DARK tresses made rich with all treasures,

Earth's gold-dust, and pearls of the sea—

She is splendid as Rome that was CÆsar's,

And cruel as Rome that was free!

Could I paint her but once as I found her!

From her porphyry couch let her lean,

With the reek of the circus around her—

Who is centre and soul of the scene:

Grey eyes that glance keen as the eagle

When he swoops to his prey from on high;

Bold arms by the red gold made regal—

White breast never vexed with a sigh:

And haughty her mien as of any

Her sires whom the foemen knew well,

As they rode through the grey mist at CannÆ,

Ere consul with consular fell.

Unabashed in her beauty of figure—

Heavy limbs, and thick tresses uncurled

To our gaze, give the grace and the rigor

Of the race that has conquered the world.

And fierce with the blood of the heroes—

In their sins and their virtues sublime—

Sits the Queen of the world that is Nero's,

And as keen for a kiss as a crime!

But the game that amuses her leisure

Loses zest as the weaker gives way;

And the victor looks up for her pleasure—

Shall he spare with sword-point or slay?

Half-grieving she gathers her tresses,

Now the hour for the games has gone by,

And those soft arms, so sweet for caresses,

Point prone, as she signs, "Let him die!"