From Rome's palaces and villas Gaily issued forth a throng;From her humbler habitations Moved a human tide along.
Haughty dames and blooming maidens, Men who knew not mercy's sway, Thronged into the Coliseum On that Roman holiday.
From the lonely wilds of Asia, From her jungles far away, From the distant torrid regions, Rome had gathered beasts of prey.
Lions restless, roaring, rampant, Tigers with their stealthy tread, Leopards bright, and fierce, and fiery, Met in conflict wild and dread.
Fierce and fearful was the carnage Of the maddened beasts of prey, As they fought and rent each other Urged by men more fierce than they.
Till like muffled thunders breaking On a vast and distant shore.
Fainter grew the yells of tigers, And the lions' dreadful roar.
On the crimson-stained arena Lay the victims of the fight;Eyes which once had glared with anguish, Lost in death their baleful light.
Then uprose the gladiators Armed for conflict unto death, Waiting for the prefect's signal, Cold and stern with bated breath.
"Ave Caesar, morituri, Te, salutant," rose the cry From the lips of men ill-fated, Doomed to suffer and to die.
Then began the dreadful contest, Lives like chaff were thrown away, Rome with all her pride and power Butchered for a holiday.
Eagerly the crowd were waiting, Loud the clashing sabres rang;When between the gladiators All unarmed a hermit sprang.
"Cease your bloodshed," cried the hermit, "On this carnage place your ban;"
But with flashing swords they answered, "Back unto your place, old man."
From their path the gladiators Thrust the strange intruder back, Who between their hosts advancing Calmly parried their attack.
All undaunted by their weapons, Stood the old heroic man;While a maddened cry of anger Through the vast assembly ran.
"Down with him," cried out the people, As with thumbs unbent they glared, Till the prefect gave the signal That his life should not be spared.
Men grew wild with wrathful passion, When his fearless words were said Cruelly they fiercely showered Stones on his devoted head.
Bruised and bleeding fell the hermit, Victor in that hour of strife;SONGS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Gaining in his death a triumph That he could not win in life.
Had he uttered on the forum Struggling thoughts within him born, Men had jeered his words as madness, But his deed they could not scorn.
Not in vain had been his courage, Nor for naught his daring deed;From his grave his mangled body Did for wretched captives plead.
From that hour Rome, grown more thoughtful, Ceased her sport in human gore;And into her Coliseum Gladiators came no more.
Let me make the songs for the people, Songs for the old and young;Songs to stir like a battle-cry Wherever they are sung.
Not for the clashing of sabres, For carnage nor for strife;But songs to thrill the hearts of men With more abundant life.
Let me make the songs for the weary, Amid life's fever and fret, Till hearts shall relax their tension, And careworn brows forget.
Let me sing for little children, Before their footsteps stray, Sweet anthems of love and duty, To float o'er life's highway.
I would sing for the poor and aged, When shadows dim their sight;Of the bright and restful mansions, Where there shall be no night.
Our world, so worn and weary, Needs music, pure and strong, To hush the jangle and discords Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.
Music to soothe all its sorrow, Till war and crime shall cease;And the hearts of men grown tender Girdle the world with peace.
