are eager for blood and plunder. I have risked my life to bring you this warning; but that is of little moment. Farewell!-Be happy!" Cæsar stopped her. "Do you fly from my thanks, dear Zoe? 66 I wish not for your thanks, but for your safety;—I desire not to defraud Valeria or Servilia of one caress, extorted from gratitude or pity. Be my feelings what they may, I have learnt in a fearful school to endure and to suppress them. I have been taught to abase a proud spirit to the claps and hisses of the vulgar;-to smile on suitors who united the insults of a despicable pride to the endearments of a loathsome fondness ;-to affect sprightliness with an aching head, and eyes from which tears were ready to gush ;-to feign love with curses on my lips, and madness in my brain. Who feels for me any esteem-any tenderness? Who will shed a tear over the nameless grave which will soon shelter from cruelty and scorn the broken heart of the poor Athenian girl? but you, who alone have addressed her in her degradation with a voice of kindness and respect, farewell. Sometimes think of me,-not with sorrow ;-no: I could bear your ingratitude, but not your distress. Yet, if it will not pain you too much, in distant days, when your lofty hopes and destinies are accomplished,-on the evening of some mighty victory,-in the chariot of some magnificent triumph,think on one who loved you with that exceeding love which only the miserable can feel. Think that, wherever her exhausted frame may have sunk beneath the sensibilities of a tortured spirit,-in whatever hovel or whatever vault she may have closed her eyes,-whatever strange scenes of horror and pollution may have surrounded her dying bed, your shape was the last that swam before her sight-your voice the last sound that was ringing in her ears. Yet turn your face to me, Cæsar. Let me carry away one last look of those features, and then- He turned round. He looked at her. He hid his face on her bosom, and burst into tears. With sobs long and loud, and convulsive as those of a terrified child, he poured forth on her bosom the tribute of impetuous and uncontrollable emotion. He raised his head; but he in vain struggled to restore composure to the brow which had confronted the frown of Sylla, and the lips which had rivalled the eloquence of Cicero. He several times attempted to speak, but in vain; and his voice still faltered with tenderness, when, after a pause of several minutes, he thus addressed her: 66 My own dear Zoe, your love has been bestowed on one who, if he cannot merit, can at least appreciate and adore you. Beings of similar loveliness, and similar devotedness of affection, mingled, in all my boyish dreams of greatness, with visions of curule chairs and ivory cars, marshalled legions and laurelled fasces. Such I have endeavoured to find in the world; and, in their stead, I have met with selfishness, with vanity, with frivolity, with falsehood. The life which you have preserved is a boon less valuable than the affection "Oh! Cæsar," interrrupted the blushing Zoe, "think only on your own security at present. If you feel as you speak, but you are only mocking me,-or perhaps your compassion 66 By Heaven!-by every oath that is binding "Alas! alas! Cæsar, were not all the same oaths sworn yesterday to Valeria? But I will trust you, at least so far as to partake your present dangers. Flight may be necessary:-form your plans. Be they what they may, there is one who, in exile, in poverty, in peril, asks only to wander, to beg, to die with you." "My Zoe, I do not anticipate any such necessity. To renounce the conspiracy without renouncing the principles on which it was originally undertaken ;-to elude the vengeance of the Senate without losing the confidence of the people, is, indeed, an arduous, but not an impossible, task. I owe it to myself and to my country to make the attempt. There is still ample time for consideration. At present I am too happy in love to think of ambition or danger.' They had reached the door of a stately palace. Cæsar struck it. It was instantly opened by a slave. Zoe found herself in a magnificent hall, surrounded by pillars of green marble, between which were ranged the statues of the long line of Julian nobles. "Call Endymion," said Cæsar. The confidential freed-man made his appearance, not without a slight smile, which his patron's good nature emboldened him to hazard, at perceiving the beautiful Athenian. "Arm my slaves, Endymion; there are reasons for precaution. Let them relieve each other on guard during the night. Zoe, my love, my preserver, why are your cheeks so pale? Let me kiss some bloom into them. How you tremble! Endymion, a flask of Samian and some fruit. Bring them to my apartments. This way my sweet Zoe." * T. M. THE SEVEN SLEEPERS. A FRAGMENT. I. ་ Is it the sun that opens these dim eyes? The morning dew that wets this matted hair?— 'It is the sun that lights this stony lair Awake, my brothers; brothers dear, arise! Yet sleep ye on, for there is peace in sleep, Earth-freed and pure, swimming the boundless ocean Of sunless space, breathing its own clear light- Thinking myself a disembodied motion— 'But now upon the earth again I creep.' II. He stretch'd his limbs, for they were stiff and chill; The fingers cold his feverish flesh are clenching: And where the cool transparent brook was dancing, III. The earth was embroider'd with half-blown flowers, To some old fable of sorrow listening, Where hope still sits on the trenchant blade, There were voices of joy in the peaceful wind, As the small birds were twittering each to his kind, 'Midst the tremulous hum of the myriad flies, And the buz of the golden bee's deep horn; And the odorous breathings of that fresh morn, IV. These were delights of high and solemn tone; Their eyes drank in the gentle sun-beam slanting With a persuasive and o'erpowering spell: To their deep tendency; their earthly feeling V. 'Brother, the first beams of the day 'Of orison.' And so they knelt them down The mist had fled before their simple prayers: VI. Yet, since those brothers knelt upon that soil, Or saw the pine-wood sleeping in the sun, VII. O vital Spirit of nature, thou alone Givest a perdurable garment to this earth, And the soft gales in their green mantles fold,— And seas, that heave with an undying tide,— VIII. And yet they gaz'd:-they look'd upon that place Had lost its ancient pathways; and the rill They wonder'd, yet they spake not. There's a voice, Not unfamiliar, on their silence breaking; We come we join you-let our souls rejoice— • Hark to the blest hymn of our brothers' waking:' |