From every hovel-door—each portico Of marble palaces, pale faces gazed On the pedestrians, passing to and fro— Mute, trembling and amazed. And, ever and anon, that howl arose— The she wolf’s legacy—long, loud, and hoarse; The voice of men aroused from deep repose, And surging on in force. Rome’s alleys, lanes and streets were all alive; All hurrying toward the Forum, from which came Impulsive words, followed by moans, that told The giver’s heart in flame; And sparks from torches, lit at quiet homes, Waving in answer to the speaker’s tones; And the black crowd, with thunder which was Rome’s, Replied with ominous groans. Occasionally the name of Collatine, In audible whispers, slowly crept about— And ever, as the orator’s form was seen, Went up a mighty shout— Another! and another! as his hand Upheld a bloody knife—his figure bent, Regarding them; his aspect of command Loftily eloquent— A bale fire flashing from his eagle eye! As pointing unto something laid below, He saw a shudder, followed by a sigh, Pass trembling to and fro Among that crowd, with eager faces bent Up on his own; and then came words of peace. As though he painted home, and calm content, And joy unto surcease. Swayed, like the ocean by the hurricane, That sea of men responded as the name Broke on their ears—the pale polluter’s name, Immortal in its shame! And mingling in a yell that shook old Rome, “Death to the Tarquins!” every voice arose. Women and warriors—all men and all time— Were Tarquin’s foes! As autumn tempests gathering break, so broke That crowd in frenzy, rushing to and fro With blazing torches—Tyranny’s iron yoke Dissolved like snow. And there were louder cries, and other flames Sprang to the heavens, till Rome was red with fire From Tarquin’s palaces; and Freedom rose From pale Lucretia’s pyre. * * * * * THE EARLY TAKEN. BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. [ADDRESSED TO THE PARENTS OF MY LITTLE FAVORITE, CAROLINE K. CHANDLER, WHOSE DEATH HAS SADDENED MANY HEARTS.] I stood with the childless— A desolate pair— When, drest for the grave, Lay the sinless and fair, Who died like a lily that droops on its stem, And torn were my heart-strings with sorrow for them. Outshone by the curls That the slumberer wore Was the mid-summer light Streaming in at the door; And clung to her lip a more delicate red Than tinted the rose-wreath encircling her head.