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Then leave the poor plebeian his single tie to life-
The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of

The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul

endures, The kiss, in which he half forgets e'en such a yoke as

yours. Still let the maiden's beauty swell the father's breast

with pride; Still let the bridegroom's arms infold an unpolluted

bride. Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame, That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's

blood to flame, Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our de

spair, And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the

wretched dare.”

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Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space

aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with

horn and hide, Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson

flood, Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of

blood. 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 some

times 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 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 needlework, tlıy prattie, 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 bod, or weep upon his


'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 cager hand

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

the prey! With all his wit, he little dcems, that, spurned, be

trayed, bereft, Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left. He little deerns that in this hand I clutch what still can


Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of

the slave; Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and

blowFoul 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 minc own dear little girl, there is no way but 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.

(By permission of Messrs. Longmans, Green, and Co.)



[Mr. Clough is another of those writers who are known to those who study the higher walks of literature, and to those who keep watch for “ the bright particular stars” that rise, and only occasionally, in the poetical firmament. It is only a pleasing duty that we perform in introducing him to that_larger, but not less appreciative, class among whom our " Penny Readings" so widely circulate.

Mr. Clough was a writer of vers de société, but he founded most of his poetry more on incident of travel than on the conventionalities of fashionable life-catching his subjects flying, rather than seeking for them in the salon. Very fantastical in taste, and full of caprice, there is still a classical undertone in his lightest writings, as though he never felt bimself quite free froin the responsibilities lie owed to his a!ma mater.

In a more studious

age. than the present Clough would already have taken a higher position than the one he holds in English literature.

Arthur Hugh Clough was born at Liverpool, Jan. 1st, 1819. He was educated at Rugby, under Dr. Arnold; went to Oxford, and was elected a Fellow of Baliol, 1842. In 1848 he published what he called a long vacation pastoral, entitled “Tho Bothie of Toler-na-Voulich ;" and in 1849 a second volume called “ Ambarvalia." Both volumes were dear to his friends and to a limited public, but they escaped general recognition. Still Clough worked on-too true to his mission to be a bread-winner except upon those high principles that bis conscience dictated to himself. "Few men," says his recent editor and friend, Mr. Palgrave, “in this age have ever more completely worked out his own ideal--plain living and high thinking."

After filling the wardenship of University Hall, London, for twelve years, Mr. Clough went, in 1852, to try his fortunes in America. He made friends there ; but the offer of an appointment in the Privy Council Ofice decidcd him to return to England.

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He was secretary to the report on Military Education, which carried him to France and Vienna.

Shortly after this he completed the long revision of Dryden's " Translation of Plutarch."

His career was destined to be a brief one. His wife's cousin was Florence Nightingale; he undertook to assist her in her arduous duties, and his health gave way. He then travelled to Greece and Constantinople, thought he was sufficiently recovered, but was obliged again to go South. He visited Auvergne and the Pyrenees in company with his friends Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Tennyson, but was struck by the malaria of one of the Italian lakes, and died at Florence (he is buried there) Nov. 13th, 1861. Messrs. Macmillan and Co., Cambridge and London, have recently published his poetical works in one volume.]



As I sat at the Café I said to myself,
They may talk as they please about what they call pelf

, They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking, But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

How pleasant it is to have money. .
I sit at my table en grand seigneur,
And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor;
Not only the pleasure itself of good living,
But also the pleasure of now and then giving :

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.
They may talk as they please about what they call pelf,
And how one ought never to think of one's self;
How pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking,
My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money.


Come along, 'tis the time, ten or more minutes past,
And he who came first had to wait for the last.

The oysters ere this had been in and been out;
Whilst I have been sitting and thinking about

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money.

A clear soup with eggs; voilà tout; of the fish
The filets de sole are a moderate dish
A la Orly, but you're for red mullet, you say;
By the gods of good fare, who can question to-day

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.
After oysters, sauterne; then sherry; champagne,
Ere one bottle goes, comes another again;
Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above,
And tell to our ears in the sound that they love,

How pleasant it is to have money, heigho!

How pleasant it is to have money. I've the simplest of palates; absurd it may be, But I almost could dine on a poulet-au-riz, Fish and soup and omelette and that—but the deuceThere were to be woodcocks, and not Charlotte Russe !

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.
Your chablis is acid, away with the hock,
Give me the pure juice of the purple médoc:
St. Peray is exquisite; but, if you please,
Some burgundy just before tasting the cheese.

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So pleasant it is to have money.

As for that, pass the bottle, and hang the expense !
I've seen it observed by a writer of sense,
That the labouring classes could scarce live a day,
If people like us didn't eat, drink, and pay. .

So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho !
So useful it is to have money.

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