And he has bared his shining blade,
And springs he on the shaggy foe;
Dreadful the strife, but briefly played;-
The desert-king lies low:

His long and loud death-howl is made;
And there must end the show.
And when the multitude were calm,
The favorite freed man took the palm.

"Kneel down, Rome's emperor beside?" He knelt, that dark man;-o'er his brow Was thrown a wreath in crimson dyed; And fair words gild it now:

"Thou art the bravest youth that ever tried To lay a lion low;

And from our presence forth thou go'st
To lead the Dacians of our host."

Then flushed his cheek, but not with pride
And grieved and gloomily spake he:
"My cabin stands where blithely glide
Proud Danube's waters to the sea:
I have a young and blooming bride,
And I have children three:-
No Roman wealth or rank can give
Such joy as in their arms to live.

"My wife sits at the cabin door,

With throbbing heart and swollen eyes;-
While tears her cheek are coursing o'er,
She speaks of sundered ties;
She bids my tender babes deplore
The death their father dies;

She tells these jewels of my home,
I bleed to please the rout of Rome.

"I cannot let those cherubs stray
Without their sire's protecting care;
And I would chase the griefs away
Which cloud my wedded fair.”"
The monarch spoke; the guards obey;
And gates unclosed are:

He's gone!-No golden bribes divide
The Dacian from his babes and bride.

NUMBER SEVEN.

LITTLE MARY'S WISH.-MRS. L. M. BLINN.

"I have seen the first robin of spring, mother dear, And have heard the brown darling sing;

You said, 'Hear it and wish, and 'twill surely come true;' So I've wished such a beautiful thing!

"I thought I would like to ask something for you, But I couldn't think what there could be

That you'd want while you had all these beautiful things; Besides, you have papa and me.

"So I wished for a ladder, so long that 'twould stand
One end by our own cottage door,

And the other go up past the moon and the stars
And lean against heaven's white floor.

"Then I'd get you to put on my pretty white dress,
With my sash and my darling new shoes;
Then I'd find some white roses to take up to God-
The most beautiful ones I could choose.

"And you and dear papa would sit on the ground
And kiss me, and tell me 'Good-bye!'

Then I'd go up the ladder far out of your sight,
Till I came to the door in the sky.

"I wonder if God keeps the door fastened tight?
If but one little crack I could see,

I would whisper, 'Please, God, let this little girl in,
She's as tired as she can be!

"She came all alone from the earth to the sky, For she's always been wanting to see

The gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers; Please, God, is there room there for me?'

"And then, when the angels had opened the door,
God would say, 'Bring the little child here,'

But he'd speak it so softly I'd not be afraid;
And he'd smile just like you, mother dear.

"He would put His kind arms round your dear little girl, And I'd ask Him to send down for you,

And papa,

and cousin, and all that I love

Oh dear! don't you wish 'twould come true?"

The next spring time, when the robins came home,
They sang over grasses and flowers

That grew where the foot of the ladder stood,
Whose top reached the heavenly bowers.

And the parents had dressed the pale, still child,
For her flight to the summer land,

In a fair white robe, with one snow white rose
Folded tight in her pulseless hand.

And now at the foot of the ladder they sit,
Looking upward with quiet tears,

Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe
Of the child at the top appears.

Our Young Folks.

POST NUMMOS VIRTUS.-ARCHBISHOP SPAULDING.

Ours is, emphat

Its motto

Avarice is the besetting sin of the age. ically, the enlightened age of dollars and cents! is: Post nummos virtus,-money first, virtue afterward! Utilitarianism is the order of the day. Everything is estimated in dollars and cents. Almost every order and profession-our literature, our arts, and our sciences-all worship in the temple of Mammon.

The temple of God is open during only one day in the week; that of Mammon is open during six. Everything smacks of gold. The fever of avarice is consuming the very heart's blood of our people. Hence that restless desire to grow suddenly rich; hence that feverish agitation of our population; hence broken constitutions and premature old age. If we have not discovered the philosopher's stone, it has surely not been for want of the seeking. If everything cannot now be turned into gold, it is certainly not for want of unceasing exertions for this purpose.

We have even heard of churches having been built on speculation! And if the traveler from some distant clime should chance suddenly to enter one of our fashionable meeting-houses, if he should look at its splendidly-cushioned

seats, on which people are seen comfortably lolling, and then glance at the naked walls, and the utter barrenness of all religious emblems and associations in the interior of the building, he would almost conclude that he had entered, by mistake, into some finely furnished lecture-room, where the ordinary topics of the day were to be discussed.

And if he were informed that this edifice had been erected and furnished by a joint-stock company on shares, and that these shrewd speculators looked confidently to the income from the rent of the seats as a return for their investment, his original impression would certainly not be weakened. But the conclusion would be irresistible if he were told still farther that, in order to secure a good attendance of the rich and fashionable, the owners of the stock had taken the prudent precaution to engage, at a high salary, some popular and eminent preacher! Those who have watched closely the signs of the times will admit that this is not a mere fancy sketch, and that it is not even exaggerated.

Alas! alas! for the utilitarianism, or rather materialism, of our boasted age of enlightenment! In such a condition of things can we wonder at the general prevalence of relig ious indifference and of unblushing infidelity? As in the days of Horace, our children are taught to calculate, but not to pray. They learn arithmetic, but not religion.

The mischievous maxim, that children must grow up without any distinctive religious impressions, and then, when they have attained the age of discretion, must choose a religion for themselves, is frightfully prevalent amongst us. This maxim is about as wise as would be that of the agriculturist who should resolve to permit his fields to lie neglected in the spring season, and to become overgrown with weeds and briers, under the pretext that, when summer would come, it would be time enough to scatter over them the good seed! It amounts to this: human nature is corrupt and downward in its tendency; let it fester in its corruption and become confirmed in its rottenness, and then it will be time enough to apply the remedy, or rather, human nature will then react and heal itself.

A TRIUMPH OF ORDER.-JOHN HAY.

The following poem is founded on the same incident as Victor Hugo's "Sur uns Barricade."

A squad of regular infantry,

In the Commune's closing days,
Had captured a crowd of rebels
By the wall of Pere-la-Chaise.

There were desperate men, wild women,
And dark-eyed Amazon girls,

And one little boy, with a peach-down cheek
And yellow clustering curls.

The captain seized the little waif,

And said, "What dost thou here?"

"Sapristi, citizen captain!

I'm a Communist, my dear!"

"Very well. Then you die with the others!"

'Very well. That's my aflair,

But first let me take to my mother,

Who lives by the wine-shop there,

"My father's watch. You see it;
A gay old thing is it not?

It would please the old lady to have it,
Then I'll come back here and be shot."
"That is the last we shall see of him,"
The grizzled captain grinned,

As the little man skimmed down the hill
Like a swallow down the wind.

For the joy of killing had lost its zest
In the glut of those awful days,

And Death writhed, gorged like a greedy snake,
From the Arch to Pere-la-Chaise.

But before the last platoon had fired,
The child's shrill voice was heard-
"Houp-la! the old girl made such a row
I feared I should break my word!"

Against the bullet-pitted wall

He took his place with the rest;

A button was lost from his ragged blouse,
Which showed his soft, white breast.

"Now blaze away, my children,

With your little one-two-three!"
The Chassepots tore the stout young heart,
And saved society.