Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,

With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,

She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver;

But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river:

Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurl'd-

Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly

The rough river ran—

Over the brink of it,
Picture it—think of it,
Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly

Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly,

Smooth, and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,

Burning insanity,

Into her rest.

Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,

Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,

Her evil behaviour,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

Thomas Hood.

VIRGINIA.

STRAIGE

TRAIGHTWAY Virginius led the maid a little space aside To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide,

Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down:

Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown. And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell,

And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child, farewell!

Oh! how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be, To thee thou know'st I was not so. Who could be so to

thee?

And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hear
My footstep on the threshold when I came back last year!
And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown,
And took my sword and hung it up, and brought me forth my
gown!

Now all those things are over—yes, all thy pretty ways,

Thy needle-work, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays;

And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return,

Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn.
The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble
halls,

Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,
And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.
The time is come. See how he points his eager hand this
way!

See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey!

With all his wit, he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed,

bereft,

Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left.

He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave;

Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow,
Foul outrage which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never

know.

Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss;

And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this." With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.

Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath;
And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death;
And in another moment brake forth from one and all

A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall.
And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft,
Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left.

T. B. Macaulay.

SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

SHE'S gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,
She's gane to dwall in heaven;

Ye're owre pure, quo' the voice of God,
For dwalling out o' heaven!

O what 'l she do in heaven, my lassie?
O what 'l she do in heaven?

She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs,
And make them mair meet for heaven!

17

She was beloved by a', my lassie,
She was beloved by a';

But an angel fell in luve wi' her,

An' took her frae us a'.

I

Nithsdale and Galloway Songs.