a mensa et thoro, ruta baga centum. Which means, in English, that ninety-nine men are guilty, where one is innocent.

Now, it is your duty to convict ninety-nine men first; then you come to my client, who is innocent and acquitted according to law. If these great principles shall be duly depreciated in this court, then the great North pole of liberty, that has stood so many years in pneumatic tallness, shading these publican regions of commerce and agriculture, will stand the wreck of the Spanish Inquisition, the pirates of the hyperborean seas, and the marauders of the Aurora Blivar! But, gentlemen of the jury, if you convict my client, his children will be doomed to pine away in a state of hopeless matrimony; and his beautiful wife will stand lone and delighted, like a dried up mullen-stalk in a sheep-pasture.

UNDER THE LAMPLIGHT.

Under the lamplight, watch them come,

Figures, one, two, three;

A restless mass moves on and on,
Like waves on a stormy sea.
Lovers wooing,

Billing and cooing,

Heedless of the warning old,-
Somewhere in uncouth rhyme told,-
That old Time, Love's enemy,
Makes the warmest heart grow cold.
See how fond the maiden leaneth
On that strong encircling arm,
While her timid heart is beating

Near that other heart so warm;
Downcast are her modest glances,
Filled her heart with pleasant fancies.
Clasp her, lover!-clasp her closer,—
Time the winner, thou the loser!
He will steal

From her sparkling eye its brightness,
From her step its native lightness;
Or, perchance,

Ere another year has fled,

Thou may'st see her pale and dead.

Trusting maiden,
Heart love-laden,
Thou may'st learn

That the lip which breathed so softly
Told to thee a honeyed lie;

That the heart now beating near thee
Gave to thee no fond return,—
Learn-and die!

Under the lamp-light, watch them come,
Figures, one, two, three;
The moon is up, the stars are out,
And hurrying crowds I see,-
Some with sorrow,

Of the morrow
Thinking bitterly;
Why grief borrow?
Some that morrow

Ne'er shall live to see.

Which of all this crowd shall God
Summon to his court to-night?
Which of these many feet have trod
These streets their last?

Who first shall press

The floor that shines with diamonds bright?

To whom of all this throng shall fall

The bitter lot

To hear the righteous Judge pronounce:
"Depart ye cursed,-I know ye not!"
O, startling question!-who?

Under the lamplight, watch them come,
Faces fair to see,-

Some that pierce your very soul

With thrilling intensity:

Cold and ragged,

Lean and haggard,—

God! what misery!

See them watch yon rich brocade,
By their toiling fingers made,
With the eyes of poverty.
Does the tempter whisper now:

"Such may be thine own!"-but how?

Sell thy woman's virtue, wretch,

And the price that it will fetch

Is a silken robe as fine,

Gems that glitter,-hearts that shine,—
But pause, reflect!

Ere the storm shall o'er thee roll,

Ere thy sin spurns all control,

Though with jewels bright bedecked,

Thou wilt lose thy velf-respect;

All the good will spurn thy touch,
As if 'twere an adder's sting,
And the price that it will bring
Is a ruined soul!

God protect thee,-keep thee right,
Lonely wanderer of the night!

Under the lamplight, watch them come,-
Youth with spirits light;

His handsome face I'm sure doth make
Some quiet household bright.
Yet where shall this lover,
This son, this brother,
Hide his head to-night?
Where the bubbles swim
On the wine-cup's brim;
Where the song rings out

Till the moon grows dim;
Where congregate the knave and fool
To graduate in vice's school.
Oh! turn back, youth!
Thy mother's prayer
Rings in thy ear.
Let sinners not
Entice thee there.

Under the lamplight, watch them come,
The gay, the blithe, the free;
And some with a look of anguished pain
'Twould break your heart to see.
Some from a marriage,

Altar and priest;
Some from a death-bed,

Some from a feast;

Some from a den of crime, and some

Hurrying on to a happy home;

Some bowed down with age and woe,

Praying meekly as they go;

Others, whose friends and honor are gone,

To sleep all night on the pavement stone;
And losing all but shame and pride,
Be found in the morning, a suicide.
Rapidly moves the gliding throng,—
List the laughter, jest, and song;
Poverty treads

On the heels of wealth;
Loathsome disease

Near robust health.

Grief bows down

Its weary head;

Crime skulks on

With a cat-like tread.

Youth and beauty, age and pain,
Vice and virtue, form the train;
Misery, happiness, side by side;
Those who had best in childhood died,
Close to the good;-on they go,
Some to joy, and some to woe,

Under the lamplight, watch them glide,-
On, like the waves of a swelling sea,
On, on, on to Eternity.

Annie R. Blount.

THE SAILOR'S FUNERAL.

The ship's bell tolled, and slowly o'er the deck
Came forth the summoned crew. Bold, hardy men,
Far from their native skies, stood silent there,
With melancholy brow. From a low cloud
That o'er the horizon hovered, came the threat
Of distant muttered thunder. Broken waves

Heaved up their sharp white helmets o'er the expanse
Of ocean, which in brooding stillness lay,

Like some vindictive king, who meditates

On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wrathful war.

The ship's bell tolled, and lo! a youthful form,
Which oft had boldly dared the slippery shrouds
At midnight's watch, was as a burden laid

Down at his comrades' feet. Mournful they gazed
Upon his sunken cheek, and some there were
Who in that bitter hour remembered well
The parting blessing of his hoary sire,

And the big tears that o'er his mother's check
Went coursing down, when his beloved voice
Breathed its farewell. But one who nearest stood
To that pale shrouded corse, remembered more:
Of a white cottage, with its shaven lawn
And blossomed hedge, and of a fair-haired girl
Who, at her lattice veiled with woodbine, watched
His last, far step, and then turned back to weep.
And close that comrade, in his faithful breast
Hid a bright chestnut lock, which the dead youth
Had severed with a cold and trembling hand,
In life's extremity, and bade him bear,
With broken words of love's last eloquence,
To his blest Mary. Now that chosen friend
Bowed low his sun-bronzed face, and like a child,
Sobbed in deep sorrow.

But there came a tone,
Clear as the breaking morn o'er stormy seas,
"I am the resurrection.” Every heart
Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised.
There stood the chaplain, his uncovered brow
Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice,
Rich as the balm from plants of Paradise,
Poured the Eternal's message o'er the souls
Of dying men. It was a holy hour;

There lay the wreck of youthful beauty, here
Bent mourning manhood, while supporting Faith
Cast her strong anchor 'neath the troubled wave.

There was a plunge! The riven sea complained,-
Death from her briny bosom took his own.
The awful fountains of the deep did lift
Their subterranean portals, and he went
Down to the floor of ocean, 'mid the beds
Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul,
In all the funeral pomp, the guise of woe,
The monumental grandeur, with which earth
Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad,
Sublime, or sorrowful, as the mute sea
Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth.

Lydia H. Sigourney.

FOES UNITED IN DEATH.

There was no fierceness in the eyes of those men now, as they sat face to face on the bank of the stream; the strife and the anger had all gone now, and they sat still, -dying men, who but a few hours before had been deadly foes,-sat still and looked at each other. At last one of them spoke: "We haven't either of us a chance to hold out much longer, I judge."

"No," said the other, with a little mixture of sadness and recklessness, "you did that last job of yours well, us that bears witness," and he pointed to a wound a little above the heart, from which the life blood was slowly oozing.

"Not better than you did yours," answered the other, with a grim smile, and he pointed to a wound a little higher up, larger and more ragged,-a deadly one.

And