THE Rome of Diocletian, steeped in blood
Of Christian martyrs, long had pa**ed away,
And the new faith, like a great Alpine flood,
Above the empire's submerged levels lay,
And even the Cæsars owned Christ's gentle sway.
Yet in the Circus low browed thousands swarmed
To watch the gladiators' brutal fray
And cheered the onset and for victims stormed.
The games were set, the swordsmen stood arrayed,
When from the benches to the arena sprang
The monk Telemachus, beating down each blade;
Then the mob stoned him, while their fierce cries rang.
There the monk died, the sand stained with his gore;
Rome wept, and saw those bloody sports no more.