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"Not unto me, but unto Him

Who formed the depths in which I lie,
Go, give thy thanks, my little boy,

To Him who will thy wants supply."
The boy took off his cap, and said,
In tones so gentle and subdued:
"O God! I thank thee for this gift;
Thou art the Giver of all good."

PAT'S EXCELSIOR.

TWAS growing dark so terrible fasht,

Whin through a town up the mountain there pashed

A broth of a boy, to his neck in the shnow;
As he walked, his shillelagh he swung to and fro,
Saying it's till the top I'm bound for to go-
Be jabers!

He looked mortial sad, and his eyes was as bright
As a fire of turf on a cowld winther night,
And niver a word that he said could ye tell,
As he opened his mouth and let out a yell,
It's up to the top of the mountain I'll go,
Onless covered up wid this bothersome shnow-
Be jabers!

Through the windows he saw as he traveled along
The light of a candle and fires so warm;

But a big chunk of ice hung over his head.
With a snivel and groan, by St. Patrick! he said,

It's up to the very tip-top I will rush,

And then if it falls it's not meself it'll crush-
Be iabers!

Whist a bit, said an ould man whose head was white
As the shnow that fell down on that miserable night,
Shure ye'll fall in the wather, me bit of a lad,
For the night is so dark and the walkin' is bad.
Bedad he'd not lisht to a word that was said,
But he'd go till the top, if he wint on his head—
Be jabers!

A bright buxom young girl, such as like to be kissed,
Axed him couldn't he shtop and how could he resist?
So snapping his fingers, and winking his eye,
While smiling upon her he made this reply:
Faith, I meant to kape on till I got to this top,
But as yer
shwate self has axed me, I may as well shtop-
Be jabers!

He shtopped all night, and shtopped all day,
And ye mus'n't be axin' whin he did go away,
For wouldn't he be a bastely gossoon

To be lavin' his darlint in the shwate honeymoon,
Whin the old man has praties enough and to spare,
Shure he moight as well stay, if he's comfortable there,-
Be jabers!

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT
CAPUA.

YE call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every

shape of man or beast the broad Empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him

stand forth and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not always thus-a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men!

My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Cyrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks in the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal.

One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I clasped the knees of that venerable man until my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the blazing rafters of our dwelling!

To-day I killed a man in the arena; and, when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died-the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes and bear them home in childish triumph! I told the pretor that the dead man had been

my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that 1 might bear away the body, to burn it on the funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the pretor drew back as I were pollution, and sternly said-"Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans!" And so, fellow gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs.

O Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd-lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe:to gaze into the glaring eye-balls of the fierce Numidian lion even as a boy upon a laughing-girl! And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled.

Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are ! The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but tomorrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sestérces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours-and a dainty meal for him ye will be!

If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher's knife! If ye are men-follow me! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and there do bloody work, as did your sires at old Thermopyla!

Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do couch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master's lash? O comrades! warriors! Thracians !—if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle!

E. KELLOGG.

MR

ORATOR PUFF.

R. ORATOR PUFF had two tones in his voice, The one squeaking thus, and the other down so, In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice; For one-half was B alt, and the rest G below.

O, Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough!

But he still talked away, 'spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once, on hearing the orator say,—

"My voice is for war," asked him,-"Which of them, pray?

O, Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough!

Reeling homeward one evening, top-heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the

crown,

He tripped near a sawpit, and tumbled right in, "Sinking fund," the last words as his noddle came down.

O, Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough!

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