“Then die—idiot—Roman!” sneered the other, and with a fearful cry, grinding his teeth till the foam flew from them as from the tusks of a hunted boar, he leaped upon Aurelius. Three deadly blows were interchanged, and at each blow a wound—but at the fourth, Attila’s sword descending like a thunderbolt, shivered the Roman’s blade into a thousand pieces, and, glancing from his helmet, alighted on his shoulder, and clove deep into his chest!—he staggered forward, and at the next instant met the sword’s point, driven home by a tremendous thrust into his very vitals. Headlong he fell backward; but, as he fell, his glazing eyes turned fearfully toward his loved Julia—they glazed fast—but he saw, and smiled in dying, and died happy! For, as the last blow fell, she saw the fight was over—and by a sudden movement, the less expected from her complete and passive quietude, she snatched a long knife from the girdle of Onegisus, and before he well knew what she had done, much less had time to prevent it, had stabbed herself three times—each time mortally—into her virgin bosom. “Husband,” she cried, “I come!—true to my word—Aurelius—I am thine now—all thine!” and, as the horror-stricken Hun released his hold upon her arm, she darted forward, and threw herself upon the bosom of her brave lord. Convulsively, in the death spasm, his arms closed about her, And in that act And agony her happy spirit fled. * * * * * NIAGARA. [WRITTEN ON THE BANK OF THE NIAGARA RIVER—BETWEEN THE RAPIDS AND THE CATARACT.] BY GRENVILLE MELLEN. Their roar is round me. I am on the brink Of the great waters—and their anthem voice Goes up amid the rainbow and the mist. Their chorus shakes the ground. I feel the rock On which my feet hang idly—as they hung O’er babbling brooks in boyhood—quivering Under the burst of music. Awful voice! And strong, triumphant waters! Do I stand Indeed amid your shoutings? Is it mine To shout upon this grey cliff, where the bird, The cloudy monarch-bird, shrieks from his crag, O’er which he’s wheel’d for cent’ries. I lift up My cry in echo. But no sound is there— And my shout seems but whisper. I’m afraid To gaze or listen! Yet my eye and ear Are servants to a necromance that God Alone can hold o’er Nature! Ministers, At this immortal shrine of the Great King! Ye never tiring waters! Let me pass Into your presence—and within the veil That has no holy like it—a great veil, Within which the omnipotent outspeaks In thunder and in majesty—within The shadow of a leaping sea—where He Opens His lips in wonder—and His brow Bends ’neath a crown of glory from the skies!