triumph o'er his victim.
But 't was not thus. Insatiable ambition
Had led him to unsheath his victor sword
Against a monarch whose distinctive sway
Ravished from Rome no tittle of her _right_;
And, to augment the aggregate of wrong,
_That monarch was a woman_, whose renown,
Compared with his, was gold compared with brass.
As o'er the stony street the captive paced
Her weary way before the victor's steeds,
And marked the multitudes insatiate gaze,
The look of calm defiance on her face
Told that she bowed not to her degradation.
Her thoughts were not at Rome. Unheeded all,
The billows of the mad excitement dashed
About her, and broke harmless at her feet.
Dim reminiscences of former days
Burst like a deluge on her errant mind;
Leading her backward to the buried past,
When in the artless buoyancy of youth
She sat beneath Palmyra's fragrant shades
And gleaned the pages of historic story,
Red with Rome's bloody catalogue of wrong.
Little she dreamed Palmyra's palaces
Should e'er be scenes of Roman violence;
Little she dreamed that _hers_ should be the lot
(A captive princess led in chains) to crown
The splendor of a Roman holyday.
Alas! the blow she thought not of had fallen.
A bloody struggle, like a dreadful dream,
Had briefly raged, and all to her was lost,
Save the poor grace of a degraded life.
Her sun of glory was gone down in blood--
The glittering fabric of her power despoiled
To swell the triumph of her conqueror.
But in the wreck of her magnificence,
With eye prophetic, she foresaw the ruin
Of the proud capital of all the world.
She saw the quickening symptoms of rebellion
Among the nations, and she caught their cry
For _freedom_ and for _vengeance_!

* * * * *

Hark! the Goth
Is thundering at the gate, His reckless sword
Leaps from the scabbard, eager to vindicate
The cause of the oppressed. A thousand years
The sun has witnessed in his daily course
The tyranny of Rome, now crushed _forever_.
The mighty mass of her usurped dominion,
By its own magnitude at last dissevered,
Is crumbling into fragments; and the shades
Of long-forgotten generations shriek
With fiendish glee over the yawning gulf
Of her perdition.

TEMPER LIFE'S EXTREMES.

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIG