The birds caught up our notes of love And earth's green carpet, violet flowered, But, apropos of carpets, Charles, Which you will purchase, won't you, dear, And then, remember you, how, lost We long stood silently beside A gentle, gliding stream? 'Twas Nature's mirror; when your gaze And, apropos of mirrors, love, Ah, well do I remember, Charles, But apropos of chains, my own, I found the sweetest one, so rich, The workmanship is most superb, I quite long, Charles, to see that chain I heard sad news when you were out,- I once for you rejected? Driven to despair by your success, Ah, apropos of capes, my love, Of lace, as fine as though 'twas wove You'll purchase the exquisite thing, 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 dis tant 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 rot 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 of a beloved mother, her withered hands beating her breast, her gray hairs streaming in the wind, tears flowing down her furrowed cheeks-praying me not to leave her in her lonely and helpless old age, is still sounding in my ears. Compared to anguish like this, the paltry torments you have in store is as the murmur of the meadow brook to the wild tumult of the mountain storm. Go! bring your threatened tortures! The woes I see impending over this fated city will be enough to sweeten death, though every nerve should tingle with its agony. I die-but mine shall be the triumph; yours the untold desolation. For every drop of blood that falls from my veins, your own shall pour in torrents! Wo, unto thee, O Carthage! I see thy homes and temples all in flames, thy citizens in terror, thy women wailing for the dead. Proud city! thou art doomed! the curse of Jove, a living, lasting curse is on thee! The hungry waves shall lick the golden gates of thy rich palaces, and every brook run crimson to the sea. Rome, with bloody hand, shall sweep thy heartstrings, and all thy homes shall howl in wild response of anguish to her touch. Proud mistress of the sea, disrobed, uncrowned and scourged-thus again do I devote thee to the infernal gods! Now, bring forth your tortures! Slaves! while ye tear this quivering flesh, remember how often Regulus has beaten your armies and humbled your pride. Cut as he would have carved you! Burn deep as his curse! THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. (LONGFELLOW.) All is finished! and at length Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched! Slowly, in all his splendor dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old, Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest; And far and wide, With ceaseless flow, His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast. He waits impatient for his bride. With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay, In honor of her marriage day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a vail descending, Loud and sudden there was heard, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, And see! she stirs! She starts, she moves,-she seems to feel And, spurning with her foot the ground, She leaps into the ocean's arms! And lo! from the assembled crowd |