tinue unto this day, witnessing both to small and great, saying none other things than those which the prophets and Moses did say should come: That Christ should suffer, and that He should be the first that should rise from the dead, and should show light unto the people, and to the Gentiles.

And as he thus spake for himself, Festus said with a loud voice, Paul, thou art beside thyself; much learning doth make thee mad. But he said, I am not mad, most noble Festus; but speak forth the words of truth and soberness. For the king knoweth of these things, before whom also I speak freely: for I am persuaded that none of these things are hidden from him; for this thing was not done in a corner. King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets? I know that thou believest. Then Agrippa said unto Paul, Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.

And Paul said, I would to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, and altogether such as I am, except these bonds. And when he had thus spoken, the king rose up, and the governor, and Bernice, and they that sat with them: and when they were gone aside, they talked between themselves, saying, This man doeth nothing worthy of death or of bonds. Then said Agrippa unto Festus, This man might have been set at liberty, if he had not appealed unto Cæsar.-BIBLE.

NIGHTFALL.

LONE I stand;
On either hand

In gathering gloom stretch sea and land;

Beneath my feet,

With ceaseless beat,

The waters murmur low and sweet.

Slow falls the night:

The tender light

Of stars grows brighter and more bright, The lingering ray

Of dying day

Sinks deeper down and fades away.

Now fast, now slow,

The south winds blow;

And softly whisper, breathing low;
With gentle grace

They kiss my face,

Or fold me in their cool embrace.

Where one pale star

O'er waters far,

Droops down to touch the harbor bar,

A faint light gleams,

A light that seems

Fair night of June!

Yon silver moon

Gleams pale and still. The tender tune,
Faint-floating, plays,

In moonlit lays,

A melody of other days.

"Tis sacred ground;

A peace profound

Comes o'er my soul. I hear no sound,
Save at my feet

The ceaseless beat

Of waters murmuring low and sweet.

W. W. ELLSWORTH.

CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.

YONSCRIPT Fathers:

CONS

I do not rise to waste the night in words;

Let that Plebeian talk, 'tis not my trade;

But here I stand for right-let him show proofs-
For Roman right, though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there!
Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves!
His charge is false;-I dare him to his proofs.
You have my answer. Let my actions speak!

But this I will avow, that I have scorn'd,
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong.
Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword,
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back,
Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts

The gates of honor on me,-turning out

The Roman from his birthright; and for what?
To fling your offices to every slave !

Vipers, that

creep where man disdains to climb, And, having wound their loathsome track to the top Of this huge, moldering monument of Rome,

Hang hissing at the nobler man below.

[To the Senate

Come, consecrated Lictors, from your thrones; Fling down your sceptres; take the rod and axe, And make the murder as you make the law.

Banish'd from Rome! What's banish'd but set free
From daily contact of the things I loathe ?
"Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?
Banish'd! I thank you for't it breaks my
I held some slack allegiance till this hour;
But now my sword's my own.

Smile on, my

I scorn to count what feelings, wither'd hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.
But here I stand and scoff you! here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face!
Your Consul's merciful; for this all thanks.
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline!

chain!

Lords!

"Traitor!" I go; but, I return! This-trial! Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs To stir a fever in the blood of age,

Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.

This day's the birth of sorrow; this hour's work

Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my

Lords!

For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus; all shames and crimes;
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup;

Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Till Anarchy comes down on you like night,
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.

I go; but not to leap the gulf alone.
I go; but when I come, 'twill be the burst
Of ocean in the earthquake-rolling back
In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well!
You build my funeral pile; but your best blood
Shall quench its flame!
GEORGE CROLY.

How

THE HONORED DEAD.

OW bright are the honors which await those who, with sacred fortitude and patriotic patience, have endured all things that they might save their native land from division and from the power of corruption! The honored dead! They that die for a good cause, are redeemed from death. Their names are gathered and gar nered. Their memory is precious. Each place grows proud for them who were born there. There is to be ere long, in every village and in every neighborhood, a glowing pride in its martyred heroes.

Tablets shall preserve their names. Pious love shall renew their inscriptions as time and the unfeeling elements decay them. And the national festivals shall give multi