

Not dreaming then of pain ;—

Not dreaming then what the year would bring,
For my soul was white as an angel's wing;
Now here I am wandering, a lone, lost thing,
Out in the sobbing rain!

I was no city maid, with eyes
Burned black with passion, looking lies;
No, mine were blue as the bluest skies,
And told, ah! wondrous plain,

The innocent thoughts I would gathering hold
Like spotless lambs to my bosom-fold,

But the shepherd slept, and the thief grew bold,—
Aye, sob, thou sobbing rain!

Aye, the thief grew bold: now my peace is gone! Like a God-cursed thing, I keep wandering on, Nor heed the bleak storm, as it breaks upon

My weary, weary brain,

I but clasp my hands o'er an aching breast,
And shriek out a prayer for the grave and rest,
But the winds laugh aloud down the darkening west
At the sobs of the sobbing rain.

Oh, alas for my home on the distant moor!
Alas! the dear eyes that watch by the door,
Watch for a pale form they will never see more,—
Heart, cease, oh, cease thy pain!

Alas for the flowers that bloom on the heath,
Which the frost, like a lover, kisses to death!
Would I were a flower, to fall 'neath his breath,
In the sobs of the sobbing rain!

To-night I passed by his castle old,

The one he bought when his heart he sold ;
In his arms his young bride I saw him fold,
Near by the window-pane;

Her pale face drooped 'neath his glowing eye,
Like a northern flower 'neath a tropic sky,-
A withering bud, 'neath his blasting sigh,-
Aye, sob, thou sobbing rain!

Her white arms were veiled with laces rare,
While mine are thin, and blue, and bare
To the o'er-keen knife of the midnight air;
My fingers ache with pain,

Whilst hers with jewels are e'en weighed down,-
Jewels to flash in an empress' crown,--

While of hunger I die, in tears I drown,

Here in the sobbing rain.

Aye, his bride is she, and what then am I,
That the world, with its scorn, should pass me by,—
With its mocking lip and jeering eye?

I loved, alas, in vain!

And yet, though no saintly prayer was said,
No bride's veil hid my love-bowed head,
A God looked down, and we were wed,-
Aye, sob, thou sobbing rain!

See the lightning flash in yonder sky,
Like a bold, bad thought in a villain's eye;
What a night for death! oh, that I could die,
And so end all this pain!

My feet are so weary, my feet are so sore,

Would they bear me, I wonder, as far as the moor?
Would they take me in, who watch by the door,-
In from this sobbing rain?

What darkness is this which veileth mine eyes?
Oh! 'tis my tears, or the mists of the skies,--
But then my heart, and my breath, how it flies!
And yet I feel no pain.

There! strange lights are gleaming from yon open door, But 'tis not the one on the distant moor,

And strange voices call me-I ne'er heard before.

Out of the sobbing rain.

NOT LOST.

The look of sympathy, the gentle word,
Spoken so low that only angels heard;
The secret art of pure self-sacrifice,
Unseen by men, but marked by angels' eyes;
These are not lost.

The sacred music of a tender strain,

Wrung from a poet's heart by grief and pain,
And chanted timidly, with doubt and fear,
To busy crowds who scarcely pause to hear;
It is not lost.

The silent tears that fall at dead of night,
Over soiled robes which once were pure and white
The prayers that rise like incense from the soul,
Longing for Christ to make it clean and whole;
These are not lost.

The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth,
When dreams had less of self and more of truth;
The childlike faith, so tranquil and so sweet,
Which sat like Mary at the Master's feet;
These are not lost.

The kindly plans devised for others' good,
so seldom guessed, so little understood;
The quiet, steadfast love that strove to win
Some wanderer from the woeful ways of sin;
These are not lost.

Not lost, O Lord, for in thy city bright,
Our eyes shall see the past by clearer light!
And things long hidden from our gaze below,
Thou wilt reveal, and we shall surely know
They were not lost.

THE HERITAGE.-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

The rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick and stone and gold;

And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One would not care to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares:

The bank may break, the factory burn;
Some breath may burst his bubble shares;
And soft, white hands would hardly earn
A living that would suit his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants:
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair;