exclaim: "I am a Roman citizen! I have served under 41 Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and who will attest my innocence!" Deaf to all remonstrance, remorseless, thirsting for innocent blood, you ordered the savage punishment to be inflicted! While the sacred words, "I am a Roman citizen," were on his lips,-words which, in the remotest regions, are a passport to protection,-you ordered him to death, to a death upon the cross!

O liberty! O sound once delightful to every Roman ear! O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship! once sacred, now trampled on! inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his whole Is it come to this? Shall an power of the Roman People, in a Roman province, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture, and put to an infamous death, a Roman citizen? Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, the tears of pitying specta tors, the majesty of the Roman Commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the merciless monster, who, in the confidence of his riches, strikes at the very root of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance? And shall this man escape? Fathers, it must not be! It must not be, unless you would undermine the very foundations of social safety, strangle justice, and call down anarchy, massacre and ruin on the Commonwealth!

Cicero.

THE BOYS.

This selection is a poem addressed to the class of 1829, in Harvard College, some thirty years after their graduation. The author, who retains, in a high degree, the freshness and joyousness of youth addresses his classmates as "boys."

HAs there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar! we're twenty to-night!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsy,-young jackanapes !-show him the door!
"Gray temples at twenty ?"-Yes! white if we please ;
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close, you will see not a sign of a flake!
We want some new garlands for those we have shed,
And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were old;

That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge ;"
It's a neat little fiction,-of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker," the one on the right;
"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?
we say when we chaff;
That's our "* Member of Congress,
There's the "Reverend"-what's his name?-don't make me

laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look
Made believe ho had written a wonderful book,
And the Royal Society thought it was true!
So they choose him right in,-

-a good joke it was too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,

We called him "The Justice," but now he's the "Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith;
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,-
Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee !"

You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun ;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

Yes, we're boys,-always playing with tongue or with per;
And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, The Bors!

O. W. Helmes.

THE ANGEL FERRY.

Oн, when shall the boatman ferry me o'er
To the friends who wait on the further shore?
Along a wild and toilsome way,

I have journeyed for many a weary day,
Over the graves of early hope,

And up misfortune's thorny slope,
Till my mortal sun hath past its noon,

And my heart beats time to a ceaseless tune :-
When shall the boatman ferry me o'er

To the friends who wait on the further shore?

Through the wrecks of many a fairy dream
I come to the banks of the mystic stream;
I have waited so long for a tardy sail,
I can feel my strength begin to fail;

And while I faintly call and pray,

My wind-swept locks are turning gray.

But I know he is true, and will come ere quite
My deep'ning day shall sink to night;

And I walk the sands till he bear me o'er

To the friends who wait on the further shore.

He is fair and beautiful, I know,
And his shining robe is white as snow;
And the tender love of his starry eyes
Is caught from the glory of other skies;
And his silver-saudaled feet have trod
The banks of the crystalline river of God.
Oh boatman, haste from the Land of Rest,
And pillow my head upon thy breast!
Speed thy swift shallop, and bear me o'er
To the friends who wait on the further shore !

The shadows deepen one by one, The sun is set, the day is done; And like a star on my growing sight, I can see at last the signal lightHigh over the rocking wave it rides, And swiftly toward the margin glides ; I can hear the rush of that spirit barque, And mellow splendors pierce the dark! Adieu, dim world! ere I'm wafted o'er To the friends who wait on the further shore. II. S. Cornwell,

CIVIL WAR.

"RIFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vedette; Ring me a ball in the glittering spot

That shines on his breast like an amulet !"

"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, There's music around when my barrel's in tune!" Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!"

"Oh captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vedette, For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,

That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket,-this locket of gold;
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!-'tis she,

My brother's young bride,-and the fallen dragoon Was her husband-Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree,

We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!

"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite;
War is a virtuc,-weakness a sin;
There's a lurking and loping around us to-night;-
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in !"

Anonymous.

THE BATTLE.

HEAVY and solemn,
A cloudy column.

Through the green plain they marching came!
Measureless spread, like a table dread,
For the wild grim dice of the iron game.
Looks are bent on the shaking ground,
Hearts beat low with a knelling sound;
Swift by the breast that must bear the brunt,
Gallops the Major along the front ;-

"Halt!"

And fettered they stand at the stark command,
And the warriors, silent, halt.

Proud in the blush of morning glowing,
What on the hill-top shines in flowing?
"See you the foeman's banners waving?"
"We see the foeman's banners waving !"
"God be with you, children and wife!"
Hark to the music-the drum and fife-

How they ring through the ranks, which they rouse to the strife!

Thrilling they sound, with their glorious tone,-
Thrilling they go through the marrow and bone!
Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er,

In the life to come that we meet once more!

See the smoke, how the lightning is cleaving asun ler! Hark! the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their thunder!

From host to host with kindling sound,

The shouted signal circles round;
Freer already breathes the breath!
The war is waging, slaughter raging,
And heavy through the reeking pall

The iron death-dice fall!
Nearer they close-foes upon foes-
"Ready!"-from square to square it goes.

They kneel as one man from flank to flank,
And the fire comes sharp from the foremost rank.
Many a soldier to earth is sent,

Many a gap by the balls is rent;

O'er the corpse before springs the hinder man,
That the line may not fall to the fearless van.
To the right, to the left, and around and around,
Death whirls in its dance on the bloody ground.