More! more! Ah! I thought I could nevermore know
Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below.

Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell
How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell.
Did they think I cared then to see officers stand
Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand?

Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright,
That your red hands turn over toward this dim light
These dead men that stare so? Ah, if you had kept
Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left,
You had heard that his place was worst of them all,
Not 'mid the stragglers, — where he fought he would fall.

There's the Moon through the clouds: O Christ, what a scene! Dost Thou from Thy Heavens o'er such visions lean,

And still call this cursed world a footstool of Thine?

Hark, a groan! there another,—here in this line

Piled close on each other!

Ah! here is the flag,

Torn, dripping with gore;-bah! they died for this rag.

Here's the voice that we seek: poor soul, do not start!

We're women, not ghosts.

What a gash o'er the heart!

A message to give

Is there aught we can do?

To

any beloved one? I swear, if I live,

To take it for sake of the words my boy said,

"Home," "mother," "wife," ere he reel'd down 'mong the dead. ́

But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood?

Speak, speak, man, or point; 'twas the Ninth. O, the blood
Is choking his voice! What a look of despair!

There, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair

From eyes so fast glazing. O, my darling, my own,
My hands were both idle when you died alone.

Close his lids, let us go.
If we only could know

He's dying, he's dead!
God's peace on his soul!
Where our own dear one lies!

my soul has turn'd sick;

Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick?

I cannot! I cannot? How eager you are!

One might think you were nursed on the red lap of War.

He's not here,

and not here. What wild hopes flash through ·

My thoughts, as foot-deep I stand in this dread dew,
And cast up a prayer to the blue quiet sky!

Was it you, girl, that shriek'd? Ah! what face doth lie
Upturn'd toward me there, so rigid and white?

O God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream.

My old sight

Is dimm'd with these horrors. My son!
O my son !
Would I had died for thee, my own, only one!
There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast
Where first he was lull'd, with my soul's hymn, to rest.
Your heart never thrill'd to your lover's fond kiss
As mine to his baby-touch; was it for this?

He was yours, too; he loved you? Yes, yes, you're right;
Forgive me, my daughter, I'm madden'd to-night.

Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your years
May still hold fair hopes; but the old die of tears.

Yes, take him again;

ah! don't lay your face there;

See, the blood from his wound has stain'd your loose hair.

How quiet you are! - Has she fainted?- her cheek

Is cold as his own. Say a word to me,-speak!
Am I crazed? Is she dead? Has her heart broke first?
Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst.

I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead;
Those corpses are stirring; God help my poor head!

I'll sit by my children until the men come
To bury the others, and then we'll go home.
Why, the slain are all dancing! Dearest, don't move.
Keep away from my boy; he's guarded by love.
Lullaby, lullaby; sleep, sweet darling, sleep!
God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep.

CLAUDIUS AND CYNTHIA.

MAURICE THOMPSON.

161

It was in the mid-splendour of the reign of the Emperor Commodus. Especially desirous of being accounted the best swordsman and the most fearless gladiator of Rome, he still

better enjoyed the reputation of being the incomparable archer. No one had ever been able to compete with him. His success had rendered him a monomaniac on the subject of archery, affecting him so deeply indeed that he cared more for his fame as a consummate bowman than for the dignity and honour of his name as Emperor of Rome. This being true, it can well be understood how Claudius, by publicly boasting that he was a better archer than Commodus, had brought upon himself the calamity of a public execution.

But not even Nero would have thought of bringing the girl to her death for the fault of the lover.

Claudius and his young bride had been arrested together at their wedding-feast, and dragged to separate dungeons to await the emperor's will. The rumour was abroad that a most startling scene would be enacted in the circus. The result was that all the seats were filled with people eager to witness some harrowing scene of death.

Commodus himself, surrounded by a great number of his favourites, sat on a richly-cushioned throne about midway one side of the enclosure. All was still, as if the multitude were breathless with expectancy. Presently out from one of the openings Claudius and his young bride - their hands bound behind them were led forth upon the arena and forced to walk around the entire circumference of the place.

The youth was tall and nobly beautiful, a very Hercules in form, an Apollo in grace and charm of movement. His hair was blue-black and crisp, his eyes were dark and proud. The girl was petite and lovely beyond compare. Her eyes were gray and deep as those of a goddess; her hair was pure gold, falling to her feet, and trailing behind her as she walked.

Both were nude excepting a short girdle reaching to the knees.

At length the giant circuit was completed, and the two were left standing on the sand about one hundred and twenty feet from the emperor, who now arose and in a loud voice said:

"Behold the condemned Claudius, and Cynthia whom he lately took for his wife. They are condemned for the great folly of Claudius, that the Roman people may know that Commodus reigns supreme. The crime for which they are to die is a great one. Claudius has publicly proclaimed that he is a better archer than I, Commodus, am. I am the Emperor and the incomparable archer of Rome: whoever disputes it dies, and his wife dies with him. It is decreed."

It was enough to touch the heart of even a Roman to see the innocence of that fair girl's face, as she turned it up in speechless, tearless, appealing grief and anguish to that of her husband. Her pure bosom heaved and quivered with the awful terror suddenly generated within.

The youth, erect and powerful, set his thin lips firmly and kept his eyes looking straight out before him. Many knew him as a trained athlete and especially as an almost unerring archer: they knew him too, as a brave soldier, a true friend, an honourable citizen. Little time remained for such refleetions as might have arisen, for immediately a large cage, containing two fiery-eyed and famished tigers, was brought into the circus and placed before the victims. The hungry beasts were excited to madness by the smell of fresh blood, which had been smeared on the bars of the cage for that purpose. They growled and howled, lapping their fiery tongues and plunging against the door.

A murmur of remonstrance and disgust ran all around that vast ellipse, for now every one saw that the spectacle was to be a foul murder, without even the show of a struggle.

The alert eyes of Commodus were bent on the crouching beasts.

At the same time he noted well the restlessness and disappointment of the people. He understood his subjects, and knew how to excite them. The limbs of the poor girl had begun to give way under her, and she was slowly sinking to the ground. This seemed greatly to affect Claudius, who, without lowering his fixed eyes, tried to support her with his body. Despite his efforts she fell in a helpless heap at his

feet. The lines on his manly brow deepened, and a slight ashy-pallor flickered on brow and eyelids. But he did not tremble. He stood like a statue of Hercules. Then a sound came from the cage which no words can describe, the hungry howl, the clashing teeth, the hissing breath of the tigers, along with the sharp clang of the iron bars spurned by their rushing feet. The circus fairly shook with the plunge of death toward its victims. Suddenly, in this last moment, the maiden, by a great effort, writhed to her feet, and covered the youth's body with her own. Such love! It should have sweetened death to that young man. his eyes flame, immovably fixed upon the coming demons! Those who have often turned up their thumbs in this place for men to die, now hold their breath in utter disgust and sympathy.

How

Look for a brief moment upon the picture; fifty thousand faces thrust forward gazing; the helpless couple lost to every thing but the black horrors of death, quivering from from head to foot. Note the spotless beauty and unselfish love of the girl. Mark well the stern power of the young man's face. Think of the marriage vows just taken, of the golden bowl of bliss a moment ago at their young lips. And now, O, now look at the bounding tigers! See how one leads the other in the awful race to the feast. The girl is nearer than the man. She will feel the claws and fangs first. How wide those red, frothing mouths gape! How the red tongues loll! The sand flies up in a cloud from the armed feet of the leaping brutes.

There came from the place where Commodus stood a clear/ musical note, such as might have come from the gravest cord of a lyre, if powerfully stricken, closely followed by a keen, far-reaching hiss, like the whisper of fate, ending in a heavy blow. The multitude caught breath and stared.

The foremost tiger, while yet in mid-air, curled itself up with a gurgling cry of utter pain, and with the blood gushing from its eyes, ears, and mouth, fell heavily down dying. Again the sweet, insinuating twang, the hiss, the stroke.