"Lo! darkest hours wring forth the hidden might That hath lain bedded in the secret soul, A treasure all undream'd of: as the night Calls forth the harmonies of streams that roll MRS. HEMANS. MYRTIS. TWILIGHT gathered heavily over the city of the Cæsars. Lights began here and there to glimmer from the patrician palaces, and along the banks of the Tiber. Rome, which Augustus boasted to have left built of marble, had lost none of its magnificence under Adrian and the Antonines. Effeminacy and corruption were sapping the foundations of the empire, though the virtue of the last of the Antonines still arrested or disguised the presages of its doom. In the gorgeous apartment of a palace a woman was seated, evidently of high rank, and surrounded by the appliances of luxury. Her arm rested on a small, oval table, richly inlaid with ivory and gold, while her jeweled hand partly shaded her features, as if to conceal some emotion, in which Roman pride contended with woman's nature. Her eye was intently fixed on a young man who stood near her, arrayed as if for a journey. The folds of the toga fell gracefully around his lofty form, and his noble countenance was marked by thought even to sadness. He appeared to wait her words, which at length were slowly uttered. "Go, then, my son, since the gods and the emperor have thus willed it. Would that this trial might have been spared my widowed heart. Yet go, for the hour of thy departure hath come." The young Roman knelt at her feet, and pressed her hands to his lips. His voice was scarcely audible as he besought her blessing. "The gods of thy fathers will not forget thee. My vows shall keep thee ever in their mind. Already have the salted cake, and a pure lamb crowned with flowers, been offered, with costly libations, for thy sake. I have vowed to Apollo a rich temple if thou return in safety. Daily shall the Lares and Penates be invoked for thy protection in a far clime.” Then, determining not to weaken his purpose by vain regrets, she arose, and threw all the strength of a loving soul into the farewell smile. There was no tear in her eye, and she trembled not at the last, long embrace. He departed. She listened to the echo of his footsteps, and gazed to catch the last glimpse of him and of his train. Then burst forth the sorrows of the mother. She dismissed her attendants, that no eye might witness her grief. Only the surrounding statues beheld her with their marble brows. But the frown of warriors or philosophers from their pedestals reproved her in vain. She remembered only that she was a mother, and desolate. Day was high in the heavens ere she arose from the couch, where, in the anguish of parting, she had thrown herself, burying her face deep among the pillows. The Emperor Marcus Aurelius was an nounced, and she started from her wildering trance as one ashamed. Hastily she arranged her disordered robes, and washed the traces of the burning sorrow from cheek and brow. Calm, serene, and like a habitant of a higher sphere, Marcus Aurelius entered. That philosophic emperor, who, according to the creed of the Stoics, was never known to change countenance, either for grief or joy, regarded her steadfastly, yet without reproach. He saw how deeply flowed the inward tide of emotion, and seemed to await its ebbing ere he spoke. 66 Thy son hath gone forth on a noble mission, to gain the wisdom and philosophy of Greece. He is an honor to thee, and to the manes of his father. Deeply wouldst thou hereafter have reproached thyself hadst thou withheld him by the weakness of love from this discipline, so essential to a finished education. Had I not beheld in Ælius Marcellus so much of noble promise, I had not prompted him to the effort, nor thee to this sacrifice." "Sire! emperor! Thou art ever good, and thy wisdom shall be our guide. From earliest remembrance thine affection was my chief treasure. In widowhood, thou hast been a solace and protector; to my only child, more than a father.” Tender recollections stirred anew the fountain of grief. Her compressed lips quivered, and she burst into a passion of tears. "Annia Cornificia, my sister, pray unto the gods. Offer sacrifices for thine absent son; and for me also, not so happy as to be bound, like him, to the sweet fields of heaven-born philosophy, but to the banks of the Danube, to quell an insurrection of the barbarians. Rest and contemplation are most sweet; yet I shrink not from privation or peril. Comfort Faustina in my absence, and throw the mantle of thy tender virtues over the boy Commodus. Let thy wounded, maternal love expand itself on him. So shall it find healing, and bear fruit worthy of the gods." The ardent woman felt the channel of her grief divided. The all-absorbing image of her absent and only child faded for a time in sympathy for her imperial brother, and she fondly expressed her apprehensions for his safety. "The life of man," he said, “is but a vapor. What folly to seek to preserve that, and neglect those duties in which alone is its happiness. If I return no more, my sister, shed not such passionate tears for me as thou hast shed at the parting of thy son; for when this little voyage is over, and we reach the shore, shall we not get calmly out of the ship into another life? Are not the gods there?" His voice deepened as he added: "Annia Cornificia, my sister, if it be my lot to die among the barbarians, I commend unto thee the Prince Commodus. Remind him of what he owes to the people of Rome, and to the memory of his father. Teach him that he who restrains not his own passions can never rule a realm justly or with pros |