The very shrine and sacristy of virtue.
Fairer than ever was a form created
By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild,
And never-resting thought is all on fire.
The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks,
And whispered in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her. The young choir
Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'Tis wonderful,
Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds,
Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost
Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,-
How, from the shade of those ill neighboring plants,
Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf

Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace,
Bloomed in unsullied beauty. Such perfections
Might have called back the torpid breast of age
To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind
Might have abashed the boldest libertine,
And turned desire to reverential love,
And holiest affection. O, my countrymen!

You all can witness when that she went forth
It was a holiday in Rome; old age
Forgot its crutch, labor its task,—all ran,

And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried
"There, there's Lucretia!" Now, look ye, where she lies!
That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose,
Torn up by ruthless violence,—gone! gone! gone!
Say, would you seek instruction? would ye ask
What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls,
Which saw his poisoned brother,-

Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse,-'twill cry, Revenge!
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!
Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife,
And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens,
The gods themselves shall justify the cry,
And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge!
And we will be revenged, my countrymen!
Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name

Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him
Than all the noblest titles earth can boast.
Brutus your king? No, fellow-citizens!

If mad ambition in this guilty frame

Had strung one kingly fibre,-yea, but one,—
By all the gods, this dagger which I hold

Should rip it out, though it entwined my heart.

Now take the body up. Bear it before us
To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches,
And, in the blazing conflagration, rear

A pile for these chaste relics, that shall send
Her soul among the stars. On! Brutus leads you;
On to the Forum! the fool shall set you free.

J. H. Payne,

THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

The snowflakes are falling swiftly,
The children are wild with glee,
As they dream of the merry pastime
The morrow's morn will see;

And faces are bright in their youthful glow
As they watch the falling, beautiful snow.

Within that pleasant parlor,

The mother alone is still,

She feels not the snow that falls without,
But her throbbing heart is chill,

As she turns away from the fireside glow
To look abroad on the beautiful snow.

God help those eyes despairing,

That gaze at the snow-clad earth;

God pity the mad rebellion

Which in that heart had birth.

The children are gone, and a sound of woe
Breaks through the night o'er the beautiful snow.

The woman's face, all ghastly,

Lies pressed to the window pane,

But no sound of human anguish

Escapes her lips again;

'Twas the cry of a woman's heart crushed low,

Whose hopes lay dead 'neath the beautiful snow.

The firelight glanced and sparkled,

In contrast to her gloom,

It gilded the books and pictures,

And lit up the cheerful room,

While, through the casement, its crimson glow
Threw a band of light on the beautiful snow.

She shrank from the mocking brightness,
That sought to win her there;

Far better to watch the snowflakes.
Than gaze at a vacant chair,—

A chair that never again could know

A form now still 'neath the beautiful snow.

Many a night-watch had he known,
And many a vigil kept,

While the snowflakes fell around him,
And all his comrades slept;

For his heart was strong, in its patriot glow,
As he gazed abroad at the beautiful snow.

He too had watched the snowflakes,

And laughed as they whirled him by,—
Had watched, as they drifted round him,
With bright, undaunted eye;

But now there rests not a stone to show
The soldier's grave 'neath the beautiful snow.

The mourner's eye roved sadly,

In search of the vacant chair,

To rest in loving wonder

On a young child slumbering there;

And she caught from his baby lips the low
Half murmured words, "The beautiful snow!"

With a sudden, passionate yearning,

She caught him to her breast,

And smiled in the eyes that, in their calm,
Rebuked her own unrest,-

Eyes that had caught their kindling glow

From the father that lay 'neath the beautiful snow.

Again she stood at the casement,

And smiled at her baby's glee,

As he turned from the feathery snowflakes

Her answering smile to see,

Her little child, that never could know

The father that lay 'neath the beautiful snow.

Ah! many a widowed heart doth throb

In its bitterness alone,

And many an orphan's tears still fall
Above some honored stone.

Fond hearts must bleed, and tears must flow,

For the loved who lie 'neath the beautiful snow. Caroline Griswold.

THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE.

Arranged by Mr. C. W. Sanders, for the Union Fifth Reader.

"I thought, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his country, that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift,-no, not one. The dear boy only slept a minute, just one little minute, at his post; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and reliable he was! I know he only fell asleep one little second;-he was so young, and not strong, that boy of mine! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen! and now they shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sentinel duty. Twenty-four hours, the telegram said, only twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie

now?"

"We will hope, with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, soothingly.

Yes, yes; let us hope; God is very merciful!

"I should be ashamed, father,' Bennie said, 'when I am a man, to think I never used this great right arm'— and he held it out so proudly before me- for my country, when it needed it. Palsy it rather than keep it at the plow.'

"Go, then, go, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep you!' God has kept him, I think, Mr. Allan!" and the farmer repeated these last words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted them.

"Like the apple of his eye, Mr. Owen; doubt it not.” Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so con cealed that no one had noticed it. She had occupied her. self mechanically in the household cares. Now she an swered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter.. "It is from him," was all she said.

It was like a message from the dead! Mr. Owen took the letter, but could not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers, and held it toward Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a child.

The minister opened it, and read as follows:

DEAR FATHER:-When this reaches you I shall be in eternity. At first, it seemed awful to me; but I have thought about it so much now, that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me; but that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on the battle-field, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be fighting gloriously; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying it,-to die for neglect of duty! O, father, I wonder the very thought does not kill me! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you all about it; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I can not now.

"You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother, I would look after her boy; and, when he fell sick, I did all I* could for him. He was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on our march. Towards night we went in on double-quick, and though the luggage began to feel very heavy, every body else was tired too; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I would take his place; but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head; but I did not know it until-well, until it was too late."

"God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. "I knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post."

"They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve, given to me by circumstances,-'time to write to you,' our good colonel says. Forgive him, father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could; and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is brokenhearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my stead.

"I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, father! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me; it is very hard to bear! Good-by, father! God seems near and dear to me; not at all as if he wished me to perish for