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