The withering wing of Time has swept o’er all your splendor,
Your stately palaces, where once the tyrant held his midnight revels,
The amphitheatre, which echoed with the groans of martyred Christians,
And the triumphal Arch, where passed, in haughty pride, the victor,
Where, in dark despair, strode on the vanquished monarchs,
All alike have felt the blighting pressure.
It was on a bright and beautiful evening, just as the delightful sun of Italy was declining, that Cleone, a young Roman maiden, walked with her mother along the pleasant banks of the Tiber. They had chosen a retired walk for many reasons, one of which was that retirement better suited their dispositions, and another that Rome was, at that time, filled with a dissolute nobility, whose wills were almost their only law. Cleone and her mother were descendants of ancient and noble families, who had counted amongst their numbers grave and influential senators, warlike and victorious soldiers, and even mingled their blood with the powerful kings and dictators of Rome; but time, with its changing scenes, had reduced them in power and wealth, though oppression and poverty had not taken from them the proud consciousness of former greatness. “My daughter,” said the matron, “look at that glorious sun, though declining, though its splendor will shortly be obscured, yet it will rise again, with renewed and more brilliant light, and shed joy and happiness with its glad beams. So, dearest, shall the sun of our fortunes, though now almost disappearing, again rise, and the virtues of our own Curtius pour light and warmth on all within their influence. Believe this, my own Cleone, and let the thought disperse those clouds of melancholy, believe that your mother is a prophetess, and this time of good.” “Mother,” said Cleone, “I will try to have faith in your augury, but my brother is in a prison, in the power of a tyrant; how can we hope?” “He is under the protecting power of that Being in whom we trust, who has comforted us in affliction, and preserved us in danger, and who will not now forsake us. He, whose power can melt the flinty rock, can soften even the hard heart of a Nero. Do you remember, Cleone, the deathbed of your father, when, laying his hand on the youthful head of our Curtius, after commending us to his love and protection, he blessed him in the name of the only living and true God. ‘Even,’ said he, ‘though called to the death of a martyr, let him never forsake the God of his father.’ The prayer of the dying saint has been heard; midst temptations, in the view of danger and death the undaunted youth has never been shaken in his fidelity to his God, and by his noble courage has forced even the haughty tyrant and his minions to respect.” “Oh, that I could restore him to you, dear mother. Last night I woke from disturbed slumber; the bright beams of the moon rested upon my couch, all was calm and still, the very air breathed peace, but the thought of my darling brother, shut out from all this loveliness, and exposed to the unwholesome damps of a dungeon, weighed heavy upon my mind. I threw myself upon my knees, I prayed God that he would save him from the cruel Emperor. Oh, mother, I did not again lie down until peace and comfort entered my mind, and I felt that if he lived or died, I could say, ‘Thy Holy will be done,’ but mother, I cannot always say so.” Thus communing they had arrived at a lovely spot, surrounded by trees whose luxuriant foliage almost touched the ground. Here they seated themselves upon the bank; the beautiful appearance of the river, as the bright sky was reflected upon the waters, the songs of the birds over their heads, the buzzing of innumerable insects, and the hum of the city, softened by distance, tranquillized their minds. “My Cleone, join your voice to this chorus, and sing our evening hymn.” Obedient to her mother’s wish, she sang, with sweet melody, the simple strain:
The shades of night are closing o’er us,
God of Heaven, watch our sleep!
For the sake of the Lord Jesus