To grasp this throne and sceptre? Power is like
Those golden apples on the Dead-Sea shore,
Which turn to ashes on the lips. 'Tis like

The glowworm in the dark, which, when we grasp
And scrutinize by day, loses its charms.
The robes of power are bright, dazzling all eyes;
But clothed in them, how heavily they weigh!
Why do I seek that which but brings me care?

ACT II.-SCENE III.

A bower in the palace-garden of MAGNENTIUS. LUCIA alone.

Luc. Why lingers he? I fear me ill betides!
To lovers parted, hours creep by like snails;
And surely his swift love would outrun these;
For the sweet joy of meeting would repay
For every danger!

Enter BRUTUS.

Bru. Doth Orpheus touch his lyre in murmured tones, And breathe its sweetness through my lady's lips,

That while she speaks enchantment reigns around?
Oh, what a charm her beauty sheds abroad!

The desert were an Eden were she there,

For like the sun she warms all into life.

The Gueber never bowed unto his god

With such idolatry as I to thee.

Oh, beauty's brightest sun, smile on thy devotee! (Kneels.) Luc. Arise, brave friend, and bow at Shible's shrine,

It is idolatry to kneel elsewhere!

Bru. First let my parched lips sip the honey-dew

From off thy rose-tipped, pearly fingers' ends,

And it will be a balm to strengthen me,

When miles of weariness shall separate

This saddened heart from all the light it hath!

(Kisses her hand.)

Luc. Why, Brutus, thou wouldst make me vain, did I Believe the pretty things which thou dost utter:

But feigning is the poetry of love;

Therefore are lovers so poetical!

Bru. This poetry of love is life's day-spring;

And till it shine existence is a blank

A feverish dream a longing for the dawn,

Which when it breaks, if clouds o'erspread the sky,
And disappointment's storms obscure love's sun,
Gloom comes apace-existence brings no joy:
Life would a burden be too hard to bear,
Did not Remembrance fly unto the past,
And make her nest in Memory's once bright halls.
Oh, Lucia, if thou shouldst cease to love me!

Luc. Farewell, my friend-farewell- I must away,
It is my lady who doth summon me!

Bru. Wilt go so soon? I scarce have heard thy voice.
When lovers meet, how like the lightning's flash
The hours fly by; but separated, an hour

Is an eternity! One moment more:
Thy lady will not chide thee if her heart

Hath e'er kept time to love's enchanting music.
Oh, leave not yet —we may not meet again!
Thou art my light, my life; being away,
Darkness and death are left! Ere thy bright eyes,
The loved stars of my destiny, shone on me,
Life was a void a winding labyrinth

Of darkest paths, where shapeless phantoms lured
Me ever on. I followed without aim;

For what is life to those who do not love—

When to no beacon we can steer our bark?

Thou wilt say fame- but fame 's an empty word;
For envy is the venom that doth blight

The fairest flowers that grow on her soil.

Then give me an eternity of love;

For heaven without it would possess no charms,

If it exist and we too be immortal.

Luc. Thou speak'st as though no future dawned for us!
Bru. I spoke of heaven this I learned from thee —

I know no heaven but in thy pure sweet:

With thee is happiness - from thee is woe!

ACT III.-SCENE VIII.

Canstantius and a woman upon a battle-field, among the dead and dying

soldiers.

Wom. He dies, my lord-behold!

Sol.

Mother - my mother!
Wom. He's thinking of his mother; noble boy!
Con. 'Tis mother first, 't is mother last with man.

Woman, behold your influence! How strong man Doth bare his breast unto the tide of life,

Stemming its flood with all his pride and strength,
Looking forever to one beacon-light,

The love of woman, which doth send its ray
Unto the swimmer o'er the darkened waves.
Though man to man may turn 'mid pleasures wild,
When fame to `victors doth extend her wreath,
Yet all his triumphs are for woman's brow!
His holier moments are devote to her;

And in grief's hour, 't is mother, sister, wife,
To whom he ever turns

and e'en in death,

These are the names his murmuring lips last speak!

MR

KATE A. DU BOSE.

RS. DU BOSE is the eldest daughter of Rev. William Richards, of Beaufort District, S. C. She was born in a village in Oxfordshire, England, in 1828. Shortly after her birth, the family came to the United States, and settled in Georgia, but removed in a few years to their present home in Carolina.

In 1848, she was married to Charles W. Du Bose, Esq., an accomplished gentleman, and lawyer of talent and ability, of Sparta, Georgia, where they still reside.

Mrs. Du Bose was educated in Northern cities, but for some years. was a teacher in Georgia, her adopted home.

At an early age, she gave indications of a love of letters, and had she chosen to "break the lance" with professional contestants for literary honors, she must have won distinction and an enviable fame. But as a bird sings because it must find vent for its rapture, or as the heart will overflow when too full for concealment, thus with her writings. Her productions have been given to the public from time to time, through journals and magazines, generally under the nom de plume of “Leila Cameron." Some of her best poems appeared in the "Southern Literary Gazette," published in Charleston, and edited by her brother, Rev. William C. Richards, now a resident of Providence, R. I. The “Orion Magazine,” of Georgia, was also favored with contributions from her pen, and in its columns appeared the prize poem, entitled "Wachulla," the name of a famous and wonderful fountain near Tallahassee, Florida. This poem was deservedly popular, and if the spirit of the fountain had chosen a nymph from its own charmed circle to sing the praises of "beautiful Wachulla" and its surroundings, the lay could not have gushed up from a heart more alive to its beauties and attractions than that of its talented author.

In 1858, Mrs. Du Bose's first volume was published by Sheldon & Co., New York. This is a prose story for the young, entitled, “The Pastor's Household"-a story of continuous interest, displaying narrative and dramatic power. The portraiture of "Lame Jimmy," one of the prominent characters-"a meek, silent boy," with pale face,

and a look of patient suffering upon his young features-is admirably drawn; and as we see him, as he bends over his desk at school, with his large eyes full of the light of intellect, poring over his books, we triumph in the truth that God sometimes gives the poor boy, in his threadbare coat, the princely endowments of mind which may win him distinction among the "world's proud honors," and crown him a king among men.

As a member of a large family, all remarkable for intellectual acquirements, Mrs. Du Bose has been much favored in procuring an early and thorough cultivation. One of her brothers, Rev. William C. Richards, is not only widely known as a popular editor and writer, but is also the author of the "Shakspeare Calendar." Another brother, T. Addison Richards, of New York, the poet and artist, is the principal of the "School of Design for Women," established within the walls of Cooper Institute, New York.

In her elegant home, where unpretending piety and domestic love are combined with refined and cultivated tastes, seen in all the surroundings, and where the patter of children's feet is heard, and their happy laugh echoes through its walls, Mrs. Du Bose forms the centre of attraction to a circle of friends, as well as that of home, and wears with equally charming grace the triple name of wife, mother, and author.