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THE DYING SENECA.
He died not as the martyr dies,
Wrapped in his living shroud of flame; He fell not as the warrior falls,
Gasping upon the field of fame;
Rome's slaughtered sons and blazing piles Had tracked the purple demon's path, And yet another victim lived
To fill the fiery scroll of wrath; Could not imperial vengeance spare His furrowed brow and silver hair?
The field was sown with noble blood,
The harvest reaped in burning tears, When, rolling up its crimson flood,
Broke the long-gathering tide of years;
His diadem was rent away,
And beggars trampled on his clay.
At morning by the despot's throne,
At evening dashed the laurelled bust,
And spurned the wreaths themselves had strewn;
The shout of triumph echoed wide,
The self-stung reptile writhed and died!
A STILL, Sweet, placid, moonlight face,
Which seems to claim a middle place
And yet, and yet I cannot love
Alas! when Eden's gates were sealed,
Earth's fairest child they could not bless, It mocked them when they sighed.
A ROMAN AQUEDUCT.
THE sun-browned girl, whose limbs recline
As, through the flickering noontide glare,
The rivers of the Roman's plain;
Say, does her wandering eye recall
Whose founts are broken by their grave?
From stone to stone the ivy weaves
Her braided tracery's winding veil, And lacing stalks and tangled leaves Nod heavy in the drowsy gale.