Through the marble gates of Ostia, Where the Tiber meets the sea, And a hundred Roman galleys Strain their leashes to be free, Streams a flood of sunset glory From the cla.s.sic sea of old, Till Rome's seven hills stand gleaming, And the Tiber turns to gold.

Why, indifferent to this splendor, Do the people throng the streets?

What is everyone demanding Of the stranger whom he meets?

They have heard alas! the rumor That, ere dawn regilds the sky, All the world may be in mourning, For the Emperor must die.

Search, O Romans, through the annals Of the rulers of your race, From the zenith of their glory To their ultimate disgrace,-- And as earth's most perfect master, And the n.o.blest of your line, You will yield your greatest homage To this dying Antonine.

For he holds a Caesar's sceptre In a loving father's hand, And his heart and soul are given To the welfare of his land; Through his justice every nation Hath beheld its warfare cease, And he leaves to his successor Rome's gigantic world at peace.

Hence these nations now are waiting In an anguish of suspense, For their future is as doubtful, As their love for him intense; By the Nile and on the Danube, From the Tagus to the Rhine, There is mourning among millions For the man they deem divine.

Now the sunset glow is fading, And the evening shadows creep O'er the ashen face of Caesar, As he lies in seeming sleep; But he slumbers not; for, faithful To his duties, small and great, He is not alone the sovereign, But the servant of the State.

Unrebuked, then, his Centurion, As the sun-G.o.d sinks from sight, Makes his wonted way to Caesar For the pa.s.sword of the night; And great Antonine, though conscious That ere dawn his soul must pa.s.s, As his last, imperial watchword, Utters "Aequanimitas!"

O thou n.o.blest of the Caesars, Whose transcendent virtues shine, Like a glorious constellation, O'er the blood-stained Palatine, When the latest sands are running From my life's exhausted gla.s.s, May I have thy calm and courage, And thine Aequanimitas!

THE b.u.t.tERFLY

I watched to-day a b.u.t.terfly, With gorgeous wings of golden sheen, Flit lightly 'neath a sapphire sky Amid the springtime's tender green;--

A creature so divinely fair, So frail, so wraithlike to the sight, I feared to see it melt in air, As clouds dissolve in morning light.

With sudden swoop, a brutal boy Caught in his cap its fans of gold, And forced them down with savage joy Upon the path's defiling mould;

Then cautiously, the ground well scanned, He clutched his darkened, helpless prey, And, pinched within his grimy hand, Withdrew it to the light of day.

Alas! its fragile bloom was gone, Its gracile frame was sorely hurt, Its silken pinions drooped forlorn, Disfigured by the dust and dirt;

Its life, a moment since so gay, So joyous in its dainty flight, Was slowly ebbing now away,-- Its too-brief day eclipsed by night.

Meantime, the vandal, face aflame, Surveyed it dying in his grasp, Yet knew no grief nor sense of shame In watching for its final gasp.

At last its sails of gold and brown, Of texture fine and colors rare, Came, death-struck, slowly fluttering down, No more to cleave the sunlit air;

One happy, harmless being less, To bid us dream the world is sweet!

Gone like a gleam of happiness, A glimpse of rapture ... incomplete!

Yet who shall say this creature fair In G.o.d's sight had a smaller worth Than that dull lout who watched it there, And in its death found cause for mirth?

For what, in truth, are we who claim An endless life beyond the grave, But insects of a larger frame, Whose souls may be too small to save?

Since far-off times, when Cave Men fought Like famished brutes for b.l.o.o.d.y food, And through unnumbered centuries sought To rear their naked, whelp-like brood,

How many million men have died, From pole to pole through every clime,-- An awful, never-ending tide Swept deathward on the sh.o.r.es of Time!

Like insects swarming in the sun, They flutter, struggle, mate, and die, And, with their life-work scarce begun, Are struck down like the b.u.t.terfly;

A million more, a million less, What matters it? The Earth rolls on, Unmindful of mankind's distress, Or if the race be here, or gone.

Thus rolled our globe ere man appeared, And thus will roll, with wrinkled crust, Deserted, lifeless, old, and seared, When man shall have returned to dust.

And IT at last shall also die!

Hence, measured by the eternal scale, It ranks but as the b.u.t.terfly,-- A world, ephemeral, fair and frail.

Man, insect, earth, or distant star,-- They differ only in degree; Their transient lives, or near or far, Are moments in eternity!

Yet somehow to my spirit clings The faith that man survives the sod, For this poor insect's broken wings Have raised my thoughts from earth to G.o.d.

AFTER THE STORM

The duel of the warring clouds Hath ended with the day; Their scintillant, electric blades Have ceased their fearful play; The pent up fury of their hate Hath found at last release, And o'er the tempest-stricken earth Broods now the hush of peace.

The pa.s.sing of the hurricane Hath swept the sultry skies; The clearness of the atmosphere Brings jubilant surprise; The mountain peaks are glorified With freshly-fallen snow, And, stealing o'er their coronets, Appears the sunset glow.

An hour since, a torrid heat Oppressed the languid frame; The wind was as the khamseen's breath, The solar touch seemed flame; But now the air rejuvenates, The breeze refreshment brings, The l.u.s.trous leaves drop diamonds, The lark with rapture sings.

Fear not, dear heart! life's darkest storms Shall likewise end in light; Behind the blackest thundercloud The sun shines clear and bright; Once more celestial heights shall wear Their sheen of spotless snow, And on the bravely steadfast soul The smile of G.o.d shall glow.

FALLEN

My country! by our fathers reared As champion of the world's opprest; Whose moral force the tyrant feared; Whose flag all struggling freemen cheered; In clutching at an empire's crest Thou too art fallen like the rest.

Not in thy numbers, wealth or might, Proud mistress of a continent!

For rival nations, at the sight Of thy resources, view with fright Thy progress without precedent; Not there is seen thy swift descent.

Reread the story of thy birth!

Recall the years in conflict spent To prove to a despairing earth That every Government of worth Is really based on free consent; Then view with shame thy present bent!

Thou hadst a place unique, sublime; In many a land beyond the sea The victims of despotic crime In thee, the latest born of Time, Beheld a land from tyrants free, The sacred Ark of Liberty.

But now the Old World's l.u.s.t for lands Infects thee too; the dread disease Hath left its plague-spots on thy hands; Thy monster area still expands; For, blind to history's Nemesis, Thou too wouldst alien races seize.

Condemning with profound disdain All other nations' heartless greed, How couldst thou buy from humbled Spain A people struggling to attain A freedom suited to their need?

Why stultify thy boasted creed?

Thine aid to them thou mightst have given, As France her aid once gave to thee; With them thy sons might well have striven, And their blood-rusted fetters riven; But why, in Heaven's name, should we Shoot men aspiring to be free?

I tread the fields where thousands sleep,-- The blood-soaked fields that freed the slave; What precious memories still they keep For hearts that mourn and eyes that weep!

Yet for the lives those heroes gave What have we that they died to save?