he sick heart, sore
And fainting from its wounds--the palsied limb--
The brow whose death-sweat peeps from every pore--
The eye with its long, weary watch grown dim--
The withered, wan cheek, that shall bloom no more--
The last dregs dripping slowly from the brim
Of life's drained cup,--behind all gloom, before
A deep, dark gulf--we plunge, and all is o'er!

ACLE AT THE GRAVE OF NERO.

It is a circumstance connected with the history of Nero, that every
spring and summer, for many years after his death, fresh and beautiful
flowers were nightly scattered upon his grave by some unknown hand.

Tradition relates that it was done by a young maiden of Corinth, named
Acle, whom Nero had brought to Rome from her native city, whither he had
gone in the disguise of an artist, to contend in the Nemean, Isthinian,
and Floral games, celebrated there; and whence he returned conqueror in
the Palaestra, the chariot race, and the song; bearing with him, like
Jason of old, a second Medea, divine in form and feature as the first,
and who like her had left father, friends, and country, to follow a
stranger.

Even the worse than savage barbarity of this sanguinary tyrant, had not
cut him off from all human affection; and those flowers were doubtless
the tribute of that young girl's holy and enduring love!

Whose name is on yon lettered stone? whose ashes rest beneath?
That thus you come with flowers to deck the mournful home of death;
And thou--why darkens so thy brow with grief's untimely gloom?
Thou art fitter for a bride than for a watcher by the tomb!

"It is the name of one whose deeds made men grow pale with fear,
And Nero's, stranger, is the dust that lies sepulchred here;
That name may be a word of harsh and boding sound to thee,
But oh! it has a more than mortal melody for me!

"And I,--my heart has grown to age in girlhood's fleeting years,
And has one only task--to bathe its buried love in tears;
The all of life that yet remains to me is but its breath;
Then tell me, is it meet that I should seek the bridal wreath?"

But maiden, he of whom you speak was of a savage mood,
That took its joy alone in scenes, of carnage, tears and blood;
His dark, wild spirit bore the stain of crime's most loathsome hue,
And love is for the high of soul--the gentle and the true.

"The voice that taught an abjec