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For all human ties that bind me,-
And the good that I can do.
Who've suffered for my sake; To emulate their glory,
And follow in their wake. Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, The noble of all ages, Whose deeds crowd history's pages,
And time's great volume make.
I live to hold communion
With all that is divine;
"Twixt Nature's heart and mine;
And fulfil each grand design.
I live to hail that season,
By gifted minds foretold,
And not alone by gold,-
As Eden was of old.
For those who know me true,
And awaits my spirit too,For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance,
And the good that I can do.
WHAT MIGHT BE DONE.
(CHARLES MACKAY.) What might be done if men were wise ! What glorious deeds, my suffering brother,
Would they unite,
In love and right,
Oppression's heart might be imbued
And Knowledge pour,
From shore to shore,
All Slavery, Warfare, Lies, and Wrong,
And wine and corn
To each man born
The meanest wretch that ever trod.
Might stand erect
In self-respect, .
What might be done? This might be done, And more than this, my suffering brother,
More than the tongue
E’er said or sung,
THE WIFE'S APPEAL.
Or will be, very soon,
One glorious day in June.
The birds caught up our notes of love
In a song not half so sweet, And earth's green carpet, violet flowered,
It scarcely felt our feet.
But, apropos of carpets, Charles,
I looked at some to-day, Which you will purchase, won't you, dear,
Before our next soirée ?
And then, remember you, how, lost
In love's delicious dream, We long stood silently beside
A gentle, gliding stream ?
'Twas Nature's mirror; when your gaze
No longer I could bear,
Yet but to meet it there.
And, apropos of mirrors, love,
The dear gift of your mother
I ordered hume another.
Ah, well do I remember, Charles,
When first your arm stole round me; You little dreamed how long your soul
In golden chains had bound me.
But apropos of chains, my own,
At Banks's store last week,
So tasteful, and unique!
The workmanship is most superb,
The gold most fine and pure;
Suspend your miniature!
I heard sad news when you were out,
My nerves are much affected ;-
I once for you rejected ?
Driven to despair by your success,
Made desperate by my scorn,
In passing round Cape Horn.
Ah, apropos of capes, my love,
I saw one in Broadway,
Of moonbeams, by a fay.
You'll purchase the exquisite thing,
'Twill suit your taste completely; Above the heart that loves you, Charles,
'Twill rise and fall so sweetly.
THE CURSE OF REGULUS. The palaces and domes of Carthage were burning with the splendors of noon, and the blue waves of her harbor were rolling and gleaming in the gorgeous sunlight. An attentive, ear could catch a low murmur, sounding from the centre of the city, which seemed like the moaning of the wind before a tempest. And well it might. The whole people of Carthage, startled, astounded by the report that Regulus had returned, were pouring, a mighty tide, into the great square before the Senate House. There were mothers in that throng, whose captive sons were groaning in Roman fetters; maidens, whose lovers were dying in the distant dungeons of Rome; gray-haired men and matrons, whom Roman steel had made childless ; men, who were seeing their country's life crushed out by Roman power; and with wild voices, cursing and groaning, the vast throng gave vent to the rage, the hate, the anguish of long years.
Calm and unmoved as the marble walls around him, stood Regulus, the Roman! He stretched his arm over the surging crowd with a gesture as proudly imperious, as though he stood at the head of his own gleaming cohorts. Before that silent command the tumult ceased--the half-uttered execration died upon the lip—so intense was the silence that the clank of the captive's brazen manacles smote sharp on every ear, as he thus addressed them:
“ Ye doubtless thought, judging of Roman virtue by your own, that I would break my plighted faith, rather than by returning, and leaving your sons and brothers to ret in Roman dungeons, to meet your vengeance. Well, I could give reasons for this return, foolish and inexplicable as it seems to you; I could speak of yearnings after immortality-of those eternal principles in whose pure light a patriot's death is glorious, a thing to be desired; but, by great Jove! I should debase myself to dwell on such high themes to you. If the bright blood which feeds my heart were like the slimy ooze that stagnates in your veins, I should have remained at Rome, saved my life and broken my oath. If, then, you ask, why I have come back, to let you work your will on this poor body which I esteem but as the rags that cover it,-enough reply for you, it is because I am a Roman! As such, here in your very capital I defy you! What I have done, ye never can undo ; what ye may do, I care not. Since first my young arm knew how to wield a Roman sword, have I not routed your armies, burned your towns, and dragged your generals at my chariot wheels? And do ye now expect to see me cower and whine with dread of Carthaginian vengeance ? Compared to that fierce mental strife which my heart has just passed through at Rome, the piercing of this flesh, the rending of these sinews, would be but sport to me.
"Venerable senators, with trembling voices and outstretched hands, besought me to return no more to Carthage. The generous people, with loud wailing, and wildly-tossing gestures, bade me stay. The voice