Unto his throne he makes his way,
Where profligates around him stand;
He gives the order of the day,

And smiles while issuing his command.

Out from a dungeon, dim and drear,
The youthful Lucian is brought;
His countenance is free from fear,

As forth he comes into the court.
His right hand grasps a glitt'ring sword,
His left hand firmly grasps the shield;
They give him not a cheering word,
They know that he will have to yield.
No cry of pity greets his form,

As boldly standing on his ground,
They wait impatient for the storm,
Eager to hear another sound.
'Tis heard at last, so low, so deep,
Like rolling thunder from afar;
And forth the brute is seen to creep,
From out its dim and dreary lair.
Straight to the youth it makes its way,
Pacing the ground with crafty tread;
The silence of that concourse gay,
Is by their expectation fed.
There, crouching low upon the ground,
With sweeping tail and flashing eyes,
The beast prepares the fatal bound,
Which gallantly the youth defies.
At last, at last, the spring is made,

Yet look! the lad is sound and free;
He wields aloft the keen-edged blade,
And strikes for life and liberty.
The sword sends forth a rapid gleam,
And passes thro' the lion's side;
The crimson blood is seen to stream,
From out the wound a rushing tide.
The youth prepares to smite again,
His sword is lifted for the blow;
But crash-the paw breaks it in twain,
He's at the mercy of the foe.

A piercing shriek breaks on the air,
False! False! Ignatius!" is heard;

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Yet ere that last word of despair
That mighty multitude is stirr'd.
A deadly shaft with light'ning speed,
Gives back to Lucian his life;
He, from the wounded brute is freed,
Some other hand joins in the strife.

Look, see, Commodus, how he frowns,
But hark! his voice sounds terribly.
My citizens, a thousand crowns

To him who brings that man to me.

They know not whence the weapon came,
They hardly saw the fatal dart,

Until the object of its aim

Lay pierc'd in death, right through-the heart. He bids another sword be giv'n,

Another lion to be freed;

He scorns to have the youth forgiv'n

Until his gallant form shall bleed.

Again he meets the lion's eye,

Again we hear that cry of woe;

Again a shaft is seen to fly,

And overpower the mighty foe.. The people raise a joyful cry,

This sight was never seen before;

The Emperor moves angrily

And shouts his orders out once more.

This time six brutes, instead of one,

From out their dens are seen to start;
Yet as they fiercely to him run,

Each one is pierced through the heart.
Again the shout, once more the frown,
But all the lions now are dead;
Commodus rises from his throne,
The people's joy is turned to dread.
He from a soldier takes a sword,
And goes into the court beneath;
They wait with eagerness his word,
And gaze there with abated breath.
"Some daring hand," he cries aloud,
"Has sav'd this malefactor's life;

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Instead of lying in his shroud,
He lives uninjured in the strife.
Behold, if that one dares to give

A helping hand to save him now,
Then by the gods, I'll let him live,

And ye shall see, I'll keep my vow."
Yet as the sword is seen to flash,

Determined that the blood be spilt,
Another shaft is seen to crash

The threat'ning weapon to the hilt.

Deaf'ning the roars which shake the air,
When they behold the youth is free;
Commodus gives an angry glare,
Yet gives to him his liberty.

And if the court we could but search,
We'd find a den in which we see,
Ignatius, upon his perch,

Smiling in grim security.

We leave the lovers to their joy,
We will not touch that sacred shrine;
We would not now their peace destroy,
But leave them to their love divine.

The Passing Bell.

FROM day to day a bell is heard,

Solemn and sad, with measur'd toll :

Alas! its muffl'd peal to death

(Weird in its gloomy length and pow'r)
Casts o'er the multitude a spell

Which numbs each beating heart with fear
Or woe, and hauntings of the grave.
Behold! within our peaceful homes
Creeps noiselessly a spectral form,
Spreading, with unrelenting hand,
Cold and damp, and foul disease.
Vain seem the efforts made to check
Its onward course. It baffles all,
And moves in mystic silence on
Where'er it lists.

JOHN EMMET, F.L.S.

BY GEORGE ACKROYD, J.P.

JOHN EMMET was born at Final Royd House, Birkenshaw, in 1822. He was educated at Elam's Academy, Birstall. About thirty years ago he removed to Boston Spa, at which charming locality he has resided, more or less, ever since. When quite a youth the poetic faculty strongly developed itself in his nature, and he commenced contributing dainty gems to several of the principal Yorkshire papers. A passion for Botany, Antiquities, Conchology, Gardening and collecting Flint Implements also appeared, and articles from his pen on these and kindred subjects appeared in the Bradford Observer and other publications many years since. Mr. Emmet has also contributed to the Archaeological Journal, The Naturalist, Chambers's Journal, Science Gossip and numerous other leading magazines from the Standard downwards. He was elected a Fellow of the Linnæan Society in 1885. It is much to be regretted that Mr. Emmet has never yet issued his poems in book form. He says in a letter received lately, "I have many volumes of MSS., but I never had pluck to publish.” In 1878 he visited Italy and was introduced to Pope Leo XIII. and Victor Hugo. Among other men he has had the privilege of knowing and associating with are Wordsworth, Hartley Coleridge, James Montgomery, Charles Waterton and P. J. Bailey. Mr. Emmet was also intimately acquainted with many of the characters in Charlotte Brontë's " Shirley"; four or five of them were his personal friends. A distant relative of his is John Strange Winter, whose aunt, his uncle married. Says Miss E. Helen Barlow, of Bury, in "North Country Poets," "He (Mr. Emmet) enjoys his otium cum dignitate, and has not an enemy in the world. He lives in a house smothered with roses, and filled with old china bric-a-brac, antiquarian and other curiosities, as Waugh would say, 'crom full of ancientry and Roman hawpennies,' and books and pictures old and new. He leads a cultured life, varied by travel, retaining his intellectual tastes in all their freshness, enjoys life and his churchwarden pipe, and is never

better pleased that when offering hospitality to old friends of similar tastes; and indeed, with his quaint, happy way of looking at things, his inexhaustible fund of apt anecdote and vast general information, a more entertaining companion or genial host would be hard to find."

His love for every living creature wins in return the fearless confidence of all animals, who seem at once to recognise him as a friend.

In Mr. Emmet's neighbourhood he is regarded as a sort of walking encyclopedia, and whenever coins or trophies, shells or rare flowers, curious stones, or old books are discovered, he is supposed to know all about them and name them as did Adam in Eden."

The poems appended will amply prove Mr. Emmet's right to a prominent place among the Spen Valley Poets, and though he is now far removed from the locality, thirty years of his youth spent in and near Birkenshaw always lends to his present day life a kindly and tender recollection. "Golden Stairs" is reprinted from a leaflet possessed by the late Abraham Holdroyd, and which appeared in the "Bradfordian." It has been reprinted many times.

Pessimist and Optimist.

A True Story of a worthy Spen Valley Couple.

OLD Billy Buttons went to bed
And never slept a wink;

Bad debts, green harvests ruled his head,
He could do nought but think.

His old wife Dolly slumbered nigh
As he rolled round and swore;
Oft in his heart he wondered why
She could both sleep and snore.

So passed the night—a restless toss―
But Dolly slept right through;
Then Billy in the morn waxed cross
And crowed, like Doodle Doo!

Chuck, chuck! I never slept the night,
I saw the rising sun;

"And didst thee earn a shilling by't,"
Clucked Dolly, when he'd done.

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