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Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say at each chamber door,-
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,—
Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality:

His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,—
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"

There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;

There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay in his shroud of snow;

And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair,

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All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, "Ah! when shall they all meet again?" As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply,"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Never here, forever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,-
Forever there, but never here!

The horologe of Eternity

Sayeth this incessantly,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

(LONGFELLOW.)

Under a spreading chestnut tree,
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms,
Are strong, as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns-whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week out, week in, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton, ringing the old kirk chimes,
When the evening sun is low.

And children, coming home from school,
Look in at the open door;
They love to see a flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks, that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes, on Sunday, to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson-pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him, like her mother's voice,
Singing-in paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard-rough hand he wipes
A tear from out his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing-
Onward-through life he goes:

Each morning-sees some task begin,
Each evening-sees it close;
Something attempted-something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of Life,
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus, on its sounding anvil shaped,
Each burning deed, and thought.

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA.

(ELIJAH KELLOGG.)

It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace, with the sports of the amphitheatre, to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of reverly had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet; and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished.

The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dew-drops on the corslet of the Roman entinel, and tipped the dark waters of the Vulturnus with a wavy, tremulous light. No sound was heard save the last sob of some retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach; and then all was still as the breast when the spirit has departed.

In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were assembled,—their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, the scowl of battle yet lingering on their brows.—when Spartacus, starting forth from amid the throng, thus addressed them:

Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief, who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth, and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on.

"And yet, I was not always thus,-a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men! My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported: and when,

at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal,

"One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars.

"That very night, the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling! Today I killed a man in the arena; and when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend. He knew me,-smiled faintly,-gasped,-and died;-the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph.

"I told the pretor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at the sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the pretor drew back as I were pollution, and sternly said,' Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans!'

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