THE COLISEUM.

FEAR NOT THEM WHICH KILL THE BODY.-MATT. X. 28.

Lo! here the giant-mass,

Hid 'neath its native grass,

Sloping its green sides toward the cloudless sky,
While, ranging line o'er line,

Like some exhausted mine,

Its hundred caverns meet the wanderer's eye; And tree and herb their rule o'er wrecks maintain ; The claimants of the earth, where man hath ceased to reign.

By rude and broken ways,
Threading the arches' maze,

Which, far receding, dimly stretch before,

Our gloomy way we hold,

Where they their depths unfold,

Like yawning caves, that skirt some mountain-shore-Till yon bright moon-lit rent invites us nigh,

Whence spreads the circling bound, domed by the calm

blue sky.

High in her silvery car,

With many a twinkling star,

The moon ascends serene the brow of night;
And in her vigor's prime,

Untouched by envious Time,

O'erlays each broken arch with sheets of light; Careless what work of man survive or die,

She nightly fills her horn, and nightly walks the sky.

She never checked her beam,

But poured as rich a gleam.

O'er this huge pile with human blood bedewed,
Nor cared what caught her glance,

Amid the whirling dance,

The golden throne, or bones yon area strewed

And, still unchanged, her silver rain she showers, O'er arch and column crushed,-trees, herbs, and budding flowers.

Here Murder fleshed his sword,

And Terror spread the board,

While Rome bade Death to dance his roundelay-
For her desires were wide,

And they must be supplied,

Tho' farthest isles be searched to yield her preyWould Death but make her sport, she vowed to bring The glory of the world to grace the horrid King.

And well did Death obey,

And wild his roundelay,

Full many an age he quaffed the blood as rain ;
Here, in this hollow span,

Man slew his fellow-man,

And beasts in myriads choked the reeking plain – Rome clapped the hand, and drowned the dying cry, And called for blood with thirst not ocean could supply.

O where was Pity then?

Fled from the haunts of men,

She sought a refuge in the desert-wild;

There found a surer rest,

Within the tiger's breast,

Nor thought of Man-erst her peculiar child— While here the shriek of woe, that rose around, The maddening shout of drunken rapture drowned.

But whence this mingled throng,

The weak amid the strong,

Bowed age, and manly force, and youthful bloom,
The tender babe at rest

Upon its mother's breast,

All mute, like sheep, borne onward to their doom? Sure murder's self that helpless band might spare

What fight shall they maintain? their only weapon, prayer!

But hark! the acclaiming sound
Re-echoes wildly round,

For sweet to Rome yon peaceful sacrifice-
Hate owns but one fell aim,

To crush the Saviour's name,

And on its ruins raise her dome of lies; While showers of deep'ning curses, far and wide, Pour o'er the heads of those, who own the Crucified !

The scene is past-again

Filled is the murderous den,

Who now their will awaits, all bent with age?
He bears nor sword nor shield,

As from a foughten field,

Clothed like a hermit for his pilgrimage?

What dost thou here, with past'ral staff, alone,
Where Justice hath no place, and Mercy is not known!

Methinks, I see him stand1

With eye upraised and hand,

Meekly awaiting what the end may be-
Ten thousand voices rise,

To claim the sacrifice,

He hears, nor sees the maddening revelryO say, what in yon living blue hath power

To chain his beaming eye in this tremendous hour!

1 Ignatius, Bishop of Antioch, who was exposed to lions in the Amphitheatre.