The incident, which the following stanzas attempt to describe, is historical. It is related by Gibbon in his "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire."
Ye, who have the ruins seen
Of the Coliseum's walls,
Think ye, what the sight hath been
Of Rome's highest festivals!
If your fancy can restore
Crumbled arch and corridor,
Call forth the dead;
Bid them fill again the seats,
Where now Echo only greets
The stranger's tread.
Fourteen hundred years are past,
Rome hath fallen in her pride,
Since the gladiator last
In the Coliseum died.
Fourteen hundred years ago,
Tens of thousands thronged the show,
In joyous guise,
On the struggle and the strife,
And the pangs of parting life,
Feasting their eyes.
Then ye might have heard the roar
Of the noble beasts of prey,
As they fought and bled, before
Men less noble far than they.
Strength is useless, courage vain,
Beauty saves not—they are slain,
The forest race;
Whilst the still unsated crowd
For new victims shout aloud,
To fill their place.
Hark! the Prætor's stern command
Costlier sacrifice proclaims;
Lo! the gladiatorial band,
Glory of the Roman Games!
As they enter, man by man,
Shape and size the people scan
With eager glance;
And of each ill-fated pair,
That await the signal there,
Foretell the chance.
Hark! the trumpet's sudden sound;
Lo! the work of death begun:
Seas of blood shall drench the ground,
Ere that deadly work be done.
Ha! a moment of delay?
What the lifted hand can stay?
Is there a fear
Of Pompeii's fiery shower?
Or, doth Earthquake's giant power
Make havoc here?
No—for Nature with a smile
Looks upon her outraged laws,
Man's indignant voice the while
Bidding man in pity pause.
See!—a monk, obscure, unknown,
Christ's disciple, treads alone
The arena's sand,
Foe from foe intent to part,
Striving with a zealous heart,
But feeble hand.
Would ye seek to know his fate?
Listen to that savage yell!
Scorn, derision, fury, hate,
Doomed his death—the martyr fell.
Record there is none to show,
Whose the hand that dealt the blow
That laid him there;
Men who gazed, and men who fought,
All alike to madness wrought,
The guilt must share.
Whether stoned to death, or slain
By the sword, or by the spear,
Little recks it—it were vain
Through the mists of time to peer.
This we know—the martyr died;
Nor without success had plied
His work of peace,
Since, to expiate that deed,
Rome's Imperial Lord decreed,
The Games should cease.
Rome obeyed her Lord's commands;
Never were those Games renewed:
Now the priest of Jesus stands
Where the gladiator stood.
Thanks, Telemachus, to thee,
Sainted martyr, now we see
Altars around;
And the spot, where thou of yore
Did'st thy life-blood nobly pour,
Is hallowed ground.
THE PRUDENT BRIDE.
At Salem Meeting-House, one summer day,
Two lovers, Abby Purkis and John Cole,
Were joined in holy wedlock. Off they started
To spend the honey-moon, gregarious,
At Trenton, Saratoga, and the Falls.
Reaching this last-named wonder of the world,
They went the usual round; mounted the tower
That overlooks the cataract; stood and watched
The eddying Rapids, and the whirling Pool;
Nor on thy deck, O daring "Maid of the Mist,"
Failed they to buffet the tumultuous roar,
The drenching spray, the seeming perilous plunge
Beneath the Horse-Shoe. Every where, throughout,
Abby was brave; nay, on John's stalwart arm
Leaning, was confident.
At last they reached
The Cavern of the Winds. Then changed her bearing.
Trembling, she paused. In truth, the howling blasts,
And gusty moans as of imprisoned spirits,
Struck the bride's soul with terror. All aghast,
She stood before the entrance, and refused,
Firmly refused to trust herself within.
John urged—she would not; coaxed—'twas all in vain;
Laughed at, and called her "little fool"—she would not.
Nay more, she prayed him by the love he bore her
Not to set foot himself within a place
So fraught with peril. John was ungallant,
And only laughed the more. Not he the man
To flinch from fisticuffs with Æolus!
Had he not harpooned whales in Arctic seas?
Were not typhoon, white squall, and hurricane
His some time playmates? It was her turn now
To coax, and urge, and crave—and be denied.
Chafed that her will was not a law to John,
Abby was woman still, and sorely grieved
That he should run such risks. She kissed him fondly,
And bade him tread with care, and hasten back.
Her voice was choked with sobs. Her latest words
Were scarcely audible, though through them breathed
Salem's sound training. "John," she faltered forth,
"We know not what may happen: dear, dear John,
"Were it not well that you—should—leave—with—me—
"Your—watch—and—pocket-book?"
THE TRAMPER'S BED—AND THE KING'S.
Down by the side of a sweet clover-stack,
On a summer night, I lie on my back.
Clear space is above me; and there, as I lie,
I look straight up to the stars in the sky.
Once, when the King was dethroned by the mob,
They swarmed to his palace, to stare or to rob,
And the frightened lackies flung open the doors,
And clouted shoes scraped along polished floors.
Then it was I caught sight of his Majesty's bed,
With its canopy, gilded and carved, overhead;—
If his Majesty wishes the stars to behold,
And looks up, he can see but the carving and gold!
Some night, should my soul be unbound as I sleep,
And downward an Angel in search of it sweep,
No bar, no obstruction, would hinder his flight;—
With a wave of his wings, by my corpse he would light.
But what, if the soul to be loosed were the King's?
Could an Angel reach that by the poise of his wings?
Could he easily cleave through a palace his way?
Through ceilings bedizened, through floors in decay—
Through gorgeous apartments and bare attic rooms,
For lords and for ladies, for valets and grooms—
Through a quaint peakèd roof rising high o'er the whole—
Could he enter, and tenderly waft off the soul?
Better, then, is the bed by the sweet clover-stack,
With the stars full in view, and the clear Angel's track!
And though much be not mine of this world's pleasant things,
I should care not to barter my couch for the King's!