There were his rude barbarians all at play,

There was their Dacian mother-he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday-

All this rushed with his blood."

But the last hour in which these spectacles were to outrage humanity was at hand; and a humble monk of the desert was destined to achieve what emperors had been unequal to.

On the morning of the second day of the games, Telemachus, to the consternation of Hilarion, announced it as his intention to repair tó the Coliseum, there to make an appeal to the people; and, if needful, descend at all hazards into the arena, and separate the gladiatorsa desperate, or, as Hilarion termed it, a "presumptuous enterprise," but which, judging by results, we may term the inspiration of heroism.

That worthy father put forth a long list of dissuasives; he represented the unseemliness of the place for an anchorite, enlarged on the probability of danger, the certainty of disappointment, and strengthened his arguments by the authority of every saint and angel then extant-but all in vain.

Telemachus mildly repeated his resolution, and patiently explained the motives by which he was actuated, not one of which was intelligible to Hilarion's less fervent spirit. "Marvellous! marvellous!" ejaculated the poor monk, in a tone and with a countenance of unutterable perplexity and dismay. "Yes, good brother, of a surety one ought to love one's neighbors as one's self-but running headlong into death and danger, is not loving one's self at all. Can you not pray quietly in your cell, for the deliverance of these unfortunate beings who are forced to run each other through for pastime?—and can you not preach against the sin and shame of bloodthirstiness, when you are safe in some pulpit?-but oh! marvellous! marvellous! to think of going down into the arena, and provoking eighty thousand people in

a breath! St. Anthony truly preached to the fishes-but oh!brother!-brother-you are going to preach to wild beasts!"

"Hilarion," replied Telemachus, with a sweet, if somewhat mournful smile, "our thoughts take different paths on this point; and, to the outward eye, yours is the straightest and easiest to follow; but there is that within my heart which urges me onwards, and gives me good hope of success, although between it and me, there lies, perchance, a painful death. And now, dear brother Hilarion, farewell; and, seeing you cannot alter my determination, which, believe me, has not been formed on sudden or vain-glorious thoughts-grant me one favor; return with all speed to our own homely dwelling, for it is not good either for soul or body to stay where you are; and I would not our brethren should have cause to charge us with fickleness of purpose. Sometimes visit the palm-grove, Hilarion; I have found it oft a sweet and sacred place; and have a special care of the destitute mourners who resort to the monastery-some of whom may inquire for Telemachus."

With these words, and a fervently-bestowed benediction, he wrapped his cloak round him, and, taking his staff, set forth on his way, with the steady step and serious aspect of one who feels that he has undertaken a great work, from the execution of which he may never

return.

He reached the Coliseum just before the gladiator's death. The exulting shouts which then broke from the collected thousands stunned him with affright; and, for a moment, his heart recoiled from its noble purpose; but a second glance at the manly form bleeding before his eyes, by appealing to his sympathy, invigorated his courage. There was not, however, time for deliberation. To the first, succeeded a second pair of combatants; and, as their encounter commenced with energy, they were hailed with corresponding applause. At that mo

ment-calmly, cheerfully, determinately, with his life in his hand, and the spirit of Christianity strong in his heart-Telemachus descended into the arena-interposed between the astonished gladiators, and, in the presence of assembled Rome, denounced the sin, the cruelty, and the cowardice of such amusements. Simple amazement at the interruption, prevented, for some moments, the exhibition of any other sentiment; but, as Telemachus, gathering energy by exertion, proceeded to make a pathetic appeal to the emperor, whose merciful inclinations were no secret to the multitude-rage at the intruder's audacity, and fear that he might prevail, succeeded. The numberless entrances and passages to the amphitheatre, so exquisitely contrived that the whole of this vast assemblage could collect and disperse with incredible ease and celerity, hastened the fate of their intended victim. As if the same resolution had, in the same instant, been formed by each, hundreds and thousands simultaneously rushed from their seats into the neighboring streets, and in a few minutes returned to them again, laden with whatever missiles they had been able to collect. Their infuriated shouts, and menacing gestures, announced to Telemachus the doom he had anticipated. Making a signal to the gladiators to retire from the arena, he sank upon his knees, not to implore mercy of man, but to commend his spirit to God; and with folded arms, and head bowed meekly upon his breast, awaited and received that shower of stones which dismissed him to his rest-the noble martyr of humanity!

Wonderful revolutions of feeling have sometimes taken place in popular assemblies; and that effected in the present instance, was not more striking than it is authentic. Shame, remorse, and sorrow, succeeded to murderous rage; the destroyers bestowed funeral honors on their victim; and when, immediately afterwards, Honorius decreed the abolition of gladiatorial shows, they yielded an unresisting obedience.

It has been esteemed matter of regret that, amongst the benefactors of the human race, neither shrine nor statue has been erected to Telemachus-a vain and needless feeling, since, while a single stone remains, the COLISEUM itself is his monument.

SONNET.

M. J. J.

OH Death! thy time my spirit dreads to view;
Not for its pangs-their sum is quickly told;
But earth is fair, the grave how dark and cold!
And, though pale sorrow as a leaf of rue
The draught of life embitters, 'tis not true
That all its sweetness from the cup hath fled;
Hath not the hand of the Almighty shed
Upon our arid path the balmy dew

Of frequent blessing - therefore do I grieve,

My native quiet home, and faithful friend,

Whose presence charmed the sense of pain, to leave.

Oh, not so soon my brief existence end!

But let me linger forth a few more hours

A few more summer days of sunshine and gay flowers!

ON PRAYER.

ALMIGHTY Power! who didst create

Eolian mysteries in this brain,

Arise! lest passion desolate,

With storm, the melodies that reign,

When, breathing on my soul the roseate breath

Of Prayer, thou whisperest, I am thine in death;

My sight is on the gate of Paradise,

And my tranced soul beams upwards through mine eyes, Like incense in the hour of holiest sacrifice!

There is a voice in Nature's solitude,

Let him that prayeth listen- but not speak, With clasped hands-all rapt-as though he stood, And heard the voice of mighty Nature seek,

On necks of giant winds, the Deity!

Tears, sighs, and joy—all passion's ecstasy — Throb from his struggling soul-the voice of prayer; Heaven opens on his eyes-its mysteries bare; Ravished he sleeps: he shall awake anon—and there!

Thou Spirit of old Prophecy! that spake

In thunder, or the still, small voice with fire, Man, prostrate with the elements, did quake,

With glory blasted in thy presence dire;