"Were they mine at the plea, were they mine for the token, all told, Now the citadel sleeps, now my father the keeper is old,"

"If I go by the way that I know, and thou followest hard, If yet at the touch of Tarpeia the gates be unbarred?"

The chief trembled sharply for joy, then drew rein on his soul: "Of all this arm beareth I swear I will cede thee the whole."

And up from the nooks of the camp, with hoa.r.s.e plaudit outdealt, The bearded Sabini glanced hotly, and vowed as they knelt,

Bare-stretching the wrists that bore also the glowing great boon: "Yea! surely as over us shineth the lurid low moon,

"Not alone of our lord, but of each of us take what he hath!

Too poor is the guerdon, if thou wilt but show us the path!"

Her nostril upraised, like a fawn's on the arrowy air, She sped, in a serpentine gleam to the precipice stair.

They climbed in her traces, they closed on their evil swift star: She bent to the latches, and swung the huge portal ajar.

Repulsed where they pa.s.sed her, half-tearful for wounded belief, "The bracelets!" she pleaded. Then faced her, the leonine chief,

And answered her: "Even as I promised, maid-merchant, I do."

Down from his dark shoulder the baubles he sullenly drew.

"This left arm shall nothing begrudge thee. Accept. Find it sweet.

Give, too, O my brothers!" The jewels he flung at her feet,

The jewels hard heavy; she stooped to them, flushing with dread, But the shield he flung after: it clanged on her beautiful head.

Like the Apennine bells when the villagers' warnings begin, Athwart the first lull broke the ominous din upon din;

With a "Hail, benefactress!" upon her they heaped in their zeal Death: agate and iron; death: chrysoprase, beryl and steel.

'Neath the outcry of scorn, 'neath the sinewy tension and hurl, The moaning died slowly, and still they ma.s.sed over the girl

A mountain of shields! and the gemmy hight tangle in links, A torrent-like gush, pouring out on the gra.s.s from the c.h.i.n.ks,

Pyramidal gold! the sumptuous monument won By the deed they had loved her for, doing, and loathed her for, done.

Such was the wage that they paid her, such the acclaim: All Rome was aroused with the thunder that buried her shame.

On surged the Sabini to battle. O you that aspire!

Tarpeia the traitor had fill of her woman's desire.

Woe: lightly to part with one's soul as the sea with its foam!

Woe to Tarpeia, Tarpeia, daughter of Rome!

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY.

THE BELLS.

I.

Hear the sledges with the bells-- Silver bells.

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night!

While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight, Keeping, time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II.

Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!

Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight!

From the molten-golden notes, All in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

How it swells, How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III.

Hear the loud alarum bells-- Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror now, their turbulency tells!

In the startled air of night How they scream out their affright!

Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire.

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now--now to sit, or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their terror tells Of despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar!

What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air!

Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the tw.a.n.ging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--

Of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

IV.

Hear the tolling of the bells-- Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright With the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan.

And the people--ah, the people-- They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that m.u.f.fled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone-- They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute nor human-- They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells!

And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells!

And he dances, and he yells, Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells-- Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells-- To the sobbing of the bells, Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, To the tolling of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells; Bells, bells, bells-- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells!

E. A. POE.

THE TEMPERANCE QUESTION.

1. Some men look upon this temperance cause as a whining bigotry, narrow asceticism, or a vulgar sentimentality, fit for little minds, weak women, and weaker men. On the contrary, I regard it as second only to one or two others of the primary reforms of the age, and for this reason: every race has its peculiar temptation; every clime has its specific sin.

2. The tropics and tropical races are tempted to one form of sensuality; the colder and temperate regions, and our Saxon blood, find their peculiar temptation in the stimulus of drink and food. In old times our heaven was a drunken revel. We relieve ourselves from the over-weariness of constant and exhausting toil by intoxication. Science has brought a cheap means of drunkenness within the reach of every individual.