as a line of warriors, in front of his tall car, and at a sign from Clelia all saluted the victorious monarch, while the plain rang with plaudits, and Porsena smiled gently at their beauty and their grace, and the proud Tarquins looked on in wonder, so strange was the demeanor of the maidens, so indecorous and unroman. Once more they broke off into single files-ten files of five girls each--and, wheeling once again through the tumultuous and applauding ranks, they gained the open plain. "One more feat now!" cried Cloelia, waving her hand aloft-" Hurrah! girls, for the Tiber -for Rome! for Rome, hurrah!" and down the steep hillside they dashed amain, and over the green meadow at its base-and on to the abrupt and cliffy bank of the broad fordless river! Her words were heard through all the Latin host, so trumpet-like and clear did she peal forth her silvery accents, and down rushed one and all, archer and spearman, Lucumo and slave, in hot and desperate pursuit. King Porsena lashed out his fiery coursers, and they responded to the scourge, and thundered down the hill precipitateSextus spurred out, and Ancus! they only mounted of the Latins!

But vain-vain was the chase and fruitless. Clœlia has reached the brim, and, lashing her fierce charger with her loosened rein, plunged headlong-darkly the yellow stream closed over her-but instant she rose buoyant-she stemmed the wheeling tide, sitting the war-steed gallantly-she is half-way to safety-one by one, in they drove-not a girl feared or falteredone by one, up they rose with their rich locks disheveled and their white garments dripping. False Sextus reached the bank-he spurred his steed as though he would have followed, but on the very verge his base heart failed him, he drew upon his bridle hard and halted. Curses! a thousand curses on his head!-he brandishes his javelin, he hurls it—the ponderous missile hurtles as it cleaves its way through the autumnal air-within a foot of Clolia's head it gleams-it falls-it is buried in the shuddering waters. Lo! they have passed the stream-they strain in triumph up the steep bank-they smile serene scorn on the baffled Latins! Ye gods! with what a roar of joyous exultation Rome rushes from her gates, to greet her rescued daughters, to hail the virgin hostage.

It was sad

To see her feeding thus upon her grief,

And life from her young brow and tinted cheek
Wasting away, as fails the little brook
Beneath the drooping flowers.

Oh deep despair
Held her heart's pulses in a torturing check,
So that her eye was dim and her cheek pale,
Her brain oppressed as by a weight of ice,
While in her heart the burning current lay
Like Etna's bosomed lava, drying up
The silver springs of being; and her words
Were sad and incoherent, yet most sweet,
Like the low wailing of a sweet toned harp
Broken and "hung upon the willows,"
Where the long weepers, floating on the wind,
Sweep o'er the chords, and waken low, sweet tones,
Which melt into the spirit, as the dews
Come down into the blossom, filling it

The moon was down, The stars were dim, like sleepy watchers' eyes, The winds, the waters, every thing was still, So still that one might almost be forgiven For deeming that the God of Nature slept Upon her placid breast. The last pale rose Lay scattered like a broken diadem Within Lucella's bower. And she was there, Reclined upon her couch, wasted and weak, And white as alabaster. Round her knelt Her weeping maidens, while with broken sighs She murmured of her love. "I feel," she said, "A sick and drowsy faintness. All my frame Grows chill and heavy. Carlos, this is death! Our bridal hour has come. Wait for me, love! I will go with thee soon."

And so she died.

IN thy sad or merry mood,

Pretty, fairy, Molly Gray! Whether thou art more winning

I can never, never say.

Lost in mute aspirations,

And dreams unapprehended,

I have seen thee stand in tears
Of joy and sadness blended.

And then I've heard thee singing
Joyous, pretty Molly Gray!

With full-hearted gladness,
Like a happy bird in May!

Pretty, fairy, Molly Gray!

What may thy fit emblems be? Stream or star, or bird or flowerThey are all too poor for thee! No type to match thy beauty My wandering fancy brings, Not fairer than its chrysalis, Thy soul with her golden wings!