"Depart! and come not near

The busy mart, the crowded city, more;
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er;
And stay thou not to hear

Voices that call thee in the way; and fly
From all who in the wilderness pass by.

"Wet not thy burning lip

In streams that to a human dwelling glide;
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide;
Nor kneel thee down to dip

The water where the pilgrim bends to drink,
By desert well, or river's grassy brink.

"And pass not thou between

The weary traveler and the cooling breeze;
And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees
Where human tracks are seen;

Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain;
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain.

"And now depart! and when

Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim,
Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to him
Who, from the tribes of men;

Selected thee to feel his chastening rod;-
Depart, O leper! and forget not God."

And he went forth alone. Not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart

Breaking within him now, to come and speak Comfort unto him, Yea, he went his way,— Sick, and heart-broken, and alone,--to die! For God had cursed the leper.

It was noon,

And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched
The loathsome water to his fevered lips,
Praying he might be so blest,-to die!

Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee
He drew the covering closer on his lip,
Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should pass.

Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name,
"Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone
Of a rich instrument,-most strangely sweet;
And the dull pulses of disease awoke,
And for a moment beat beneath the hot
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill.
"Helon, arise!" And he forgot his curse,
And rose and stood before him.

Love and awe
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye,
As he beheld the Stranger. He was not
In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow
The symbol of a lofty lineage wore;
No followers at his back, nor in his hand
Buckler, or sword, or spear; yet in his mien
Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled,
A kingly condescension graced his lips,
The lion would have crouched to in his lair.
His garb was simple, and his sandals worn;
His stature modeled with a perfect grace;
His countenance, the impress of a God

Touched with the open innocence of a child;

His
eye was blue and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon; his hair, unshorn,
Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard
The fulness of perfected manhood bore.
He looked on Helon earnestly awhile,

As if his heart was moved; and stooping down
He took a little water in his hand

And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!"
And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins,
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
Tl. dewy softness of an infant stole.

His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped Him.

BRUTUS OVER THE DEAD LUCRETIA.

J. H. PAYNE.

Would you know why I summoned you together? Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger,

Clotted with gore. Behold that frozen corse!

See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!

She was the mark and model of the time,

The mould in which each female face was formed,

The very shrine and sacristy of virtue.

Fairer than ever was a form created

By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild,
And never-resting thought is all on fire.
The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks,
And whispered in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her. The young choir
Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'Tis wonderful,

Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds,
Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost
Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,—
How, from the shade of those ill-neighboring plants,
Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf

Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace,
Bloomed in unsullied beauty. Such perfections
Might have called back the torpid breast of age
To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind
Might have abashed the boldest libertine,
And turned desire to reverential love,
And holiest affection. O my countrymen!
You all can witness when that she went forth
It was a holiday in Rome; old age
Forgot its crutch, labor its task,—all ran,

And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried
"There, there's Lucretia!" Now, look ye, where she lies!
That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose,
Torn up by ruthless violence,-gone! gone! gone!
Say, would you seek instruction? would ye ask
What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls,
Which saw his poisoned brother,-

Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry, Revenge!
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!
Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife,
And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the Gods, the all-viewing heavens,
The Gods themselves shall justify the cry,
And swell the general shout, Revenge! Revenge!
And we will be revenged, my countrymen !

Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name

Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him Than all the noblest titles earth can boast,

Brutus your king? No, fellow-citizens !
If mad ambition in this guilty frame

Had strung one kingly fibre,-yea, but one,-
By all the Gods, this dagger which I hold.
Should rip it out, though it entwined my heart.
Now take the body up. Bear it before us
To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches,
And, in that blazing conflagration, rear

A pile for these chaste relics, that shall send
Her soul among the stars. On! Brutus leads you;
On to the Forum! the fool shall set you free.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

C. F. ALEXANDER.

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Bethpeor; but no man knoweth of his sepulcher unto this day."-DEUT. XXXIV. 6.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
But no man dug that sepulcher,

And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth;
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun.