By stealth at times, in secret joy, mysterious flowers I glean, When o'er thy harpsichord at eve enraptured I can lean, And list from thy harmonious hands what fairy accents flow; Or in voluptuous waltz, as round with flying feet we go, I feel thee in mine arms, a reed, that's waving to and fro. When from thy side I have been kept by thronged saloons at night, And in my chamber draw my bolt that shuts the world from sight, A thousand reminiscences I seize upon, and hold In jealous grasp; and there, alone, like miser o'er his gold, To Heaven my heart, all full of thee, with greedy joy unfold. I love; and I have learned to speak in cool and careless tone. I love; nought tells of it. I love; who knows it?--I alone! Dear is my secret, dear the pain with which I am oppressed; And I have sworn to love, without a hope on which to rest; But not without a taste of joy--I see thee, and am blest. No! not for me! I was not born such bliss supreme to meet: To die within thy arms, or live contented at thy feet. Alas! all proves it--e'en the grief that fain I would dispel. Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well: Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell? THE LAST OF THE ROMAN GLADIATORS. 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?