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HAMILTON, D.D., VOBHERLT HEAD MABTBB IN THE BOTAL BBLTAST AOADBXIOAX INSTITUTION. PUBLISHED BY JOHN LOVELL, ST. NICHOLAS STREET. 1865. ['c'*??' IP /(^^jio Ehte^e), according to Act of the Provincial Parliament, in the year one thousand eight hundred and sixty-four, by the Rev. W. Hamilton, D.D., in the Office of the Registrar of the Province of Canada. ">m 226581 1? > PREFATORY NOTB. :1M in the by the trar of i.' si .i. t! V V The design of thid volume is to furnisli a Manual for Rhetorical Delivery. Most of the pieces in the book are suitable for v^eclamation. This is indicated, in the ftrsi section, by the term Lyrical; for Poetry, Rhetoric, ^d Music are closely related to each other. The insertion of Knowles's celebrated Debate on tjbe character of Julius Caesar must greatly add to the Taloe of this Selection. No finer set of exercises for declamation can. be found in the English language than the speeches of this Debate. The plan of this volume does not, include any extended remarks on the Art of Reading. The Compiler would, therefore, only add a few practical hints which may be found useful in teaching. Vowtils may be considered as pure sound. Consonants are modifications of sound, being used for opening or dos- ing the vocal organs. To give sweetness and musical soft- ness to Reading, it is necessary that the vowels should be lengthened. To secure distinctness, we must strike the consonants sharply and clearly. A feeble utterance may be greatly improved by attention to a firm setting of the lips, and a laying hold of our words with the tongue and palate. Drawling is an excessive and injudicious prevalence of long vowel sounds ; and it may be corrected by attention to the consonants. The softer passions, such as sorrow, '-..^ PUVATORT NOTE. express themselTes in lengthened sounds. Anger strikes hard on the consonants. Oollins's ''Ode to the Passions" and "Alexander's Feast/' by Dryden, afford admirable illustrations of the Tarying oharaoter of the voice, as modified by feeling. Moore's lines, entitled " The Bower of Bendemeer," and ** Bruce's Address to his Army/' furnish remarkable con- trasts in this respect. When about to read any sentence, we should consider how many ideas it contains, and how they are related to each other ; and we should group the words accordingly. Bhetorioal words, such as " The days of my childhood** ** The vidtiitvdes of hope" should be read as if each con- sisted of only one ordinary word, such as Immutability, Anti-trinitarian. Long words may ha^'e primary, secon- dary, and even tertiary accents. The first object of all reading is distinctness, that we may be heard and understood. Rhetorical reading aims at the expression of feeling and passion. W. H. 4: -. V- V" J' i HOHTRXAL, Jra. 1, 1866. fl CONTENTS. !t^ LYRICAL PIECES. PAOB The Homes of England Mrt. ffemans. 9 The Palm Tree in an English Garden Ibid. 10 The Mariners of England Campbell. 1 1 The Mariner's Dream Dimond. 12 Eliza Dartein. 13 The Soldier's Dream Campbell. 14 The Sailor's Orphan Boy Mrs. Opie. • 16 The Exile of Erin Campbell. 16 The Bower of Bendemeer Moore, 17 The Soldier's Grave Mrs. Maclean (L.E.L.) 17 An Epicedium .Alark A. WatU. 18 The Battle Field « 19 The Last Man Campbell. 20 Lord Ullin's Daughter Ibid. 22 To the Rainbow Ibid. 23 Historical Recollections W. H. 24 The Destruction of Sennacherib's Host at Jerusalem . . Byron. 24 Saul's Address to his Army Ibid. 25 The Field of Waterloo Barton. 25 Bonaparte at St. Helena. . 26 The Soldier's Funeral Mrs. Maclean (L.E. L.) 26 The Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson. 27 The Crusader 28 The Jubilee W. H. 29 Ti OONTKNTI. PAGI Ginemt Bogers. 29 OaUlisii Campbell. 31 Outalisai's Death-Song Ibid. 34 Brac« to his Army Bums. 3S Bernsrdo del Oarpio Mr». Hematu. 36 The Battle of Blenheim Southey. 38 The Battle of Hohenlinden Campbell. 39 The Field of Waterloo Byron. 40 Burial of Sir J. Moore Wolfe. 42 England's Oak 43 The Voice of Spring Mrs. Hemans. 44 The Ruined Cottage Jlfr«. Maclean {L.E.L.) 45 Water ' Eliza Cook. 47 The Moruing Dream Cowper. 48 Our Father's at the Helm Mist M. S. Boyle. 49 On the Downfall of Poland Campbell. 60 Tlie Branded Hand John O. Whittier. 61 The Vauduis Teacher Ibid. 63 Mary, the Maid of the Inn Southey. 64 Verses Written in the Churchyard of Richmond, .ff. Knowles. 66 A Beth Oelert Spencer. 68 The Escaped Conyict 60 The Poet's Lot 61 The Arab's Address to his Horse 62 Lochinvar Scott. 63 Casabianca, the Faithful Son Mrs. Hemans. 64 Greelc Funeral Chant 6S Flight of O'Connor's Child Campbell. 66 The Sister's Curse Ibid. 68 Ode to Winter Ibid. 69 Ode to Eloquence Carey. 70 Alexander's F' ast Dryien. 72 The Passions Collins. 75 Ohilde Harold's Song Byron. 77 The Mariner's Song Mian Cunningham. 79 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Scott. 80 Lochiel's Warning Campbell. 80 Buttercups and Daisies Eliza Cook. 82 ^r I 9 ii vv •fr OONTCtVTfl. ffi 29 31 34 3S 36 38 39 40 42 43 44 45 47 48 49 50 51 53 54 96 58 60 61 62 63 64 6S 66 68 69 70 72 75 77 79 80 80 82 r'-\\ f' Vk DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. PAcn Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death Shak$p*ar», 88 CHrdinal Wolscy'a Speech to Cromwell Ibid. 84 Henry v. to his Soldiers Ibid. 84 Henry V.'s Speech before the Battle of Agincoart Ibiit. 86 Marcellus's Speech to the Mob Ibid. 86 Speech of Cassius to Brutus Ibid. 86 Brutus on the Death of Osesar Ibid. 88 Mark Antony's Oration Ibid. 89 Brutus and Cassius ^..Ibid. 91 Othello's Apology Ibid. 94 Richmond Encouraging his Soldiers Ibid. 95 Shy lock Justifying his Meditated Revenge Ibid. 96 Trial Scene from Merchant of Venice Ibid. 96 Tell J.S. Knowlu. 106 Douglas's Account of Himself. Home. 106 Glenalvon and Norval Ibid. 107 COMIC PIECES. The Chameleon Merrick, 110 The Well of St. Keyne Southey. Ill Lodgings for Single Gentlemen Colman. 113 The Three Black Crows Dr. Byrom. 1 14 The Newcastle Apothecary Colman. 116 The Razor-Seller i Peter Pindar. 117 Modern Logic, A Christmas Story 118 A Visit from St. Nicholas C. C. Moore. 1 19 The Spider and the Fly ilfrs. HovoUt. 121 The Motley Fool Shakspeare. 122 MISCELLANEOUS. Sympathy with Nature Wordsworth. 123 Association ,..W.H. 123 The Present Aspect of Greece Byron. 124 On the Plain of Marathon Ibid. US On the Beauty of the Rose W. H. 126 The Three Sons /. Moultrie. 128 Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition. ,*£[. Smith. 129 Tiii tiONTlNTS. PAoa On Natfonftl Vuiio W. H. Ul Thunder Storm among the Alps Byron. 132 The Blder'i Death-bed WiUan. 133 The Ocean Byron. 137 Barley's Death Mackenzie. 138 Liberty and Slavery Sterne. 140 On the Pleasure of Painting Hazlitt. 141 The Idiot Blackwood's Magazine 143 Arnold Winkelried James Montgomery 144 The Statue of the Dying Gladiator Byron. 146 ILLUSTRATIONS OP ORATORY. Hamlel^s Adrice to the Players Shakspeare, 147 Hamlet on the Skill of the Play Actor Ibid. 147 The Qood Preacher and the Clerical Coxcomb.. ..Cou>;)er. 148 An Exhortation to the Study of Eloquence Cicero. 149 A School-Boy's first Impressions of Demosthenes 160 Demosthenes Before the Tbeban Council, Haranguing Against Philip Westminster Review. 162 The Blind Preacher Wirt. 163 Panegyric on the Eloquence of Sheridan Burke, 166 SPECIMENS OP ELOQUENCE. Speech of Judah Before Joseph 167 Nathan's Address to David 168 Extracts fVom the Speech of Demosthenes to the Athenians, Against Philip... 168 A Fine Personification Bishop Sherlock. 162 On the threatened Invasion of England in 1803.... R. Hall. 163 Spirit of British Freedom Curran. 166 Christ's Agony Logan. 166 The Plurality of Worlds not an Argument Against the Truth of Revelation Chalmers. 167 The Restlessness of Human Ambition Ibid. 169 Infatuation of Mankind with Regard to the Things of Time 170 The Wedding Garment James Hamilton. 172 The Plant of Renown Ibid. 174 Debate on the Character of Julius Csesar. . . .J. S. Knowles. Ill ^V -.1 LTEICAL PIECES. THE HOMES OP ENGLAND. 156 Tri stately homes of England I— how benutiful the/ stand, Amidst tbeir tull ancestnil trees, o'er all the pleasant land I The deer, across the greensward, bound, through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them, with the sound of some rejoic- ing stream. The merry homes of England I — around their hearths by night. What gladsome looks of household love meet in the ruddy light. There woman's voice flows forth in song, or childhood's tale is told; Or lips move tunefully along some glorious page of old. The cottage homes of England I — By thousands, on her plains. They are smiling o'er the silvery brook, and round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, as the bird beneath their eaves. 11 T4 L77 W The free fair homes of England I— long, long, in hut and hall. May hearts, of na).ive proof, be reared, to guard each hallowed wall I And green for ever be the groves, and bright the flowery sod. Where first the child's glad spirit loves its country and its God. Mas. Hbhakb. LTBIOAL PIECES. THE PALM TREE IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN. It wared not through an Eastern sk^, Beside a fount of Araby ; It waa not fanned by sou them breeze. In some green isle of Indian seas , Nor did its graceful shadow sleep O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. But fair the exiled palm-tree grew, 'Mid^t foliage of no kindred hue ; Through the laburnum's dropping gold, Rose the light shaft of orient mould ; And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, Pnrpled the moss-beds at its feet. Strange looked it there ! — the willow streamed Where silvery waters near it gleamed ; The lime-bough lured the honey-bee, To murmur by the desert tree ; And showers of snowy roses made A lustre in its fan-like shade. There came an eve of festal hours- Rich music filled that garden's bowers ; Lamps, that, from flowering branches hung. On sparks of dew soft colors flung ; And bright forms glanced — a fairy show, Under the blossoms, to and fro. But one, a lone one, 'mid the throng, Seemed reckless all of dance or song ; He was a youth of dusky mien. Whereon the Indian sun had been ; Of crested brow and long black hair, A stranger — like the palm-tree, there. And slowly, sadly, waved his plumes, Glittering athwart the leafy glooms ; He passed the pale green olives by, Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye ; But when, to that sole palm, he came, There shot a rapture through his frame t To him, to him, its rustling spoke, The silence of his soul it broke I It whispered of his own bright isle. That lit the ocean with a smile ; Aye, to his ear, that native tone Had something of the sea-waves' moan ! IP W ■■ \v LTRtCAL PmOiR. 1% His mother's cabin home, that lay Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay ; The dashing of his brethren's oar, The conch-note heard along the shore ; All, through his wakening bosom, swept, He clasped his country's tree — and wept I Oh scorn him not I — the strength, whereby The patriot girds himself to die; The unconquerable soul, which fills • The freeman battling on his hills ; — ; These have one fountain, deep and clear, The same, whence gushed that childlike tear. ~ Mrs. Hrkaks* THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. Ye mariners of England ! that guard our native seas I Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, the battle and the breeze ! Your glorious standard launch rfgain, to match another foe ! And sweep through the deep, while the stormy tempests blow ; While the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy tempests blow I The spirits of your fathers, shall start from every wave! — For the deck — it was their field of fame, and Ocean was their grave ; Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, your manly hearts shall glow. As ye sweep through the deep, while the stormy tempests blow! While the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy tempests blow ! > Britannia needs no bulwark, no towers along the steep ; Her march is o'er the mountain waves : her home is on the deep ! With thunders from her native oak, she quells the floods below— As they roar on the shore, when the stormy tempests blow ; When the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy tempests blow I The meteor-flag of England shall yet terrific burn ; Till danger's troubled night depart, and the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, when the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery fight is heard no more, and the storm has ceased to blow. Campbell. 12 LTBIOAL PIECES. THE MARINER'S DREAM. Iv slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay, His hammock swung loose, at the sport of the wind ; But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away. And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers. And of pleasures, that waited on life's merry morn ; While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers, And restored every rose, but concealed every thorn. Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise,— Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, And the swallow chirps sweet, from her nest in the wall ; All trembling with transport, he raises the latch. And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; His cheek is bedewed with a mother's warm tear ; And the lips of the boy, in a love-kiss, unite With the lips of the maid, whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, Joy quickens his pulse, all his hardships seem o'er; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest— " I am blessed, I am blessed ; I can ask for no more." Ah ! whence is that flame, which now glares on his eye ? Ah ! what is that sound which now bursts on his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting death on the sky t 'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere ! He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck,— Amazement confronts him with images dire — Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck— The masts fly in splinters — the shrouds are on fire. Like mountains, the billows tremendously swell- In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell. And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the w%ve I Oh ! Sailor bo'J'', wo to thy dream of delight I In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss— Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright. Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss ? V . LYRICAL PISCES. 13 4 No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge- But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And storms, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge I Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; But ne'er from this heart shall thine image decay, While feeling and memory reign in my soul. DiyOND*. ELIZA. Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height. O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight ; Sought, with bold eye, amid the bloody strife, Her dearer self, the partner of her life ; From hill to hill the rushing host pursued. And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. Pleased with tlie distant roar, with quicker tread, Fast by the hand, one lisping boy she led ; And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm. Slept on her kerchief, cradled on her arm : While round her brows bright beams of honour dart, And love's warm eddies circle round her heart. Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed, Saw, through the driving smoke, his dancing crest, Heard the exulting shout, " they run ! — they run!" " He's safe !" she cried, " he's safe ! — the battle's won !" A ball now hisses through the airy tides, (Some Fury wings it, and some Demon guides,) Parts the fine locks, her graceful head that deck. Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck; The red stream, issuing from her azure veins, Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains— " Ah me I" she cried, and sinking on the ground. Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound ; " Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn ! Wait, gushing life — oh, wait my love's return I" Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far, The angel Pity shuns the walks of war ; — " Oh spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age I On me, on me," she cried, " exhaust your rajre 1" Then, with weak arms, her weeping babes caressed. And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest. From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies, Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes ; '\ u LYBIOAL PIEOBS. Eliza's name along the camp he calls, *' Eliza" echoes through the canvassed walls ; Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread, O'er groaning hepps, the dying and the dead, Vault o'er the plain — and in the tangled wood— Lo — dead Eliza— weltering in her blood I Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds ; With open arms and sparlcling eyes, he bounds : "Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand — "Mamma's asleep upon tj^e dew-cold sand ; Alas I we both with cold and hunger quake— "Why do you weep? — mamma will soon awake." *' She'll wake no more 1" the hopeless mourner cried. Upturned his eyes, and clasped his liands, and sighed ; Stretched on the ground awhile entranced he lay, And pressed warm kisses on tlie lifeless clay ; He then upsprang, with wild convulsive start, And all the fatlier kindled in his heart ; " Heaven !" he cried, " my first rash vow forgive ! These bind to earth — for these I pray to live !" Bound his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest, And clasped them sobbing to Iiis aching breast. Darwin. t THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lowered^ And the sentinel siars set their watch iu the sky ; And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die ;— When, reposing timt night on my pallet of straw. By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array. Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 'Twas autumn— and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft In life's morning march, when ray bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore . From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; Hy little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart—* ,i LYRICAL PIECES. t» " Stay, stay with ua, rest, thou a,r* weary and worn !" And fain was their war-broken soltlipr to stay :— But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away ! Oampbblii. IBWIN. .1 THE SAILOR'S ORPHAN BOY. Stay, lady — stay, for mercy's sake, And hear a helpless orphan's tale : Ah ! sure my looks must pity wake— 'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale 1 Yet I was once a mother's pride, And my brave father's hope and joy ; But in the Nile's proud fight he died— And I am now an orphan boy ! Poor, foolish child I how pleased was I When news of Nelson's victory came, Along the crowded streets to fly. To see the lighted windows flame ! To force me home my mother sought— She could not bear to see my joy ! For, with my father's life 'twas bought— It made me a poor orphan boy I The people's shouts were long and loud ; My mother, shuddering, closed her ears ; " Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd — My mother answered with her tears I " Oh ! why do tears steal down your cheek," Cried I, " while others shout for joy?" She kissed me, and, in accents weak. She called me her " poor orphan boy I" " What is an orphan boy ?" I said ; When, suddenly, she gasped for breath, And her eyes closed ; I shrieked for aid : But ah ! her eyes were closed in death I My hardships since — I will not tell : But now, no more a parent's joy, Ah ! lady, I have learned too well What 'lis to be an orphan boy ! Oh ! were I by your bounty fed !— Nay, gentle lady, do not chide ; Trust me, I mean to cam my bread— The sailor's orphan boy has pride I 16 LYBIOAL PIECES. the calm Bendemeer? No, no ! the roses soon withered, that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gathered, while freshly they sbonei And a dew was distilled from the flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence, that breathes of it many a year ; Thus, bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my ej'es, Is that bower on the banks of th3 calm Bendemeer. THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. There's a white stone placed upon yonder tomb, Beneath is a soldier lying — The death-wound came, amid sword and plume. When banner and ball were flying. Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast. By wet wild flowers surrounded ; The church shadow falls o'er the place of his rest, Where the steps of his childhood bounded. There were tears, that fell from manly eyes. There was woman's gentle weeping. And the wailing of age aud infant cries. O'er the grave, where he lies sleeping. He had left his home in his spirit's pride, With his father's sword and blessing ; He stood with the valiant, side by side, His country's wrongs redressing. He came again, in the light of his fame, When the red campaign was over ; One heart, that, in secret, had kept his name, Was claimed by the soldier lover. ] 18 LYRICAL PIECES. But tho cloud of strife came upon the sky ]-— lie left his sweet homo for battle ; Left hia young child's lisp fur the loud war-cry, And the cannon's long death-rattle. He came again — but an altered man : The path of the grave was before him, And the smile, that he wore, was cold and wan, For the shadow of death bung o'er him. He spoke of victory — spoke of cheer : — These are words, that are vainly spoken To the childless mother, or orphan's ear. Or the widow, whoso heart is broken. A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone, Half hidden by yonder willow ; There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won, But he died on bis own home pillow. Mrs. Maolban, (L. E. L.) AN EPICEDIUM. He left his home with a bounding heart, For the world was all before him ; And he felt it scarce a pain to part, Such sun-bright beams came o'er him. He turned him to visions of future years. The rainbow's hues were around them; And a father's bodings — a mothers tears — Might not weigh with the hopes, that crowned them. That mother's cheek is far paler now Then when she last caressed him ; There's an added gloom, on that father's brow, Since the hour, when last he blessed him. Oh ! that all human hopes should prove Like the flowers, that will fade to-morrow ; And the cankering fears of anxious love Ever end in truth and sorrow. He left his home with a swelling sail. Of fame and fortune dreaming— "With a spirit, as free as the vernal gale. Or the pennon above him streaming. He hath reached his goal ; — by a distant wave, 'Neath a sultry sun they've laid him ; And stranger forms bent o'er his grave. When the last sad rites were paid him. LTRIOAL PIECES. It He should have died in his own loved land, With friends and kinsmen near hira ; Not Imvc withered thus on a foreign strand, With no thought, savw of heaven, to cheer hira. But what recks it now? — Is liis sleep less sound, In the port where the wild winds swept him, Than if home's green turf his grave had bound. Or the hearts he loved had wept him ? Then why repine ? — Can he feel the rays That pestilent sun sheds o'er him ; Or share the grief, that may cloud the days Of the friends, who now deplore him? No ; his bark's at anchor — its sails arc furled,— It hath 'scaped tlie storms' deep chiding; And, safe from the buffeting waves of the world, In a haven of peace is riding. AiiAbio A. Watts. THE BATTLE FIELD. I LOOKBD on the field, where the battle was spread, Where thousands stood forth in their glancing array; And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed, Through the dun rolling clouds t)iat o'ershadowed the fray. I saw the dark forest of lances appear. As the ears of the harvest, unnumbered they stood ; I heard the stern shout, as the foeman drew near. Like the storm, that lays low the proud pines of the wood. Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were rolled, Uprousing the wolf, from the depth of bis lair : On high, to the wind, streamed the banner's red fold, O'er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of despair. I looked on the field of contention again, When the sabre was sheathed, and the tempest had passed ; The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain. And the fern softly sighed in the low wailing blast. Unmoved lay the lake, in its hour of repose. And bright shone the stars, through the sky's deepened blue ; And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose. Where the fox-glove lay gemmed with its pearl-drops of dew. But where swept the ranks of that dark-frowning host, As the ocean in might — as the storm cloud in speed? Where now were the thunders of victory's boast— The slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of the steed? 20 LYRICAL PIECES. THE LAST MAN. This piece is f^vcn m a'noblo H])pcimcn of lyrlcnl poetry ; but the Com- piler cunnot let it pass without censuring tlio unscriptural nature of the view wliicli it cuntuiuH uf tlio wuriU's tenniuutiun. , All worldly shapes shall melt ia gloom, , The sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality I I saw a vision in my sleep • That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of time I I saw the last of human mould, 'Cbftt shall creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime 1 The sun's eye had a sickly glare, The earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man 1 Some had expired in fight, — the brands Siill rusted in their bony hands; In plague and famine, some ! Earth's cities had no sound or tread ; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb 1 / Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words, and high, That shook the sere-leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by. Saying — We are twins in death, proud sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis mercy bids thee go ; For thou, ten thousand, thousand years. Hast seen the tide of human tears. That shall no longer flow. What, though beneath thee, man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill, And arts that made fire, flood, and earth The vassals of his will ; — Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day ; For all those trophied arts And triumphs, that beneath thee sprang. Healed not a passion or a pang, Entailed on human hearts. LTRIOAL PIECES. 21 Go — let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor, with thy rising beams, recall Life's tragedy again ; Its piteous pageants bring not back. Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain, anew to writhe ; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword. Like grass beneath the scythe. Even I am weary in yon skies To watch tliy fading fire ; Witness of countless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips, that speak thy dirge of death — Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of nature spreads my pall— The majesty of darkness shall Receive my parting ghost 1 This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark ; Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark ! No ! it shall live again and shine In bliss, unknown to beams of thine. By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory— And took the sting from death ! Go, sun, while mercy holds me up On nature's awful waste. To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief, that man shall taste^ Go tell the night, that hides tliy face. Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, • Or shake his trust in God t Campbell. LTtllCAL PI10I8. I LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A OHiRrTAm, to the Ifii^hlnnda boimd, Cries, " Boatmnn, do not tiirrj, And I'll give tlino a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry 1 " * Now who bo ye, would cross Lochgylo, This dark and stormy water?" " Oh I I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this, Lord UUin's daughter: " And fast before her father's men, Three days we've fled together ; For, should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather ; — " His horsemen, hard behind us, ride ; Should they our steps discover, Then who should cheer my bonnv bride, When they have slain her lover ?" Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, " I'll go, my chief — I'm ready :— It is not for your silver bright. But for your winsome lady! " And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ; So — though the waves are raging white— I'll row you o'er the ferry !" By this the storm grew loud apace, The WAter-wraith was shrieking, And, in the scowl of heavjen, each face Qrew dark as they were speaking. But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men !— Their trampling sounded nearer I " Oh I haste thee, haste I" the L\6y cries ; " Tliough tempests r(<-\n3 \ ■. k>i '.er,. I'll meet the raging of • .;> /rvies, But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When — oh ! too strong for human hand. The tempest gather'd o'er her^ vy ^1f LTRIOAL PIIG18. And BtlU ilicy rowM, amidst the roar Ol liters fHf«i jitrPvailing : Lord IJlliu r"!iciicJ tluil fatal Hlit)re, rTjswnvlli wiia changed to wailing— For soro (li-:may'd, through <«tarin und 8had#^ His chilli lie tlid discover! One lovely arm was stretcii'd for aid, And one waa round her lover. " Come back I come back 1" he critvi in grief, " Acro83 this stormy water ; And I'll forgive your llij^hland cmt-f, My daughter! — oh I my dauj^liter!'"— 'Twas vain ! — the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing ;— The waters wild went o'er his child. And he was left lamenting. Campdell. W TO THE RAINDOW. • Tricmphal arch, that fiU'st the sky, when sto; m.-. prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy to teach mo what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, a midw^iy station given. For happy spirits to alight betwixt the earth a id heaven. Can all that optics teach, unfold thy form to please me so, As when I dreamed of gems and gold, hid in tli.v radiant bow ? When science from creation's face, enchantment' veil withdraws. What lovely visions yield their place to cold m^ lerial laws. And vet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, but words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams was woven in the sky. When, o'er the green undcluged earth, Heaven's covenant thou didst shine. How came the world's grey fathers forth, to watch thy sacred sign. And, when the yellow lustre smiled o'er mountains yet untrod. Each mother held aloft her child, to bless the bow )f God. Methinks thy jubilee to keep, the first-made anthem rang On earth delivered from the deep, and the first poet sang. Nor ever shall tiie muse's eye, unraptured meet thy beam ; Theme of primeval prophecy, be still the poet's theme. The earth to thee its incense yields, the lark thy welcome sings; When, glittering in the freshened fields, the snowy mushroom springs. 24 LiRIOAL PIECES. How glorious is thy girdle, cast o'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, a tliousand fathoms down. As fresh in yon horizon dark, as young thy beauties seem. As when the eagle from the arlc, first sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, Iieaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age, that first spoke peace to man. Campbell. HISTORICAL RECOLLECTIONS. 'Tis a glorious thing to visit lands where empire lived of yore, To treud upon the Assyrian plain, the Greek and Latin shore, To ponder o'er the mighty tombs of generations gone, And dream, amid the ruins vast, of Rome and Babylon. We sigh that widowed Carthage now lies levelled with the wave ; That Tadmor and Persepolis are silent as the grave ; But wizard fancy bids the crowds, that filled those ancient walls, Once more arise in living pride, to throng their streets and halls. She waves her wand^the pillar lifts aloft the sculptured dome, And the temple, all restored and grand, appears of gods the home ; Her magic makes it pleasant still to visit foreign climes, And see the sad memorials that speak of other times. W. H. Anc But Anc Am Anc Wit The The Anc Anc Anc Hat [I* grail THE DESTRUCTION OP SENNACHERIB'S HOST AT JERUSALEM. "The Lord sent an angel, which cut off all the mighty men of valour, and tho leaders and captains in the camp of tlic king of Assyria: so ho re* turned with shame of face to his own land." — 2 Chronicles xxxii. 21. Thb Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, - And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the slieen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest, when summer is green. That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest, when autumn hath blown, That host, on the morrow, lay withered and strown. For, the angel of death spread his wings on the blast. And breathed on the face of the foe, as he passed : And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still I LYRICAL PIECES. 25 And there lay the gteed, with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold, as the spray, of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; The tents were all silent, the' banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur arc load in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temi)le of Baal ; And the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of tho Lord ! Byron. [It is stranjjc that in the hist verse of this beautiful piece, there arc two grammatical inaccuracies, or, at least, solecisms.] H. SAUL'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword Pierce me in leading the hosts of the Lord, Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path ; Bury your steel in the bosom of Gath. Thou, that art bearing my buckler and bow, Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, Stretch me, that moment, in blood at thy feet — Mine be the doom, which they dare not to meet,. Farewell to others ! but never wc parti Heir of my royalty 1 son of my heart ! Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, Or kingly the death that awaits us to-day. Byron. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. Pour your tears wild and free — balm best and holiest! Fallen is the lofty tree, low as the lowliest ; Rent is the eagle's plume, towering victorious, Read, on the hero's tomb, the end of the glorious. Lean on that shivered spear — it threatens no longer, Snapt like its high compeer, the willow is stronger ; See, on the dinted brand, the bright day beam flasbea, If thine be the soul, to stand and number its gashes. 26 I LYRICAL PIECES. r Press not that hallowed mould, in darkness enshrouded, Ashes, but scarcely cold, beneath it are crowded ; Thy feet, o'er some noble heart, may stumble unheeding— O'er thy familiar friend, perchance may be troading. ye were scattered fast, sons of the morning ! Triumphs, but seen and past, your proud brows adorning, After such mortal toil to slumber so soundly. Can aught, to the heart of man, speak so profoundly ? Barton. BONAPARTE AT ST. HELENA. Fab from the battle shock, fate has fast bound thee, Chained to the rugged rock, waves dash around thee. Instead of the trumpet's sound, seabirds are shrieking ; Hoarse, on the ramparts bound, billows are breaking. For ensigns unfurling, like sunbeams, in brightness Are ocean waves curling, like snow wreaths in whiteness, No sycopliants mock thee with dreams of dominion, But loud tempests rock thee and ruffle thy pinion. THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. The muffled drum rolled on tlie air, Warriors, with stately step, were tiiere; On every arm was the black crape bound. Every carbine Avas turned to the ground ; Solemn, the sound of their measured tread, As silent and slow, they followed the dead. The riderless horse was led in the rear ; There were white plumes waving over the bier ; Helmet and sword were laid on the pall. For, it was a soldier's funeral. That soldier had stood on the battle plain. Where every step was over the slain ; But the brand and the ball had passed him by, And be came to his native land, to die. 'Twas hard to come to that native land, And not clasp one familiar hand ; 'Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead. Before he could hear his welcome said. But, 'twas something to see its cliffs once more, And to lay his bones on his own loved shore ; To think, tliat the frieiWs of his youth might weep, O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep. LYRICAL PIECES. 27 irouded, i; heeding— iug. adorning, adly ? Bauton. e, hee, ang; iug. ss liteness, n. The bugles ceased their wailing sound, As the coffin was lowered into the ground ; A volley was fired, a blessing said, One moment's pause, and tliey left the dead. I saw a poor and aged man — His step was feeble, his cheek was wan ; He knelt him down on the new-raised mound. His face was bowed on the cold^danip ground; He raised his head, his tears were done— The father had prayed o'er his only son. Miss Landon (^Mrs. Maclean). re, weep, THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, All in the valley of deatli rode the six hundred, — "Forward tlie Ligiit Brigade ! Charge for the gunsl" he said ; Into the valley of death rode the six hundred. Forward the Light Brigade I No man was then dismayed, Not, though the soldiers knew, some one had blundered. Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of death rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, volleyed and thundered ; Stormed at witli shot and shell, boldly tliey rode and well Into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabres bare, flashed all at once in nir, Sabring the gunners there, charging an army, While all the world wocdered. Plunged in the battery smoke, right through the line they broke ; Cossack and Russian reeled from the sabre stroke. Shattered and sundered ; Then they rode back, but not — not the six hundred I Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them. Cannon behind them, volleyed and thundered ; Stormed at with shot and shell, those that had fought so well, Came from the jaws of death, back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them, left of six hundred 1 "When can their glory fade ? the wild charge they made I All the world wondered. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade I Noble six hundred ! Tennyson. I 'K % :/ 28 LYRICAL PIECES. THE CRUSADER. He is come from the land of the sword and shrine, From the sainted battles of Palestine ; • The snow plumes wave o'er his victor crest, Like a glory, the red cross liangs at his breast ; \ His courser is black, as black can be. Save tlie brow star, white as the foam of the sea, And he wears a scarf of broidery rare, The last love gift of his lady fair; It bore for device a cross and a dove, And the words — " I am vowed to my God and my love." He comes not back the same that he went ; For his sword has been tried, and his strength has been spent, His golden hair has a deeper brown, And his brow has caught a darker frown ; And his lip has lost its youthful red. And the shade of the South o er his cheek is spread, But stately his step, and his bearing high, And wild the light of his fiery eye ; And proud in the lists were the maiden bright, Who might claim the Knight of the Cross for her knight. He fides for the home he had pined to see, In the court, in the camp, in captivity ! He reached the castle — liis own step was all That echoed within the deserted hall ; He stood on the roof of the anciout tower ; And, for banner, there waved one pale wall flower. And, for sound of the trumpet and peal of the horn, Came the scream of the owl, on the night wind borne. The turrets were falling, tl;e vassals were flown. And the bat ruled the halls, he had called his own ; His heart throbbed high — Oh ! never again Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his spirit's pain ; He never might think of his boyish years. Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm tears, Which hope and memory shtd when they meet— The grave of his kindred was at his feet — He stood alone, the last of his race. With the cold Avide world for his dwelling place ; The home of his fatliers gone to decay, All but their memory had passed away— Nu one to welcome, no one to share The laurel, he no more was proud to wear. He came, in the pride of his war-success, But to weep over very desolateness. ;. >i LYRICAL PIECES. They pointed him to n barren plain, Where his father, his brothers, his Icinsmen were slain; They shewed him the lowly grave, where slept The maiden, whose scarf he so truly hiid kept ; But they could not shew him one living thing, To which his withered heart could cling — Amid the warriors of Palestine Is one, the first in the battle line. It is not for glory he seeks the field, For a blasted tree is upon his shield, And the motto it bears is, " I fight for a grave." He found it — That warrior has died with the brave. ^ THE JUBILEE. " In the day of atonement shall yc make tlio trumpet sound througliout all your land. And yc shall hallow tho (ilHoth year, and proclaim liberty throughout all the laud, unto all the inhabitants thereof; it shall be a jubilee unto you."— Luvitlcus xxv. 9, 10. The trumpet note hath sounded, the chosen ones are free, The horror of the dungeon hath heard the jubilee ; The sun of truth has risen on continent and isle, Tahiti and Caffraria have caught tiie living smile. The men who sat in darkness have raised a glad acclaim, To hail the dawning glory, and shout the Saviour's name. Extensive as the day beams his empire soon shall be; For all the earth shall hail him, and keep the jubilee. But tremble, ye rebellious, his banners are displayed. And Jesus comes in brightness, with majesty arrayed. His garments red with slaughter, his eyes a flame of fire, To tread his foes in anger, and trample them in ire. W. H, GINEVRA. If ever you should come to Modena, Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in.fountaius, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you, — but before you go, Enter the house — forget it not, I pray you- And look awhile upon a picture there. 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth The last of that illustrious family 30 LYRICAL PIECES. :t Done by Zampieri — but by whom I care not. Ho who observes it — ere he passes on, Gazes his lill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up, when far away. She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, i As though she said " Beware" ; her vest of gold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart- It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody. Alone it hangs, Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion— An oaken chest half-eaten by the worms, But richly carved by Antony of Trent With scripture stories from the Life of Christ— A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old ancestor. That by the way — it may be true or false^ But don't forget the picture; and you will not, When you have heard the tale they told me there. She was an only child — her name Ginevra- The joy, the pride of an indulgent fatl)er ; And in her fifteenth year became a bride. Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety, Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; And in the lustre of her youth she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy; but, at the nuptial feast, When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting, Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, " 'Tis but to make a trial of her love 1" And filled his glass to all, but his hand shook. And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. LYRICAL PIECES. 31 'Twas but that instunt she had left Francesco, Laughing, aud lookiiifj back, and flying still, Her ivory tooth imiirinted on his linger : But now, ahis! she was not to be found ; Nor from that hour could any tiling be guessed, But that she was not! — Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk ! Orsini lived ; and long might you have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something- Something he could not find — ho know not what. Wiu'n he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When, on an idle day, a day of search Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, " Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?" 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. All else had perished — save a wedding ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy. Engraven with a name, the name of both — " GiSEVRA." There she had found a grave I Within that chest she had concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; When a spring'-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever I ROQERS. OUTALISSI. Ic 1778 Wyomln*. a village in Pennsylvania, was laid desolate by an in- curtiioa of the Indians, ho that a i)lacc', wiiich had boon celebrated for its boauty and lor tho hospitable and ; inipio maiinors of its in- habitants, became a frishtful waste. In Canipbi'U's delightful poem on this subject we are introduced to a venerable American settlor, named Albert, who was the chief person of VVyomins, and was the father of a beautiful girl, an only child, Gertrude. When Gertrude was nine years old, her father and she one day bclicld an Indian appro icli them, loading by the hand a boy, who .seemed of English de-ic^'iit. The warrior, Outalissi, said that tho boy's father had been slain in an attack by a hostile tribe of Indians, and that be himself had come to entrust the orphan to 32 LYRICAL PIECES. , r 1/ !i Albert's care. From OutaliHsi's imrratlvo, Albert discovorod that youn<( Iloiiry was tlic hou of an old fiioiul; ho n^ccivcnl liim, tlioro- foro, glaiJly, and took cure of lain, until ho was taken hy hU relativoa to En.ifland tor his otluciition. In tho nn-an tinio, llonry and Uor- tr.ido, us playmates, had become fitndly ultachod to eacli other. Tho following extract represents a scene that occurred soon after Henry's return to America. Nianr came, and, in their liglited bower, full late Tiie joy of converse had endured — when, hark! Abrupt and loud, a summons shook tlieir gate ; And, heedless of the dog's obstreperous bark, A form has rushed amidst them from the dark, And spread Iiis arms, — and fallen upon the floor : Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark ; But desolate he looked, and famished [)oor. As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore. Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched : A spirit from the dead they deem him first 1 To speak he tries ; but quivering, pale, and parched, Prom lips, as by some powerless dream accursed, Emotions unintelligible burst ; And long his filmed eye is red and dim ; At length, the pity-profFered cup his thirst Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, When Albert's hand he grasped — but Albert knew not him. " And hast thou then forgot?" — he cried forlorn, And eyed the group with half indignant air, — " Oh! hast thou. Christian chief, forgot the morn When I with thee the cup of peace did share? Then stately was this head, and dark this hair, That now is white as Appalachia's snow ; But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair, , And age bath bowed me, and tiie torturing foe, Bring me my boy — and he will his deliverer know ! It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew : " Bless thee, my guide !" — but, backward, as he came. The chief his old bewildered head withdrew. And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him through. 'Twas strange — nor could the group a smile control — The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view : At last, delight o'er all his features stole, \ " It is — my own I" he cried, and clasped him to his soul. " Yes ! thou recall'st my pride of years, for then The bow-string of my spirit was not slack. When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambuslxed men, I bore thee, like the quiver, on my back, J No S E G Wh LYRICAL PIECES. 8» that loro- tlvoa Uor- riio ury'8 Fleet as tho whirlwind hurries on the rtick ; Nor focraan then, nor cougar's crouch I feared, For I was strong as mountnin-cataractl— And dost thou not remember liow wo ciiecred Upon the last hill top, when white men's huts appeared ? " Then welcome be my death-song, and my death I Since I hiivo seen thee, and agiiiii embruced." And longer iuid lie spent his toil-worn breath ; But, with affectionate and eager haste, "Was every arm outstretche 1 around their guest, To welcome, and to bless his aged head. Soon was the hospitable banquet placed ; And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed On wounds, with fevered joy that more profusely blod. ca. " But this is not a time," — he started up, And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand— " This is no time to fill the joyous cup I The Mammoth comes I — the foe ! — the monster Brandt ! With all his howling, desolating band t — These eyes have seen their blade and burning pine Awake, at once, and silence half your land I Red is the cup they drink ; — but not witli wine! Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine! " Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, 'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth : Accursed Brandt 1 he left of all my tribe Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth : No ! — not the dog, that watched my household hearth, Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains! All perished! — I alone am left on earth, To whom nor relative nor blood remains — No ! — not a kindred drop that runs in human veins. ugh. I. " But go and rouse your warriors 1 for (if right These old bewildered eyes could guess by signs Of striped and starred banners) on yon height Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines, Some fort, embattled by your country, shines : Deep roars the innavigable gulf, below Its squared rock and palisaded lines- Go ! seek the light its warlike beacons show ; Whilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe!" Campbell. 34 LYRICAL PIECES. OUTALISSI'S DEATH-SONO. *• And I could weep ;" — the Oneyda chief Hia descaut wildly thus begun ; " But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of ray father's son I Or bow his bead in woe ; Tor, by my wrongs and by my wrath 1 To-morrow Areouski's breath, That fires yon heaven with storms of death, Shall light us to tho foe : And we shall share, my Christian boy, The foeman's blood, the arenger's joy I " But thee, roy flower, whose breatli was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heavbu Forbid not thee to weep: — Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, To see thee, on the battle's eve, Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most : She was the rainbow to thy sight I Thy sun— thy heaven--of lost delight I " To-morrow let us do oi die I — But, when the bolt of death is hurl'd. Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam tho world ? — Seek we thy once-loved home ?— The hand is gone that cropp'd its flowers t Unheard their clock repeats its hours I Cold is the hearth within their bowers I And should we thither roam, Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead I " Or shall we cross yon mountains blue. Whose streams my kindred nation quaffd And by my side, in battle true, . A thousand warriors drew the shaft 7 — Ah 1 there, in desolation, cold. The desert-serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone. And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old I Then seek we not their camp — for there The silence dwells of my despair t LYRICAL PIBOES. " But hark, the trump ! — to-morrow thou In glory's fires slinlt dry thy tears! Even from the hind of shadows, now My father's awful ghost appears Amidst the clotidit that round us roll 1 He bids my soul for battle thirst — He bids me dry — the last ! — the first I The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul I Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief." Gaupbkll. BRUCE TO HIS ARMY. In the year 1313, tlio weak and worthlcHf* Edward II invaded Scotland with tlic inoHt i'urmidablo army that had over left Kiiffiand, coiiHititing of nut \pfm than 100,000 men, admirably i'ii iiii))rii«)ii('d by Alphonso, King of tho AHturias, nhiioMtfroni tht- time of Itfrutirdo'sljirtli, ut h\M took ii|i iinns in 'U'tipair. Tiic war wliicli ho unged jirovcd so dostructivo Hint tho men of tho land giitliorod round tlio King, and united in donianding 8uldana's liberty. Alplioii^o, accord i ugly, oirere.-iion of Ids fatiier's iktsou, in «'.\cliango for liis castle id (arpio. iornardo, without hesitalion, gave up ids stronghold witli all his cap- tives; and, being assured that Ids father was thou on his way from prison, ho rode forth with tho King to meet him. TiiH warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free liia long-imprisoned sire : "I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train ; I pledge my faith, my liege, my lord, oh ! break my father's chain." " Rise I rise I even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day; Mount tliy good steed, and thou and I will meet him on his way." ^^ Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his sAb; And urged, as if with lance in hand, his charger's foaming speed. And lo! from far, as on they pressed, they met a glittering band, With one, that 'mid them stately rode, like a leader in the land: " Now haste, Bernardo, haste I for there, in very truth is he, The father, — whom thy grateful heart hath yearned so long to see." His proud breast heaved, his dark eye flashed, his cheeks' hue came and weut; He reached that gniy-haired chieftain's side, and there dis- mounting bent ; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took — What was there in its touch, that all his fiery spirit shook ? That hand was cold, a frozen thing, it dropped from his, like lead ; He looked up to the face above, the face was of the dead ; A plume waved o'er the noble brow, the brow was fixed and white ; He met at length his father's eyes, but in them was no sight 1 Iftl Tho LYRICAL PIECES. 87 I Up from tlic ground ho sprung and gazed ; but who can paint tliiit pnr.cl They Iiii/iliod their very henrts, who saw its liorror and ama/.o : The}' mijjlit have chained him, as before that noble form ho stood ; For the power was stricken from his arm, and fVom his cheek the blood. "Fiitherl" at length he murmured low, and wept like childiiood then — Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men— Ho tlioiipht on all hi.-? glorious hopes, on all his high renown ; Then flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. And, covering with his steel-gloved hands, his darkly-mournful brow, " No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the .-tword for, now ; My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father, oh ! the worth, The glory and the loveliness are passed away from earth I " I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire I beside thee yet, I would that there our kindred blood, on Spain's free soil hod met ; Thou wouldst have known my spirit then — for thee my fields were won, And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son 1" Up from the ground he sprang once more, and seized the mon- arch's rein. Amid the i)ale, and wildcred looks of all the courtier train ; And, with a fierce o'crmastcring grasp, the rearing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead. " Came I not here, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? Be still! and gaze thon on false king, and tell me what is this? The look, the voice, the heart I sought — give answer, where are they ? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, put life in this cold clay. " Into tho^e glassy eyes put light ; be still, keep down thine ire ; Bid those cold lips a blessing speak, — this earth is not my sire ; Give me back him for whom I fought, for whom my blood was shed ; Thou canst not, and a king! his blood be mountains ou thy head !" 38 LYRICAL PIECES. He loosed the rein, his slack hand fell ; upon the silent face He cast one long, deep mournful glance, and fled from that sad place : His after-fate no more was heard amid the martial train ; His banner led the spears no more among the bills of Spain ! Mrs. Hkmans. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. This great battle was fought in the voar 1704. The Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eus^ene commanded the British and thoir allies; while Marshal Tallard led the French and Bavarian forces. Blenheim is a small town of liavaria; and it is situated not far from the Danube. The following poem is an admirable antidote against the poison likely to be infused oy the details of warlike exploits. Why sliould wholesale butchery and devastation be reckoned glorious? It was a summer's evening, Old Kaspar's work was done ; And he, before his cottage door, Was sitting in the sun ; And bj him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he, beside the rivulet, In playing there, had found ; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boj, Who stood expectant by ; And then the old man shook his head, And, with a natural sigh, " 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, " Who fell in the great victory. " I find them in the garden. For there's many here about ; And often, when I go to plough. The ploughshare turns them out For many thousand men," said he, " Were slain in that great victory." " Now, tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries ; And little Wilhelmine looks up, With wonder-waiting eyes ; " Now tell us all about the war. And what they killed each other for." LTRIOAL PIECES. 39 ce It sad in I orouie;h while m ia a 0. The y to be olesale " It was the English," Easpar cried, " Who put the French to rout : But what they killed each other for, I could not well make out. But every body said," quoth he, " That 'twas a famous victory I " My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by ; They burned his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly : So, with his wife and child, he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head I " With fire and sword, the country round Was wasted far and wide ; And many a childiug mother then, And new-born baby died ! — But thiD^^s like that, you know, mast be At every famous victory. " They say, it was a shocking sight After the field was won ; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun !— But, things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. " Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And our good prince, Eugene." " Why, 'twas a very wicked thing I" Said little Wilhelmine. " Nay— Nay — my little girl," quoth he, *' It was a famous victory I " And every body praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." " But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. " Why, that I cannot tell," said he, " But 'twas a famous victory I" Southit. THE BATTLE OP HOHENLINDEN. On Linden, when the sun was low. All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, foiling rapidly. 40 LYRICAL PIECES. But Linden saw another sight, When tlie drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery I By torch and trumpst fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his baitle-blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills, with thunder riven I Then rushed the steed, to battle driven ! And, louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed the red artillery ! But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow ; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly I 'Tis morn — but scai'6e yon level sun Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun, Where f-"ious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy I The combat deepens — On ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave I Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry I Few, few shall part where many meet I The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; And every turf, beneath their feet, Shall be a soldier's sepulchre I 1 Campbell. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. The head quarters of the English before the battle of Waterloo, were at Brussels; and on the night preceding the march to the Held, ^lere was a grand ball given by the inhabitants of that city to the British otliecrs. It has boon currently reported that Lord AVellington was surprised by Napoleon ; and that some of the oflicors were shot in their ball dresses. This has been contradicted, however, on pood authority : and it is said that the Duke was fully aware of the enemy's approach, but did not wish to create any alarm in the city by divulging his jirivate intelligence. The oflicers therefore, were allovved to si. ."d the ball, with orders to hold themselves in readiness for being caiid away at a moment's warning. TnKiiE was a sound of revelry by night. And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry ; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; LYRICAL riECES. 41 BELIi. ere at re was [iiccrs. p(l by reuses. is said (1 not 2;ence. ers to Qcnt's I A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which sjjake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; — But hush I hark I a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! Did ye not hear it? — No ; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be uncoufined! No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet, To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks iu once more, As if the clouds its echo Avould repeat ; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! Arm 1 Arm ! it is — it is! — the cannon's opening roar I Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain ;• he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival. And caught its tone with Death's pro[>hetic ear : And, when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart, more truly, knew that peal too well, Which stretched his father on a bloody bier. And roused the vengeance, blood alone could quell I He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting fell ! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro. And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago. Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep tl)under, peal on i)eal, afar ; And near, tliC beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; While thronged the citizens, with (error dumb, Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe! they come, they come !" * The Duke of I$ruiiswi(jk's father had been slain in battlo, a short tinio before, and his troops were in mourning for him when they appeared iu the battlo Hold. The young Duke hiuisolf was killed at Waterloo. \< 42 LTRIOAL PIECES. And wild and high the " Oameron's gathering" rosel The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's* hills Have heard — and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. Savage and shrill I But, with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils Tho stirring memory of a thousand years ; And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears I And Ardennesf waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving — if aught inanimate e'er grieves — Over the unreturning brave, — alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure ; when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe. And burning with high hope — shall moulder cold and low I Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay ; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife. The morn, the marshalling in arms,— the day Battle's magnificently stern array 1 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay. Which her own clay shall cover — heaped and pent. Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent 1 Bybox. BURIAL OP SIR J. MOORE. After Xapolcon had by his victories laid all continental Europe pros* trate at his t^t, he turned big ambition towards Spain and Portugal. By uniting, in the first instance, the French arras with those of Spain, he contrived to expel the king of Portugal from his country, and then to gain possession of it himself. In the next place, by sowing dissen- sions in the royal family at Madrid, ho induced the wretched members of it, successively, to put themselves under his protection at Bayonne; and then he declared that the Bourbons had ceased to rule in Spain ! Joseph Buonaparte was subsE. w 4: On Prague's proud arch^tho fires of ruin |?low, ITis blood-dyed waters murmuring far below. The storm prevails I the rnnipiirt yields away— Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! Hark I as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call t Earth shook ! rod meteors flash'd along the sky! And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry t righteous Heaven I ere Freedom found a grave, "Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save? Where was thine arm, Vengeance! where thy rod That smote the foes of Zion and of Ood ? That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar? Where was the storm that slumber'd, till the host Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left thoir trembling coast; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below ? Departed spirits of the miohty dead I — Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled I Friends of the world: restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and load the van I Yet, for Sarmatia's tears of blood, atone, And make her arm puissant as your own ! Oh I once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tkll — the Bhucb of Bannockburn I Campbell. THE BRANDED HAND. tuin of Boston, trading to n Southern port in 1846, received some o slaves on board liis vessel, when he was retiirning totlie North, were found tliero by tl>o olhctMs of a United .States Uevenuo Cut tor; and the vessel was taken back to Iho harbour she had h'ft. For the alleged crime of slave-stealing the Captain was branded on the hand with tlio letters " S. S." Wklcome home again, brave seaman 1 with thy thoughtful brow and gray, And the old heroic spirit of our earlier better day^ With th-iit front of calm enduranc' , on whose steady nerve in vain Pressed the iron of the prison, smote the fiery shafts of pain ! Is the tyrant's brand upon thee? Did the brutal cravens aim To make God's truth thy falsehood, his holiest work thy shame? When all blood-quenched, from the torture the iron was with- drawn, How laughed their evil angel the baffled fools to scorn ! 52 LYRICAL PIECES. Why, that brand ia highest honor 1 — than its traces never yet, Upon old armorial hatchments, wife a prouder blazon set ; And thy unborn generations, as they trend our rocky strand, Shall tell with pride the story of their father's branded hand I As the templar home was welcomed, bearing back from Syrian wars The scars of Arab lances, and of Paynim soimetars. The pallor of the prison and the shackle's crimson span. So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of God and manl He snflFered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer's grave, Tlwu for his living presence, in the bound and bleeding slave ; Hp. for a soil, no longer by the feet of angels trod, Tliou for the true Shechinah, the present house of God. In thy long and lone night watches, sky above and wave below. Thou did'st learn a higher wisdom, than the babbling school- men know ; God's stars and silence taught thee, as his Spirit only can. That the one sole sacred thing, beneath the cope of Heaven, is Man ! That he, who treads profiinely on the scrolls of Law and Creed, In the depths of God's great goodness, may find mercy in his ncod ; But woe to him, who crushes the soul with chain and rod, And herds with lower natures the awful form of God I u * ] I 1 Then lift that manly right hand, bold ploughman of the wave 1 Its branded palm shall prophesy, "Salvation to the Slave!" Hold up its fire-wrought language, that whoso reads, may feel His heart swell strong within him, his sinews change to steel. Hold it up before our sunshine, up against our Northern air— Ho! men of Massachusetts, for tlie love of God, look there! Take it henceforth for your standard — like the Iji-uce's heart of yore, In the dark strife closing round you, let that hand be seen be> fore. And the tyrants of the slave-land shall tremble at that sign, When it points its finger southward, along the Puritan line ; Woe to the state-gorged leeches, and the church's recreant band, When they look, from Slavery's ramparts, on the coming of that hand I John G. Whittier. (I A 1 I] T H LYRICAL PIECES. 63 band, ing of lER. W I . THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. The Vandois, or Waldciiscs verc Bible C;hi'stians. when there wore but few liiblcs to be I'muul any whore hi 10iii()i)e. They were accustomed to go as pedlars Irom house to liouso selling their wares, and giviug away copies of The Word. " Oh ! lady fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare — The richest web of the Indiau loom, which beauty's self might wear ; And these pearls are pure as thine own fair neck, with whose radiant light they vie — I have brought them with me a weary way, will my gentle lady buy?" And the lady smiled on the worn old man, through the dark and clustering curls, Which veiled her brow, as she bent, to view his silks and glit- tering pearls And she placed the price in the old man's hand, as she lightly turned away, But she jiaused at the wanderer's earnest call, " My gentle lady, stay !" •' Oh, lady fair, I have yet a gem, which a purer lustre flings. Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown, on the lofty brow of kings — A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue shall not decay, Whose light shall be a spell to thee and a blessing on thy way I" The lady glanced at mirroring steel, where her form of grace was seen Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved, their clasping pearls between ; "Bring forih thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou traveller gray and old — And name the pricu of thy precious gem, and my pages shall count thy gold." The cloud went off from the old man's brow, as a small and meagre book, Unchased with gold or diamond gem, from his folding robe he took, " Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove as such to thee. Nay — keep thy gold — I ask it not, for the word of God is free." The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift, he left behind, Hath had its pure and perfect work, on that high-born maiden's mind, 54 LTRIOAL PIECES. And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the lowliness of truth, And given her human heart to God in the beautiful hour of youth. And she has left the gray old halls, where an evil faith hath power. The courtly knights of her fatllcr's train, and the maidens of her bower ; And she has gone to the Vaudois vales, by lordly feet untrod, Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the perfect love of God I Ibid. n, MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express ? — She weeps not, yet, often and deeply, she sighs ; She never complains — but her silence implies The composure of settled distress I No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek ; Cold and hunger awake not her care ; Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On lier poor wither'd bosom, half bare ; and her cheek Has the deadly pale hue of despair I Yet cheerful and happy — nor distant the day^ Poor Mary, the maniac, has been : The traveller remembers, who journey'd this way, No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, As Mary, the Maid of the Inn I Her cheerful address fiU'd the guests with delight, As she welcomed them in with a smile ; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night. When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. She loved ; and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life : But Richard was idle and worthless ; and they Who knew him, would pity poor Mary, and say. That she was too good lor his wife. 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door ; Two guests sat enjoying the fire, that burn'd bright; And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight, They listen'd to hear the wind roar. fl ' H : LTBIOAL PIECES. 66 of th. fvth her eof I. .\ ik " 'Ti3 pleasant," cried one, " seated by the fire-side, " To hear the wind whistle without." " A fine night for the Abbey !" his comrade replied : Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, Who should wander the ruins about. " I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head ; /' And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, Some uijly old abbot's white spirit appear ; For this wind might awaken the dead." " I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, " That Mary would venture there now :" " Then wager, and lose," with a sneer he replied ; " I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint, if she saw a white cow I" " Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?" His companion exclaim'd, with a smile : " I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet, by bringing a bough From the alder, that grows in the aisle." With fearless good humour did Mary comply, And her way to Ihe Abbey she bent — The night it was gloomy, the wind it was high ; And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky. She shiver'd with cold as she went. O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; Through the gateway she enter'd — she felt not afraid— Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Howl'd dismally round the old pile ; Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she pass'd, And arrived at the innermost ruin at last. Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle. Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, And hastily gather'd the bough — When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear- She paused, and, she listen'd, all eager to hear. And her heart panted fearfully nowl The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head :— She lijaeu'd; — nought else could she hear. The wind ceased, her heart sunk in her bosom v. ith dread, For she heard in the ruins — distinctly — the tread Of footsteps approaching her near. 56 LYRICAL PIECES. -" Nay, come oa, and fast Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, gi,fi fropt, to conceal herself there ; That instant, the moon, o'er a dark cloud, shone clear, And she saw, in the moonlight, two ruffians appear, And between tliem — a corpse did they bear! Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold ! Again the rough wind hurried by — It blew off the hiit of the one, and behold I Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd^ She fell — and expected to die 1 " Curse t! i hat!" — he exclaims- hido The dead body I" his comrade replies. She beheld them in Siifety pass on by her side, ; She siMzes tho hat, fear her courage supplied, And fast through the Abbey she flics ! She rau with wild spce •, she rush'd in at the door, She looli'd horribly eager around: Her limbs could suppcyrt iheir faiut burden no more; But, exhausted and breathless, she sunk on the floor, Unable to utter a so.ind. -• Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, For a moment the hat met her view — Her eyes from that object convulsively start, For, Heaven! wiiat cold horror tlirill'd thro' her heart, When the name of her Richard she knew ! Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by. Hi;' gilibet is now to be seen ; Nor far from the inn it engages the eye ; The traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh. Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Southby. VERSES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OP RICH- MOND. Metiiinks it is good to be here : If thou wilt, lot us build — but for whom ? Nor Elias nor Moses appear. But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no : Afi'righted he shrinketh away ; * For see ! they would pin him below To a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay. To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. fast rt, DHBY. :h- LTRIOAL PIECES. 67 To Beauty ? Ah ! no : she forgets The charms that she wielded before ; Nor knows the foul worm, that he frets The skin which, hut yesterday, fools could adore For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud ? Alas I they are all laid aside. And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd. But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches ? Alas ! 'tis in vain : Who hid, in their turns have been hid ; The treasures are squiinder'd again ; And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid But the tinsel that shone on the dark cofBu-Ud. To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? Ah 1 here is a plentiful board. But the guests are all mute, as their pitiful cheer, And none, but the worm, is a reveller here. Shall we build to Affection and Love 7 Ah ! no ; they have wither'-d and died. Or fled with the spirit above, — Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side. Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. Unto Sorrow ? The dead cannot grieve,— Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear. Which compassion itself could relieve ; Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear ; Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here. Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? Ah 1 no ; for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow ; • ' Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone. Are the signs of a sceptre, that none may disown. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfiU'd ; And tlie third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies. HSBBERT KnOWLES. 68 LTBIOAL PI£0£S. A BETH GELERT. Thb spearman heard the bugle sound, And cheerly smiled the morn ; And many a brach, and many a bound, Attend Llewellyn's horn : And still he blew a louder blast, And gRve a louder cheer — M Come, Oelert I why art thou the last, Llewellyn's born to bear? " Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam ? The flower of all his race ! So true, so brave ; a lamb at home, A Hon in the chase I" 'Twas only at Llewellyn's board The faithful Gelert fed ; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, And sentinelled his bed. In sooth, he was a. peerless hound, The gift of royal John ; But now no Gelert could be found. And all the chase rode on. .. 1 1 And now, as over rocks and dells The gallant chidtngs rise, All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells With many mingled crres. That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart or hare : And scant and small the booty proved ; For Gelert was not there. I i XTnpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied. When, near the portal-seat, His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet. But, when he gained the castle-door, Aghast the chieftain stood ; The hound was Sineared with gouts of gore, His lips and fangs ran blood \ '■ . LYBIOAL PIECES. Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, Unused such looks to meet : His fiivourite checked his joyful guise, And crouched, and licked his feet. Onward in haste Llewellyn passed— And on went Gelert too — And still, where'er his eyes were cast. Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view ! O'erturned his infant's bed, he found The blood-stained covert rent ; And all around, the walls and ground With recent blood besprent. He called his child — no voice replied ; He searched — with terror wild ; Blood 1 Blood ! he found on every side, But no where found the child! " Monster I *hee my child's devoured 1" The frantic ..-ther cried ; And to the hilt, his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side I — . His suppliant, as to earth he fell. No pity could impart ; But still his Gelert's dying yell Passed heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh : What words the parent's joy can tell, To hear his infant cry 1 Concealed beneath a mangled heap, His hur"'ed search had missed. All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub-boy he kissed I Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread- But, the same couch beneath, L«^y a great wolf, all torn and dead- Tremendous still in death! Ah I what was then Llewellyn's pain. For now the truth was clear : The gallant hound the wolf had slain, To save Llewellyn's heir. 09 60 LYRICAL PIECES. Vain, Tftin was all Llewellyn's woe ; " Best of thy kind, adieu I The frantic deed, wliich laid thee low, This heart shall ever rue 1" And now a gallant tomb the/ raise. With costly sculpture declced ; And marbles, storied with his praise, Poor Gelert's bones protect. Here never could the spearman pass, Or fojester, unmoved ; Here oft the tear- besprinkled grass Llewellyn's sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear ; And oft, as evening fell. In fancy's piercing sounds would hear Poor Gelert's dying yell 1 '^. THE ESCAPED CONVICT. Hb trod his native land, the bright land of the free ; His forehead wore a seared brand, the stamp of infamy ; His brow, where youth and beauty met, yes I there the seal of guilt was set. He gazed upon the vale, where spring tide flowerets slept, Rocked by the whispers of the gale — he saw it, and he wept ; Like drops, presaging storms, they came — tears born in agony and shame. Morn sat upon the hill, but she looked cold and dim ; Clouds, like a pall, which death conceals, hung frowning there on him ; All, e'en his loved, his mother land, scowled on the forehead and the brand ; " My sire 1 my sire 1" he groaned, " my home 1 my lovely one I What sire ? He bath his child disowned! What home ? I, I have none, I hear all curse, I see all shun ; but curse not thou, not thou thy son ! " I saw her struck, whose cheek did myriad sweets disclose,— Whose eyes — whose form — but wherefore speak ? I saw — my heart-blood rose. She loved me — she had sworn my bride — I stabbed the striker, and he died. LTRIOAL PIECES. 61 nm roEB. I , " For this the record lies, festering upon my brow ; For this the rabble mocked my cries ; for this shame haunts me now; For this half rotted I must be, ere my dead brow from stain is free. " My own, my beauteous land I land of the brave and high ! I asked but this, of Fate's stern hand, to see thee, and to die— 0, yes, mv country! let me be, in my last hour, in death, with thee I" The moon looked down upon the vale, wearing her starry wreath, And soft displayed a form, that pale, lay there alone with death. The zephyrs drew a lengthened sigh, and slow the convict's corse passed by. — 'Twas said, that lovely night a spirit youth was seen Gliding among the flowerets bright, the trees and meadows green, But chiefly by yon cot, and there it slowly melted into air. al of t; jony ;bere land nel bave thou -my iker, THE POET'S LOT. When Jove had encircled our planet with light, And had rolled the prou;l orb on its way. Ordaining the moon, to illume it by night, And the proud sun, to rule it by day. The reign of its surface was found to agree With the wisdom, that governed the plan : He divided the earth, he apportioned the sea ; And gave the dominion to man. The hunter, he sped to the forest and wood ; And the husbandman seized on the plain : The fisherman launched his canoe on the flood ; And the merchant embarked on the main.^ The mighty partition was finished at last, When a figure came dreamingly on ; But fearful an.d wild, were the looks that he cast, When he found that the labour was done. The mien of disorder, the wreath, which lie wore, And the frenzy, that flashed from his eye ; And the lyre of ivory and gold, which he bore, Proclaimed that the poet was nigh. T i\ 11 I " > 9 LTRIOAL PIECES. He rushed, all in tears at the fatal decree, To the f( ot of the Thunderer's throne, And complained that no spot on the earth or the sea Had been given to tiic IJiird as liis own. The Thunderer smile'! at his prayer and his mien, Though he mourned the request was too late, And he asked, in what region the poet had been, When his lot was decided by Fate. "0 pardon my error," he humbly replied, " Which sprang from a vision too bright ; My soul, at that moment, was close by thy side, Entranced in those regions of light. "It hung on thy vision, it basked in tliy smile. It rode on thy glances of fire ; And forgive, if, bewildered and dazzled the while. It forgot every earthly desire." " The earth," said the Monarch, "is portioned away, And I cannot reverse the decree ; But the heavens are mine, with their regions of day. And their portals are open to thee." / ^* THE ARAB'S ADDRESS TO HIS HORSE. Away, away my barb and I! — free as the wave, fleet as the wind. We scour thip sands of Araby, and leave a world of slaves behind. 'Tis mine toroam in this wild garb, nor e'er feel lonely though alone ; I would not change rny Arab barb, to mount a drowsy Sultan's throne. Where the pale stranger does not come— 'tis mine, in this wild garb, to rove. An Arab tent my only home, an Arab maid my only love- Here freedom dwells without a fear ; coy to the world she loves the wild Who ever brings a fetter here to chain the desert's fiery child ? What, though the Frank may name with scorn our barren clime a realm of sand. Here were our thousand fathers born — Oh! who would scorn his father's land ? It is not sands that form a waste, nor laughing fields a happy clime ; The spot, the most by freedom graced, is where man feels tLe most sublime. Away, away my barb and I ! — free as the wave, fleet as the wind, We scour the sands of Araby, and leave a world of slaves behind. LYRICAL PIECES. wind, ehind. bough titan's i wild loves lild? clime rn his bappy Is tLe wind, ihind. L LOCIIINVAR. On, yonnf? Locliinvar is come out of iho wfistl Through all the wide Border liis sreod win the best; And, save lli^ good broad sword, he weapon hud none; He rode all nmirm'd, and he rodo all alone! So faithful in love, and 30 danutless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar 1 He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone. He swam the Esk river, where ford lliree was none— But, ere he alighted at Xetherby gate. The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, "Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar ! So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridemen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all I Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,— For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,— "Oh come ye in pence here, or come ye in war? Or to dance at our bridal ? young Lord Lochiavar 1" "I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied : Love swells like the Sol way, but ebbs like its tide! And now am I come, with this lost love of mine. To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ! There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!' The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup! She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sighj— With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,— " Now tread we a measure !" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace! While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bride-maidens whisper'4, " 'Twere better by far To have match'd our fair Cousin with young Lochinvar l" One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near ; So light, to the croup, the fair lady he swung, So light, to the saddle before her, he sprung I "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They'll have fleet steeds that follow !" quoth young Lochinvar. LTRIOAL PIECES. There vtm mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; Fosters, Fonwicks, and Musgraves, tliey redo and they ran ; There was racing and chasing on Gannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Nolherby ne'er did they see I So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. Have ye o'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Soott. OASABIANOA, THE FAITHFUL SON. Younff Casablanca, a boy about thirteon years old, son to the Admiral of tno Orient, remained at Iiis post lu tho battle of the Nile after the ship had taken fin;, and all the guns had boon abandoned; and lie perished in the explosion of tho vessel, when the flame had reached tho powder. Thb boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but he, had fled ; The flame, that lit the battle's wreck, shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood, a proud, though child-like form. The flames rolled on — he would not go without his father's word ; — That father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. He called aloud : — " Say, father, say, if yet my task is done 1" He knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. " Speak, father 1" once again he cried, " if I may yet be gone 1 And" — but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair, Yet looked, from that lone post of death, in still, but brave despair. ' He shouted but once more aloud, " My father I mu/it I stay ?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the wreathing flres made way. They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag, on high, And streamed, above the gallant child, like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder sound, the boy — oh ! where was he ? Ask of the winds, that, far around with fragments strewed the sea I With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, that well had borne their part — But the noblest thing that perished there, was that young faith- ful heart ! Mrs. Hbmans. «r «r LYRICAL PIECES. GREEK FUNERAL CHANT. A WAIT, wns heard around the hod, tho deiith-bod of the yoiinjff Atn'Mlst her tciira the Funeral Chant a mournful Moriinu sunj? : — "lanthlsl dost thou sleep? — thou sleep'at I — but this is not the rest, The breathing and the rosy calm I have pillowed on : • breast. I lulled thee not to this repost*, lanthiH, my sweet son ■ As in thy laughing childhood'a days by twilight I have done. How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now ? And that 1 die not, seeing death or thy pale, gloricis brow? I look upon thee, thou that wert u; all most fair and brave I I see theo wearing still too much of beauty for the grave I Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and hen*ily thine eye Hath closed above the falcon glancr that iti H loved to lie, And fast is bound the springing step thai seem'd -u bree^ies borne, When to thy conch I came and said, 'Wake, hunln. wake! 'tis morn I' —Yet lovely art thou still, my flower, untc ic ■ d by slow deca; ; And I, thewither'd stem, remain! — I woulu tha. gritf might slay. Oh ! ever when I met thy look, I knew thut this would be ! I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for theo I I saw it in thy kindling choek and in thy bei>ring high ! —A voice came whispering to my soul and told me thou must die! That thou must die, my fearless one, when swords wore flashing red — Why doth a mother live to say — My first-born and my dead I They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won, Speak thou — and I will hear thy voice, Ian this, my sweet son I" A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young ! A fair-haired bride the Punern ^. lant amidst her weeping sung: — "lanthis! look'st thou not ou me? — Can lovo indeed be fled? — When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head V I would that I had followed thee, lanthis! my beloved! And stood as woman oft hath stood, where faithful hearts are proved ! That I had uirt a breast-plate on, and battled at thy side — It would have been a blessed thing, together had we died. But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword? Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board ? Or singing some sweet song of old in the shadow of the vine? Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine? —And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart Fast gushing like a mountain-spring — and couldst thou thus depart? .1 ; LYRICAL PIECES. Oouldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour oat thy fleeting breath? Oh ! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death! Yes I I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led, And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread ! But not where noble blood flow'd forth, where singing javelins flew — — Why did I hear love's first sweet words and not its last adieu ? What now can breathe of gladness more — what scene, what hour, what tone ? The blue skies fade with all their lights — they fade since thou art gone. E'en that must leave me — that still face, by all my tears un- moved ! —Take me from this dark world with thee, Ian this, my beloved!" A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young 1 Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mourning sistbb sung : " lanthis, brother of my soul !— oh, where are now the days. That shone, amidst the deep green hills, upon our infant plays? When we two sported by the streams, or track'd them to their source. And like a stag's the rocks among, was thy fleet fearless course. •^I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend, I see thy bounding step no more — my brother and my friend ! I come with flowers — for spring is come — Innthis ! art thou here ? I bring the garlands she hath brought— I cast them on thy bier. Thou shouldst be crown'd with victory's wreath — but oh 1 more meet they seem, The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream ; More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid so early low — —Alas I how sadly sleeps thy face amid the sunshine's glow! The golden glow, that through thy heart was wont such joy to send — —Woe that it smiles and not for thee, my brother and my friend !" FLIGHT OF O'CONNOR'S CHILD, AND DEATH OF HER LOVER. At bleating of the wild watch-fold Thus sang my love — " Oh, come with me! Our bark is on the lake — behold Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree. Come far from Castle-Connor clans ! Gome with thy belted forestere, And I, beside the lake of swans, Shall hunt for tbee the fallow deer; LYRIOAL PIECES. reath? leath ! s was ', feast bvelins idieu ? b hour, B thou rs un- ovedP mngi ing: ;)lays ? ) their ;our8e. [ndl here? bier. more 3W! joy to iendl" HER i» And build thy hut, and bring thee home The wild fowl and the honey-comb And berries from the wood provide And play my clarsliech by thy side — Then come, my love 1" — How could I say? Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way, And I pursued by moonless skies, The light of Conuocht Moran's eyes! And fast and far, before the star Of day-spring, rush'd we through the glade. And saw at dawn the lofty bawn Of Castle-Connor fade. Sweet was to us the hermitage Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore; Like birds all joyous from the cage, For man's neglect we loved it more ! And well he knew, my huntsman dear. To search the game with hawk and spear ; While I, his evening food to dress, WouM sing to him in happiness I But oh, that midnight of despair, When I was doom'd to rend my hair! The night to me of shrieking sorrow I The night to him — that had no morrowl When all was calm at even-tide, I heard the baying of their beagle : ' Be hush'd 1' my Connocht Moran cried, ' 'Tis but the screaming cf the eagle '— Alas 1 'twas not the eyrie's sound. Their bloody bands had track'd us out ; Up-listening starts our couchant hound— And, hark I again that nearer shout Brings faster on the murderers. Spare — spare him— Brazil — Desmond fierce 1 In vain — no voice the adder charms ; Their weapons cross'd ray sheltering arms; Another's sword has laid him low — Another's and another's ; And every hand that dealt the blow— Ah me I it was a brother's I Yes, wl-en hU moanings died away, Their iron hands had dug the chiy, And o'er his b^jrial turf they trod, And I beheld — His life-blood oozing from the sod 1 Campbell. 68 LYRICAL PIECES. THE SISTER'S CURSE. " And go 1" I cried, " the combat seek, Ye hearts that unappalled bore The anguish of a sister's sbrieic, Go! — and return no more ! For sooner guilt the ordeal brand Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The banner with victorious hand, Beneath a sister's curse unroll'd." stranger! by my country's loss! And by my love ! and by the cross! 1 swear I never could have spoke The curse that sever'd nature's yoke ; But that a spirit o'er me stood. And fired me with the wrathful mood ; And frenzy to my heart was given, To speak the malison of heaven. They would have cross'd themselves all mute, They would have pray'd to burst the spell I But, at the stamping of ray foot. Each hand down powerless felll " And go to Athunree !" I cried, " High lift the banner of your pride 1 But know, that, where its sheet unrolls, Tho weight of blood is on your souls I Go, where the havoc of your kerne Shall float as high as mountain fern! Men shall no more your mansion know; The nettles, on your hearth, shall grow ! Dead as the green oblivious flood, That mantles by your walls, shall be The glory of O'Connor's blood I Away! away to Athunree! Where, downward when the sun shall fall, The raven's wing shall be your pall 1 And not a vassal shall unlace The vizor from your dying face !" A bolt, that overhung our dome, Suspended till my curse was given, Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam, Peal'd in the blood-red heaven ! Dire was the look, that, o'er their backs, The angry parting brothers threw : But now, behold ! like cataracts, Come down the hills in view, "V": LTLIICAL PIECES. O'Connor's plumed partisans, Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans Were marching to their doom : A sudden storm their plumage toss'd, A flash of lig}itniug e'er them crossed, And all again was gloom 1 Ibid. ODE TO WINTER. When first the fiery-mantled sun His heavenly race began to run, Round the earth and ocean blue, His children, four, the Seasons, flew. First, in green apparel dancing. The young Spring smiled with angel-grace ; Rosy Summer, next advancing, Rush'd into her sire's embrace — Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to her smiles, On Calp^'s olive-shaded steep. On India's citron-cover'd isles : More remote and buxom-brown. The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne A rich pomegranate gemm d her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone 1 But howling Winter fled afar, To hills that prop the polar stffr. And loves on deer-borne car to ride, With barren darkness by his side, Round the shore wh'ere loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale I Round the hall where Runic Odin Howls his war-song to the gale !^ Save when, adown the ravaged globe, He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe. And trampling on her faded form : — Till light's returning lord assume The shaft, that drives him to his polar field. Of power to pierce his raven plume. And crystal-cover'd shield ! sire of storms I — whose savage ear The Lapland drum delights to hear, When Frenzy, with her blood-shot eye. Implores thy dreadful deity — 70 LYEIOAL PIECES. Archangel I power of desolation I Fast descenrling as thou art, Say, hath immortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen winter, hear my prayer, \nd gently rule the ruin'd year ; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch's falling teai- ;— To ijiiuddering Want's unmantled bed Thy horror breathing aguco cease to lend; Aod gently on the orp' an'd head Of Innocence descend I But chiefly spare, king of clouds I The sailor on his airy shrouds ; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep. And spectres walk along the deep I Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores. Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark brown Danube roars. winds of Winter 1 list ye there To many a deep and dying groan. Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own I Alas 1 even your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim, falhn low ; But man will ask no truce to death — No bounds to human wo. Ibid. I ODE TO ELOQUENCE. Heard ye those loud-contending waves, That shook Cecropia's pillar'd state? Saw ye the mighty, from their graves. Look up, and tremble at her fate ? Who shall calm the angry storm ? Who the mighty task perform. And bid the raging tumult cease ? See the son of Hermes rise. With siren tongue, and speaking eyes, Hush the noise, and soothe to peace I See the olive branches, waving O'er Ilissus' winding stream. Their lovely limbs the Naiads laving, The Muses smiling by, supreme I LYRICAL PISCES. See the nymphs and swains advancing, To harmonious measures dancing : Grateful lo Pje.'vns rise To thee, Power! who can inspire Soothing words — Oi words of fire, And shoolc thy plumes in Attic skies I Lo ! from the regions of the north. The reddening storm of battle pours, Rolls along the trembling earth, Fastens on the Olynthian towers. " Where rests the sword ? — where sleep the brave ? Awake I Cecrojiia's ally save From the fury of the blast : Burst the storm on Phocis' walk I Rise I or Greece; for ever falls ; Up 1 or Freedom breathes her last." The jarring states, obsequious now, View the patriot's hand on high ; Thunder gathering on his brow. Lightning flashing from his eye. Borne by the tide of words along, One voice, one mind, inspire the thronjj : " To arms! to arms ! to arms!" they cry; " Grasp liie shield, and draw the sword j Lead us to Philippi's lord ; Let us conquer him, or die 1" Ah, Eloquence ! thou wast undone ; Wast from thy native country driven, When Tyranny eclipsed the sun, And blotted out the stars of heaven! • 71 When Liberty from Greece withdrew, And o'er the Adriatic flew To where the Tiber pours his urn — She struck the rude Tarpeian rock. Sparks were kindled by the stroke — Again thy fires began to burn I Now shining forth, thou madest compliant The conscript fathers to thy charms, Roused the world-bestriding giant, Sinking fast in Slavery's arms. rz LTRIOAL PIEOES. I see thee stand by Freedom's fane, Pouring the persuasive strain, Giviiig vast conceptions birth : Hark ■ I hear thy thunder's sound Shake the Forum round and round, Shake the pillars of the errth I First-born of Lib rty divine I Put on Religion's !)right array : Speak ! and the stark 43 grave shall shine The portui of eternal day! R''se, kindling with the orient beam. Let Calvary's hill inspii'r the tbtrac, Unfold the garments roU'd in blood I Oh, touch the soul — touch rJl hor chorda With all the omnipotence of words, And point the way to heaven — to God I cs The Of] Not ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 'TwAs at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son, Aloft in awful state, The god-like hero sat On his imperial throne. His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound ; So should desert in arms be crown'd. The lovely Thais, by his side. Sat like a blooming eastern bride. In flower of youth, and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair I None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave, deserves the fair. Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful choir. With flying fingers touch'd the lyre : The trembling notes ascend the sky. And heavenly joys ins|)ire— The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seat above — Such is the power of mighty love! A dragon's fiery form belied the god : Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, When he to fair Olympia press'd, An LTRIC3AL PIECES. n And stamp'd an image of himself, a soveroign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound : " A present deity 1" they shout around ; — "A present deity 1" the vaulted roofi rebound. With ravish'd ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god, . ■ Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus, then the sweet musician sung. Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young 1 The jolly god in triumph comes 1 Flush'd with a purple grace, He shows his honest face. Now give the hautboys breath! — he comes! he comes I Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain : "^ Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; Rich the treasure ; Sweet the pleasure ; Sweet Is pleasure after pain 1 Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; Fought all his battles o'er again : And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain! The master saw the madness rise ; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; And, while he heaven and earth defied—- Changed his hand and check'd his pride. He chose a mournful muse. Soft pity to infuse 1 He sung Darius great and good I ■ By too severe a fate. Fallen! fallen! fallen! fallen! Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood I Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies. With not a friend to close his eyes 1 With downcast look the joyous victor sat, Revolving in his altered soul, The various turns of fate below ; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tetvrs began to flow I G . u T'^'RICAL PIECES. The mighty master smiled to seo That love was in the next degree : 'Twa3 but a kindred sound to move; For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; Honour but an empty bubble ; Never endinfr, still beginning, Fighting still, and still deftroying. If the world be worth thy winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying I Lovely Thais sits beside thee. Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause : So love was crown'd ; but music won the cause.-— The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair, Who caused his care. And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again : At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast I Now strike the golden lyre again I A louder yet, and yet a louder strain I Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder 1 Hark ! hark ! — the horrid sound Has raised up his head, As awaked from the dead ; And amazed, he stares around I Revenge ! revenge I Timotheus cries- See the furies arise I See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair. And the sparklea that flash from their eyesl Behold a ghastly band. Each a torch in his hand I These are Grecian ghosts that 'n battle were slain, And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain! Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew I Behold! how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods! The princes applaud with a furious joy, And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy ; LYRICAL PIECES. Thais led the way, ^ To light him to his prey! And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. Thus, long ago. Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, While organs yet were mute ; Timotheus, to his br' i thing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage — or kindle soft desire. At last, divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame. The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds. With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown : He raised a mortal lo the skies ; She drew an angel do .7? I 75 Drydbn. THE PASSIONS. Whkn Music, heavenly maid, was young, — While yet in early Greece she sung. The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell. Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting. By turns, they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined: Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatched their instruments of sound ; And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art. Each — for madness ruled the hour — Would prove his own expressive power. First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try. Amid the chords bevvilder'd laid ; And back recoil'd, he knew not why,' Even at the ?ound himself had made. Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire. In lightnings own'd his secret stings : In one rude clash he struck the lyre. And swept with hurried hands, the strings. n 76 LYRICAL PIECES. "With woful measures, wan Despair- Low sullen sounds I— liis grief beguiled ; A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 'Twas sad, by fits — by starts, 'twas wild. But thou, Hope I with eyes so fair, Wliat was tliy delighted measure I Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. Still would her touch the strain prolong ; And, from the rocks, tlie woods, the vale, She call'd on Gcho still through all her song. And, where her sweetest theme she choso, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose. He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down ; And, with a withering look. The war-denouncing trumpet took. And blew a blast, so loud and dread. Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe; And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum, with furious heat. And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side. Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltcr'd mien ; While each strain'd ball of sight — seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were fix'd ; Sad proof of thy distressful state 1 Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd : And, now, it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired ; And, from her wild sequestcr'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : And, dashing soft;, from rocks around. Bubbling runnels join'd the sound. Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; Or, o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay- Round a holy calm diffusing. Love of peace and lonely musing- la hollow murmurs died av ly. k LYRICAL PIECES. 77 if But, oh, how alter'd was its sprightlicr tone! VVhon Cheerfulness, a nymph of hcalthie.H hue, Her bow across her slioiildrrs flung, Her buskins geinniM with morning dew, Blew an inspirinj? air, tliat dale and th'cket rung; The hunter' HI call, i.. Paun and Dryad known. The oak-crown'd sisters, and their ciiiiste-eycd queen, Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; And Sport loap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial, He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pip*' his hand address'd ; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, "Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, Amid the festal-sounding shatles. To some unwearied minstrel dancing ; While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round — Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; And he, amid his frolic i>lay. As if he would the charming air repay. Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. Collins. lead. CHILDE HAROLD'S SONG. Adieu, adieu! — my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue ; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea, We follow in his flight : Farewell awhile to him and thd!, My native land,- -Good night ! A few short hours, and he will rifo To give the morrow birth ; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate ; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall- My dog howls at the gate. LYRICAL PIEC7ES. Come hither, hither, my little pnprc, Wiry (lost thou weep mid wail ? Or dost thou droiid the billow's ingo, Or tremble at the giile 7 But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; Our ship is swift iind strong: Our fleetest ftilcon scarce can fly More merrily along. " Let winds be shrill let waves roll high, 1 fear not wave nor wind ; Yet marvel not, Sir Cliilde, that I Am sorrowful in mind: " For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend save these alone, But thee — and One above. " My father bless'd me fervently. Yet did not much complain ; But sorely will my mother sigh, Till I come back again." Enough, enough, my little lad. Such tears become thine eye — If I thy guiltless bosom had. Mine own would not be dry I Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so i)ale ? Or dost thou dread a French foeman, Or shiver at the gale ? " Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek. " My spouse's boys dwell near thy hall. Along the bordering lake ; And when they on their father call. What answer shall she make ?" Enough, enough, my yeoman good. Thy grief let none gainsay ; But I, that am of lighter mood, Will lai'gh to flee away. 4 LYRICAL PIECES. For who would trust the Hocming sighs Of friend or |)ariiin()iir ? Fresh feres will dry tlic bright blue eyca, We Inlo saw Btreatiiing o'er. For j)len9ure8 past I do not grieve, Nor iicrila gatliering neiir ; My greatest grief iu — tiiat I leave Nothing tliat claims a tear. And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea : But why should I for others groan, W^en none will sigh for me ? Perchance my dog will wliine In vain, Till fed by stranger-hands ; But, long e'er I come buck again, He'd tear me where he stands. With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine ; Nor care wliat land thou bear'st me to, So not again/o mine! Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves I And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves! My native land, — Goodnight! ft Byrok. THE MARINER'S SONG. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast. And Alls the white and rustling sail, aud bends the gallant mast — And bends the gallant mast, my boys, while, like the eagle free. Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. " for a soft and gentle wind," I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the snoring breeze and white waves heaving high— And white waves heaving high, my boys ; the good ship tight and free, The world of waters is our home, and merry men are we. There's tempest in yon horned moon ; there's lightning in yon cloud ; And hark! the music mariners!— the wind is piping loud — The wind is piping loud, my boys ; the lightning flushes free ; While the hollow oak our palace is, our heritage the sea! Allan Cunninqham. 80 LYRICAL PIECES. PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. Pibroch of Donuil Dhn, pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan Conuil. Come away 1 Come awayl harlt to the summons, Come iuyour war-array. Gentles and Commons ! Come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky I The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlochy, Come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and strong liand that bears one. Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter. Leave the corpse unhiterr'd, the bride at the altar. » Leave the deer — leave the steer, leave nets and barges ; Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes. Come, as the winds come, when forests are rended! Come, as thv' waves come, when navies are stranded! Faster come ! — Faster cume ! faster and faster! Chief, vassal, page, and groom, tenant and master 1 Fast they come I Fast they come ! see how they gather, Wide v/aves the eagle plume, blended witli heather. Cast your plaids 1 Draw your blades ! forward each man set I Pibroch of Donuil Dhal now far the ousetl Scott. LOCHIEL'S WARNING. Wizard. Lochiel! Lochiel 1 beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array 1 For a field o*" the dead rushes red on my sight, And the cl^ns of CuUoden are scatter'd in fight: They rally I — they bleed ! — for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, wo'i to ih.T riders that trample them down ! Proud C;imber)and prances, insulting the slain. And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark I through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed, to the desert, flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, O Glenullin 1 whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all uighi at the gate. A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albyn ! to death and ca[)tivity led I Oh weep I but thy tears cannot number the dead : For a merciless sword o'er CuUoden shall wave, Culloden! that reoks with the blood of the brave. LYRICAL PIECES. 81 .. Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death- telling seer I Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight! This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. Wizard. Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, ray vision to scorn ? Proud bird of t'.ie mountain, thy plume shall be torn I Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth. From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north? Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; , But down let him stoop from his havoc on high 1 Ah 1 home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit 1 Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might. Whose banners arise ou the battlement's height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; Return to thy dwelling, all lonely ! — return 1 For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt I I have raarsball'd my clan : Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one I They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And, like reapers, descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam, like a wave, on the rock I But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albyn her claymore indignantly draws ; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud ; All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — Wizard. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the blood-hounds, that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo 1 anointed by Heaven with vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight : Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 'Tis finlsh'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors ; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores : But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? For the red eye of battle is suut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn, LYRICAL PIECES. Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding and torn ? Ah, no I for a darker departure is near ; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; His death-bell is tolling ; oh 1 mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet. Where his heart ehall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : For never shall Albyn a destiny meet. So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by cliains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains. Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. Campbell. BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. I NEVER see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold. But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart ; — My smile expires into a sigh ; I feel a struggling in my eye, 'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray. Till rolling tears have won their way ; For, soul and brain will travel back. Through memory's chequered mazes, To days, when I but trod life's track For buttercups and daisies. There seems a bright and fairy spell About their very names to dwell ; And though old Time has marked my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Smile, if you will, but some heart-strings Are closest linked to simplest things: And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, Till love, and life, and all be past; And then the only wish I have Is, that the one who raises The turf sod o'er me, plant my grave With buttercups and daisies. Eliza Cook. DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. PBELL. ■■ HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. To be — or not to be? — that is the question.—- Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to sufifer The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them ? — To die — to sleep- No more ! — and, by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wisb'd. To die — to sleep — To sleep? — perchance to dream I — ay, there's the rubl For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, When we have shuflfled oft' this mortal coil, Must give us pause. — There's the respect, That makes calamity of so Ij; ; life : For, who would Lear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of oflBce and the spurns. That patient merit of tli • unworthy takes— When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, To groan and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, — That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne No traveller returns I— puzzles the will ; And makes us rather bear thoi ■ ills we have, Than fly to others that we knt ,i not of. Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all : And thus, the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; And enterprises, of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action SUAEBPEARR. )K. DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL. Cbomwell, I did not think to shed a tear, In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention Of me must more be heard ; say then, I taught thee— Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways to glory. And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in — A sure, and safe one — though thy master miss'd it. Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me : Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition 1 By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by't ? Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee : Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still, in thy right hand carry gentle peace. To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let nil the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's. Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fiiU'st, Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ; And, pr'ythee, lead me in There, take an inventory of all I have ; To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe, And my integrity to Heaven, are all I dare now call my own. O Cromwell ! Cromwell ! Had I but served my God with half the zeal 1 served my king, he would not, in mine age, Have left me naked to mine enemies. Ibid. • I HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS. Onob more unto the breach, dear friends, once more j Or close the wall up with the English dead 1 In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, As modest stillness and humility : But, when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then, imitate the action of the tiger ; Stiflfen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage ; Then, lend the eye a terrible aspect ; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like tbe brftss cannon t i l DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. Now, set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide ; Hold hard the breath ; and bend up every spirit To its full height. Now, on, you noblest English I Wliose blood is fetch 1 from fathers of war proof; Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders, Have, in these parts, f;om morn till even fought, And sheathed their swords for lack of argument I I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. — The game's afoot !— Follow your spirit ; and, iipon this charge, Cry, God for Harry, England, and St. George 1 Ibid. HENRY V.'s SPEECH BEFORE THE COURT. BATTLE OF AGIN- bid. What's he that wishes for more men from England? My cousin Westmoreland ! — No, my fair cousin : If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss ; and, if to lire, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. No, no, my lord ; wish not a man from England! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my ho8t, That he, who hath no stomach to this fight, May straight depart : his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse : We would not die in that man's company 1 This day is called the Feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, . nd comes safe home, Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian ! He that outlives this day, and sees old age, Will, yearly on the vigil, feast his neighbours : And say — To-morrow is Saint Crispian! Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scara^ Old men forget, yet shall not all forget, But they'll remember with advantages. What feats they did that day. Then shall our name?, Familiar in their mouths as household-words,— Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster,— < Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. This story shall the goodman teach his son ; And Crispian's day shall ne'er go by. From this time to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember'd ; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers! 86 DRAMATIC »£LEOTION& For he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me, Shall be my brother — be he e'er so vile. This day shall gentle his condition ; And, gentlemen in England, now a-bed. Shall think themselves accursed they were not here ; And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispian's day. Ibid, MARCELLUS'S SPEECH TO THE MOB. WnEREPOftB rejoice? that Csesar comes in triumph! What conquest brings he home ? "What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot- wheels? You blocks I you stones I you worse than senseless tbingst Oh you hard hearts 1 you cruel men of Rome f Knew you not Pompey ? Many ^ time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements. To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops— Your infants in your arms — and there have sat The live-long day, with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome ? And, when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made a universal shout. That Tiber trembled underneath his banks, To hear the replication of your sounds, Made in his concave shores ? And do you now put on your best attire ? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way, That comes in triumph over Pompey' s blood ? Begone 1 Run to your houses ! fall upon your knees I Pray to the gods to intermit the plagues. That needs must light on this ingratitude ! Ibid. SPEECH OP CASSIUS TO BRUTUS. I CANNOT tell what you and other men Think of this life ; but for my single self, I had as lief not be, as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself I was born free as Ciosar; so were you; We both have fed as well ; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he. For once, upon a raw and gusty d&y, Ibid. id. DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 9$ The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Cscsar said to nac, Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood, And swim to yonder point? — Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow : so indeed he did. The torrent roared, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside. And stemming it with hearts of controversy. But, ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, Help me, Cassius, or I sink. I — as ^neas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy, upon his shoulder, The old Anchises bear — so, from the waves of Tiber, ' Did I the tired Caesar : and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And, when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake : 'tis true, this god did shake ; His coward lips did from their colour fly ; And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, Did lose its lustre : I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas! it cried, Give me some drink, Titinius, As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth nmaze me, • A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates : The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars. But in ourselves, that we are underlings. Brutus and Caesar: What should be in that Caesar? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name ; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy conjure them, Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. Now, in the names of all the gods at once. Upon what meat does this our Caesar feed, That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou bast lost the breed of noble bloods ! DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. When went there by an age, since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, That her wide walls encompassed but one man? O 1 you and I have heard our fathers say, There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king. Ibid. \\ ! BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OP O^SAR." Brutus, Cassiufl, and other iDntrlots assassinated Julius Ctesar. Antony, Octavius, and Lopidu^, 'ho friends of Caesar, wished to avenge his dcntb, and aggranutue themselves. Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers I — hear me for my cause ; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour ; and have respect to mini? honour, that you may believe. Cen- sure me in your wisdora ; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. — If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutiis's love to Caesar was no less than bis. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer : not that I loved Ccesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves ; than that Caesar were dead, to live all free- men ? — As Cajsar loved me, 1 weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour htm ; but as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honour for his valour, and death for his ambition ! — Who's here so base, that would hn a bondman ? if any, speak ! for him have I offended. Who's here so rude, that would not be a Roman? if any, speak I for him have I offended. Wha's here 80 vile, that will not love his country ? if any, speak 1 for him have I offended. — I pause for a reply. None ? then none have I offended I I have done no more to Caesar than you should do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol ; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy ; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony ; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall n^ccive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart — that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome I have the same dagger for myse'.f, when it shall please my country to need my death. Ibid. DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 89 ough his not? odof ease id. MARK ANTONY'S ORATION. FniRNDS, Romans, countrymen 1 lend me yonr ears. I come to bill V Cajsai", not to praise liira. Tlie evil tliat men do, lives after them ; The good la oft interred with their bones : So let it be with Csesar ! — Noble Brutus Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious : If it was so, 'twas a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answered it f Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest— For Brutus is au honourable man ! So are they all ! all honourable men — Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me— But Brutus says he was ambitious ; And Brutus is an honourable man ! lie hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept : Ambition should be made of sterner stuflf !— Yet Brutus says he was ambitious : And Brutus is an honourable man I You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, I thrice presented him with a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition ? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; And sure he is an honourable man! I speak, not to disprove what Brutus spoke ; But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once ; not without cause: What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? judgment ! thou hast fled to brutish beasts. And men have lost their reason ! — Bear with me : My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar ; And I must pause till it come back to me ; But yesterday, the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world — now lies he there, A:.d none so poor as do him reverence ! masters ! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 1 should do Hrutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,, * Who, you all know, are honourable men ! — I Avill not do them wrong . I'd rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honourable men I — But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar— 90 DRA3IATIC SELECTIONS. I fou.'l it in liis closet — 'tis hia will I Let but the commons hear this tcstanocnt- « Wiiicii, |)ardon me, I do not mean to ri I, — And tliey will Ro and l\is3 dead (\u3ar\-, wounds, And dip tlieir napltins in his sacitd blood; Yea, bep: a liair of liim for memory ; And, dyirii^, mention it within their wills, Bequeatliing it, as a rich legacy, Unto their issue! — If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know tl.is mantle? 1 remember The first time ever Cfcsar put it on : *Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent- That day he overcame the Nervii! — Look 1 in this place ran Gassius' dagger through I See what a rent the envious Casca made ! Through this — the well-beloved Brutus slabbed I And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Ca3sar followed it!— As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's an^el I— Judge, Oye gods, how dearly Caesar loved himl This, this was the unkindest cut of all ; F*jr, when the noble Caesar saw Aim stabl— jjiigratitude, more strong than traitor's arms, Q'l te vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart ; AnJ, in his mantle muffling uj) his face. Even at the base of Pompey's statue— V.hich all the while ran blood! — great Caesar fell I Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down ; Whilst bloody treason flourished over us ! Oh, now you weep, and I perceive you feel The dint of pity : these are gracious drops ! Kind souls 1 what I weep you when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? — look you here! Here is himself —ji'arred, as you see, by traitors 1— — Good friends i sweeet friends ! let me not stir you up To such a sudden flocid of mutiny! They that have done this deed, are honourable ! — What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it : they ace wise and honourable, And will, no doubt, with reason answer you. I come not, friends, to steal awa/ your hearts. I am no orator, as Brutus is ; But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man, That ioves his friend— and that they know full well, r DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 91 That pavo mc public leave to speak of him— For I iiavo neitlit'r wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor tiie power of sjieoch, To stir men's l)loo(l ; I otily speak riplif on I I tell you that which you yonr.-5eIve3 n' that should movo The stones of Rome to ■ and mutiny I Ibid, BRUl aNu CASSIUS. Cns. That you have wrong'd mo doth appear in this : You have condcmn'd and noted Liicius Pella, For taking bribes here of the Sardirius ; Wherein, my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, were slighted of? Jiru. Yon wrong'd yourself, to write in such a case. C(i In such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm ; To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm ? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, be assured, this speec . were else your last. Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, And chastisement doth tlierofore hide his head. Cas, Chastisement I Bru. Remember March, the idea of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? What villain touch'd his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What I shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers ; shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes ? And sell the mighty space of our large honours. For so much trash as may be grasped thus ?^ I'd rather b6 a dog, and bay the moon. Than such a Roman. Cas, Brutus, bay not me, I'll not endure it: you forget yourself, To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, ^, IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 11.25 IM 125 ■tt Uii 12.2 Sf 144 ■— •UUk. 'A Illlli4 0> <^ ^> '/ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80 (716) •72-4503 't /. \ DEAMATIO SELECTIONS. Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to ; you're not, Gassius. Cas. I am. Bru. I sar, you are not. Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself ; Have mind upon your health, tempt me uo further. Bi-v. Away, slight man I Cas. Is't possible I Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? Cas. Must I endure all this ? Bru. All this 7 ay, more : Fret, till your proud heart break Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble.. Must I budge? Must I observe yon ? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humour ? You shall digest the venom of your spleen, - Though it do split you : for, from this day forth, I'll usd you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish. Cas. Is it come to this? Bru. You say, you are a better soldier ; Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true. And it shall please me well : For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus. I said, an elder soldier, not a better ; Did I say better ? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Caesar liv'd, he durst not thus have mov'd me. Bru. Peace, peace ; you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not ? Bru. No. ' Cas. What ? durst not tempt him ? Bru, For your life you durst not. Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love, I may do thai I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that, you should be sorcy for. There is no terror, Gassius, in your threats } For I am arm'd so strong in honesty. That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to yon ' For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ;— For I can raise no money by vile means : I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring < .. PRAMATIO 8BLB0TION8. k; From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash, By any indirection. I did send To yoa for gold to pay my legioas, Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassias? Should I have answer'd Caius Oassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces t Cas. I denied you not: Bru. You did. Cas. I did not : —he was hut a fool. That brought my answer back, — Brutus hath riv'n my heart : A friend should bear his friend's infirmities. But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Bru. I do not, till you practice them on me. Cat. You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they did appear As huge as high Olympus. Cas. Gome, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Gassius, For Gassius is aweary of the world : Hated by one he loves ; brav'd by his brother ; Gheck'd like a bondman ; all his faults observ'd, Set in a note-book, learn'd and conn'd by rote, To cast into his teeth. 0, I could weep , ■{ My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger. And here my naked breast ; within, my heart Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : Strike, as thou didst at Gsesar ; for, I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thon lov'dst him better Than ever thou lov'dst Gassius. Bru. Sheath your dagger : Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. Gassius, you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger, as the flint bears fire : Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark. And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Gassius liv'd To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him ? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too. Cas. Do you confess so much 7 Qive me your hand. 94 DRA.MATIO SELECTIONS. Bru. And my heart too. Cos. Brutus i— Bru. What's the matter 7 Cos. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour, which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful ? Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and, henceforth. When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. Ibid. ■ ^ ^ >^ OTHELLO'S APOLOGY. Most potent, grave, and reverend Signiors, ^ ; My very noble and approved good masters ; That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter. It is most true ; true, I have married her ; >< The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent ; no more. Rude am I in speech, And little blessed with the set phrase of peace : For, since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field ; And little of this great world can I speak. More than pertains to feats of broils and battles ; And therefore little 3hall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your patience, I will & round unvarnished tale deliver Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic, (For such proceedings I am charged withal) I won his daughter with. ■ Her father loved me, oft invited me, Still questioned me the story of my life, ,^ r From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have past. I ran it through, even from my boyish days To the very moment that he bade me tell it. Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances ; Of moving accidents by flood and field ; Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent de.adly breach ; Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, And with it all my travel's history ; Wherein of antres vast, and deserts wild. Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven. It was my hint to speak. — All these to hear i DKAMATIO SELEOTIONS. 95 Ibid. ■ I Would Desdemona seriously incline : But still the house-affairs would draw her thencOi Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She'd come again, and with a greedy car devour up my discourse : which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgrimage dilate ; Whereof by parcels she had something heard, Bnt not distinctively. I did consent, And often did beguile her of her tears. When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffered. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. She said, 'twas strange indeed, 'twas passing strange ; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful She wished she had not heard it — yet she wished That Heaven had made her such a man : she thanked me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story. And thai would woo her. On this hint I spake : She loved me for the dangers I bad past ; And I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used. Ibid. ~ i RICHMOND ENCOURAGING HIS SOLDIERS. Thus far into the bowels of the land Have we marched on without impediment. Richard, the bloody and devouring chief, Whose ravenous appetite has spoiled your fields. Laid this rich country waste, and rudely cropped Its ripened hopes of fair posterity, Is now even in the centre of the isle. Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just ; And he but naked, though locked up in steel. Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted : The very weight of Richard's guilt shall crush him. Then, let us on, my friends, and boldly face him. In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man As mild behaviour and humanity ; But, when the blast of war blows in our ears, Let us be tigers in our fierce deportment. For me, the ransom of my bold attempt Shall be this body on the earth's cold face; But, if we thrive, the glory of the action, 96 DBAMATIO 8ELE0TI0NS. The meanest soldier here shall share his part of. Advance your standards, draw your willing swords, Sound drums and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully ; The words, "St. George, Richmond, and Victory 1" Ibid. SHYLOOK JUSTIFYING HIS MEDITATED REVENGE. Antonio, a wealthy and liberaUbearted merchant in Venice, became surety for his friend, Bassanio, to the Jew, Shyloolc. The boud stipulated that if the money, SOUOducata, were not paid on a certain day, the Jew might cut a pound of flesh (rom tlie body of Antonio. Shylock, himself, had oflbred the money free of interest on this strange condition, pretending that it was in sport; but he meant it in earnest; for he hated Antonio. The following scene, which is, perhaps, the finest specimen of dramatic writing to be found anywhere, contains the trial of Antonio's case, after the forfeiture of the bond for non-payment. Ip it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million ! laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated my enemies 1 And what's his reason 7 I am a Jew I Hath not a Jew eyes ? Hath not a Jew hands? organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is he not fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same summer and winter, as a Christian is ? If you stab us, do we not bleed ? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die ? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that ! If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example ? Why, Revenge 1 The villaiuy you teach me I will execute ; and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction. Ibid. i Portia, who appears in the following scene as a learned lawyer, Is a rich heiress, who has lately married Bassanio. Nerissa, who acts as her clerk, is wife to the witty Gratiano. The two ladies play their parts well. SCENE I. Venice. j1 Court of Justice. Enter the Dnke, the Magnificoes ; Antonio, Bassanio, Gbatiano, Salabino, Sal- ANio, and others. DuA;e. What, is Antonio here ? .dnt. Ready, so please your grace. ' ^ Duke. I am sorry for thee ; thou art come to answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch Uncapable of pity, void and empty , ;. From any dram of mercy. ^I DBAMATIO SEl[iE0TIONS. 97 ^nt. I have heard, Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify His rigorous course ; but, since he stands obdurate, And that no lawful means can carry me Out of his envy's* reach, I do oppose My patience to his fury ; and am arm'd To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, The very tyranny and rage of his. Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court. Solan. He's ready at the door ; he comes, my lord. Enter Shtlock. Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face.— Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too. That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice To the last hour of act ; and then, 'tis thought, Thou'lt show thy mercy, and remorse,t more strange Than is thy strange apparent! cruelty : And wherejl thou now exact'st the penalty, (Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,) Thou wilt not only lose the forfeiture. But, touch'd with human gentleness and love^ Forgive a moiety of the principal ; Glancing an eye of pity on his losses. That have of late so huddled on his back ; ^ ' Enough to press a royal merchant down, ' ^ And pluck commiseration of his state From brassy bosoms, and rough hearts of flint, From stubborn Turks, and Tartars, never train'd To offices of tender courtesy. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. Shy. I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose ; And by our holy Sabbath have 1 sworn, To have the due and forfeit of my bond : If you deny it, let the danger light Upon your charter, and your city's freedom. You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have A weight of carrioi^ flesh, than to receive Three thousand ducats : I'll not answer that :§ But, say, it is my humour ; Is it answer'd ? What if my house be troubled with a rat. M ». * Envy in this place means Juitred or malice. ' t Remorse in Skakspeare's time generally signified pt/;^, tendemett. t i. e. seeming, not real. || Whereas. I Ttie Jew, being asked a question which the law docs not require him to answer, stands upon his right and refuses; but afterwards gratifies his own malignity by such answers as he knows will aggravate the pain of the inquirer. 98 DRAMATIC 8BLE0TI0NS. And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats To have it baned ? What, are you answer'd yet 7 * Some men there are, love not a gaping pig ;* Some, that are mad, if they behold a cat ; And others, when the bag-pipe sings i' the nose, Cannot contain themselves ; For, affection,! Madter of passion, sways it to the mood Of what it likes or loalhes : Now for your answer : As there is no firm reason to be render'd, Why he cannot abide a gaping pig : Why he, a harmless necessary cat ; Why he, a wooUent bag-pipe ; but of force Must yield to such inevitable shame. As to offend, himself being offended ; So can I give no reason, nor I will not, More than a lodg'd hate, and certain loathing^ I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd 7 Baas. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, To excuse the current of thy cruelty. Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. Bass. Do all men kill the thhigs they do not love ? Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ? Bass. Every offence is not a bate at first. Shy. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice 7 jint. I pray you, think you question with the Jew : You may as well go stand upon the beach, And bid the main flood bate his usual height ; You may as well use question with the wolf. Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; You may as well forbid the mountain pines To wag their high tops, and to make no noise. When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven ; You may as well do any thing most hard. As seek to soften that (than which what's harder 7) His Jewish heart : — Therefore I do beseech you, Make no more offers, use no further means. But, with all brief and plain conveniency. Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats v * Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them, I would have my bond. Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring none? * A piff prepared for tho table is most probably meant, for in tliat state is the epithet gaping most applicable to tliis animal, t jiff'ection stands here for tendency, disposition, t It was usual to cover with woollen cloth the ba|; of this instrument. «> DRAMATIC SELE0TION8, w T ir> ice? lat state nent. ' Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? You have among you many a purchas'd slave, Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and muIeSi Von use in abject and in slavish parts, Because you bought them : — Shall I say to yoa, Let them be free, marry them to your heirs 7 Why sweat they under burdens ? let their beds Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates Be season'd with such viands ? You will answer} The slaves are ours : — So do I answer you : Tho pound of flesh, which I demand of him. Is dearly bought, 'tis mine, and I will have it: If you deny me, fye upon your law 1 There is no force in the decrees of Venice : I stand for judgment : answer ; shall I have it? Duke. Upon my power, I may dismiss this court. Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, Whom I have sent for to determine this, Come here to-day. Salar. My lord, here stays without A messenger, with letters from the doctor, New come from Padua. P'llce. Bring us the letters ; Call the messenger. Bass. Good cheer, Antonio 1 What, man ? courage yet I The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. ^nt. I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death ; the weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me : You cannot better be employ'd, Bassnnio, Than to live still, and write mine epitaph. Enter Nkbissa, dressed like a Lawyer's Clerk. Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario ? Ner. From both, my lord : Bellario greets your grace. [Presents a letter, Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly I Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul,* harsh Jew, Thou mak'st thy knife keen : but no metal can. No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy.f Can no prayers pierce thee ? Shy. No, none that thou hast wit enouprh to make. ' Gra. 0, be thou shamed, inexorable dog I And for thy life let justice be accus'd. * Tho conceit is that his soul was so hard that it might servo him for a whet-stone. t Malice. 100 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. Thou almost mak'st me waver in mjr faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras, That soula of animals infuse themselves Into the trunlcs of men : thy currish spirit Oovern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter, Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam, Infus'd itself in thee ; for thy desires Are wolflsh, bloody, starv'd and ravenous. Shy. Till ihou can'st rail the seal from off my bond. Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud : Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall To cureless ruin. — I stand here for law. Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend A young and learned doctor to our court :— Where is he ? Ner. He attendeth here hard by, To know your answer, whether you'll admit him. Duke. With all my heart : some three or four of you. Go, give him courteous conduct to this place. — Meantime, the court shall bear Bellario's letter. [Clerk reads.] Your grace shall understand, that, at the receipt of your letter, lam very sick : but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome, hit name is Balthasar: I acquainted him with the cause in contro- versy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant : we turned o'er many hooks together : he is furnish'd with my opinion : which, bettered with his own learning, (the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend,) comes with him, at my importunity, to fill up your grace's request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation ; for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. Heave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation, Duke. You hear the learn'd Bellario what he writes : And here, I take it, is the doctor come. — Enter PoaiiA dressed like a Doctor of Laws, Give me your hand : came you from old Bellario ? For. I did, my lord. Duke. You are welcome : take your } lace. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court ? For. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. For. Is your name Shylock ? Shy. Shylock is my name. :I 1 vl • 1 .1 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 101 v\ ceipt nger , hia ntro- : o'er ihich, innot your be no knew cioua r lace. \ lame. s. Por. Of a Btranf^e nature is the suit you follow. Tot in sncli rule, that the Venetian law Cannot impupfn* you, as you do proceed— You stand within hia danger,t do you not? {To Antonio. Jnt. Ay, so he says. ^ Por. Do you confess the bond 7 ' Jlnt. I do. Por. Then must the Jew be merciful. Shjf. On what compulsion must 1 7 tell me that. Por. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ;t It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven Upon tlie place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; It blesaeth him that gives, and him that takes: 'Tis mightiest In the mightiest ; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown : His sceptre shows tlie force of temporal power, ' The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; But mercy is above this sceptred sway, , It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. It is an attribute to God himself : And earthly power doth then show likest Qod's, When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation ; we do pray for mercy ; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy.§ I have spoken thus much. To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Musi needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. Shy. My deeds upon my head 1 I crave the law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond. Por. Is he not able to discharge the money 7 " Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court ; Yea, twice the sum ; if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart : If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. || And, I beseech you, * To impugn is to oppose, to controvert t i. e. within Iiia reacn or control. Tlie phrase is tliought to be derived from a similar one in the monlcish Latin of the middle age. t Shalcspeare probably reoolleoted the following verse of Ecclesiasticus, XXXV. 20, in composing tlieso beautiful lines: ' Mercy is seasonable in the time of afHiction, as clouds of rain in the time of drought.' § Portia referring the Jew to the Christian doctrine of Salvation, and the Lord's Prayer, is a little out of character. II i. e. malice oi>presHcd lionesty, a true man in old language is an honest man. We now call the jury good men and true. 102 DRAMATIC BCLlOTIONf. Wrest once the law to joar Aatbority : To do a groat right, do a little wrong ; And curb this cruel dovil of his will. Por. It mast not be ; thoro ia no power in Venice Oan alter a decree established ; 'Twill be recorded for a precedent ; And many an error, by the same example, Will rush into the state : it cannot bo. Shy. A Daniel come to judgment I yea, a Daniel I—* wise young judge, how do I honour thee I Por. I pray you, lot me look upon the bond. Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it Is. Por. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offor'd thee. Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath In heaven i Shall I lay perjury upon my soul 7 No, not for Venice. Por. Why, this bond Is forfeit ; And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh ; to be by him cut off Nearest the merchant's htart : — Be merciful ; Take thrice thy money ; bid mo tear the bond. Shy. When it is paid according to the tonor.— It doth appear, you are a worthy judge ; You know the law, your exposition Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law, , Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar. Proceed to judgment: verily, I swear, There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me : I stay here on my bond. .^nt. Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment. Por. Why then, thus it Is. Tou must prepare your bosom for his knife : Shy. noble judge I excellent young man I Por. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty. Which here appeareth due upon the bond. Shy. 'Tis very true : wise and upright judge I How much more elder art thou than thy looks! Por. Therefore lay bare your bosom. Shy. Ay, bis breast ; So says the bond ; — Doth It not, noble judge ?— • Nearest his heart, those are the very words. Pnr. It Is so. Are there balance here, to weigh The flesh? Shy. I have them ready. Por. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. r; DRAMATIC 8ELE0TION8. 103 Mst ; Shf/. Is it so nominnted in tho bond 7 Por. It is not so expresa'd ; But whnt of that 7 'T^ere good you do so much for charity. Shy. I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond. Por. Oomc, merchant, have you any thing to say 7 ^nt. But little ; I am arm'd, and well prepar'd.— Oire me your hand, Bassanio ; fare you well I '^rieve not that I am fallen to this for yoa : ^ 01 herein fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom : it is still her use, > To let tho wretched man out-llvo his wealth, To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow. An age of poverty ; from which lingering penanct Of such misery doth she cut me off. * , Oommend me to yoar honourable wife : Tell her tho process of Antonio's end. Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death: . And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge. Whether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent not yon that you shall lose your friend, And ho repents not that he pays your debt ; • For, if tho Jew do cut but deep enough, I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wifci Which is as dear to me as life itself: But life itself, my wife, and all the world, - Are not with me esteem'd above thy life : I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this monster, to deliver you. Por. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, If she were by, to hear you make the offer. Gra. 1 have a wife, whom, I protest. I love ; I would she were in heaven, so she could '' Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. >> Ner. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back ; The wish would make else an unquiet house. Shy. These be the Ohristian husbands : I have a daughter : Would any of the stock of Barrabasf Had been her husband, rather than a Christian 1 [jlside. We trifle time : I pray thee, pursue sentence. Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; The court awards it, and the law doth give it. Shy. Most rightful judge I Por. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast ; ' The law allows ii, and the court awards it. t Shakspeare scorns to have followed the pronunciation usual to the theatre, BaraMxM being souudod Jiarrabaa tbrousbout Marlowe's Jew of Malta. 104 DRAMATIC SELEOTIONS. Shy. Most learned judge ! — A sentence : come, prepare. Por. Tarry a little : — there la something else.— This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; The words expressly are, a pound of flesh : Take then thy bond, take *:hou thy pound of flesh ; But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the laws of Venice, contiscato Unto the state of Venice. Gra. upright judge 1 — Mark, Jew ; learned judge I Shy. Is that the law ? Por. Thyself shall see the act : For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd. Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st. Gra. learned judge ! — Mark, Jew — a learned judge! Shy. I take this offer then ; — pay the bond thrice, And let the Christian go. Bass. Here is the money. Por. Soft ; The Jew shall have all justice : — soft I — no haste ;— He shall have nothing but the penalty. Gra. Jew I an upright judge, a learned judge I Por. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh, Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more, But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more. Or less, than a just pound, — be it but so much As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, Or the division of the twentieth part ' Of one poor scruple ; nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair, — Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew I " Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip. Por. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture. Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. Bass. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. Por. He hath refus'd it in the open court ; He shall have merely justice, and his bond. Gra. A Daniel, still say I ; a second Daniel I— I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ? Por, Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. Shy. Why then the mischief give him good of it ! I'll stay no longer question. Por. ^ei-TTj, Siiiir ; The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — If it ' i prov'd against an alien, '- \ DRAMATIC SELECTIONS, 105 That by direct, or indirect attempts, He seek the life of any citizen, The party, 'gainst the which he doth contrive, Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half Goi^es to the privy coffer of the state. And the offender's life lies in the mercy Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st : For it appears by manifest proceeding, That, indirectly, and directly too. Thou hast contrived against the very life Of the defendant : and thou hast incurr'd The danger formerly by me rehears'd. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. Gra. Beg, that thou may'st have leave to hang th/self : 'And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state. Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge. Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spitit, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; The other half comes to the general state. Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. Por. Ay, for the state ; not for Antonio. Shy. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that : You take my house, when you do take the prop «• That doth sustain my house ; you take my life. When you do take the means whereby I live. Por. What mercy can you render him, Antonio 7 Gra. A halter gratis ; nothing else, I pray you. jlnt. So please my lord the duke and all the court, To quit the fine for one half of his goods ; I am content, so he will let me have The ot'jer half in use, — to render it. Upon his death, unto the gentleman That lately stole his daughter : Two things provided more. — That, for this favour, He presently become a Christian ; The other, that he do record a gift, Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd. Unto his son Lorenzo, and his daughter. Duke. He shall do this ; or else I do recant The pardon that I late pronounced here. Por. Art thou contented, Jew, what dost thou say ? Shy. I am content. Por. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. Shy. I pray you, give rae leave to go from hence ; I am not well ; send the deed after me, And I will sign it. Ibid, m DBAMATIC SELECTIONS. TELL. • ^' SoAUHO yonder peak, I saw an eagle, wheeling near its brow O'er the abyss. His broad expanded wingd Lay calm and motionless upon the air, As if he floated there, without their aid. By the sole act of his unlorded will That buoy'd him proudly up! — Instinctively I bent my bow! — yet kept he rounding still . His aSry circle, as in the deligh4 Of measuring the ample range beneath, And round about, absorb'd, he heeded not The death that threaten'd him ! — I could not'sboot ( 'Twas liberty ! — I turned my bo $7 aside And let him soar away 1 — « . When I wedded thee The land was free ! — with what pride, I us'd '""'* To walk these hills, and look up to my God And bless him that it was so ! — It was free ! — From end. to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free !— Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks, And plough our vallies, wilhont n.sking leave ; Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow, In very presence of the regal sun I How happy was I in it then ! — I loved Its very storms I — Yes, Emma I — I have sat In my boat, at night, when, down the mountain gorge The wind came, roaring — sat in it, and eyed The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smil'd To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, And think I had no master, save his own ! You know the jutting cliff, round which a track Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow To such another one ? — O'ertaken there • By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along, And while gust followed gust more fuiiously. As if 'twould sweep me o'er the horrid brink. And I have thought of other lands, whose stormR Are summer-flaws to those of mine, and just Have wished me there ; the thought, that mine was free Has check'd that wish, and I have raised my head, And cried, in thraldom, to that furious wind, Blow on I — This is the land of liberty ! Enowlbs. DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OP HIMSELF. Mt name is Norval. On the Grampian hills My father feeds his flocks ; a frugal swain, Whose constant cares were to increase his store, i ,. ree 3WLBS. DRAMATIC SELEOllODTB. And keep his only Bon, myself, at hume : For I bad heard of battles, and I long'd To follow to the field some warlike lord ; And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied. This moon, which rose last night, round as my 8bield| Had not yet fiU'd her horns, when, by her light, A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills, Rush'd, like a torrent, down upon the vale. Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled For safety and for succour. I alone. With bended bow and quiver full of arrows, Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd The road he took ; then hasted to my friends ; "Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, I met advancing. The pursuit I led, Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe. We fought — and conquer'd ! Ere a sword was drawn, An arrow from my bow hu pierced their chief, Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear. Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd The shepherd's slothful life ; and, having heard That our good king had summon'd his bold peers To lead their warriors to the Carron side, I left my father's house, and took with me A chosen servant to conduct my steps — Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master. Journeying with this intent, I passed these towers ) And, heaven-directed, came this day, to do The happy deed, that gilds my humble name. 107 Hoin. GLENALVON AND NORVAL. Glen. His port I love : he's in a proper mood To chide the thunder, if at him it roared. Has Norval seen the troops ? Norv. The setting sun With yellow radiance lightened all the vale. And, as the warriors moved, each polished helm, Corslet, or spear, glanced back his gilded beams. The hill they climbed, and, halting at its top, Of more than mortal size, towering they seemed A host angelic, clad in burning arms. Glen. Thou talkest it well ; no leader of our host In sounds more lofty talks of glorious war. Norv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name. My speech will be less ardent. Novelty Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration Vents itself freely ; since no part is mine Of praise pertaining to the great in arms. lAtide, 108 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. Qlen. You wrong yourself, brave sir ; your martial deeds Have ranked you with the great. But mark me, Norval ; Lord Randolph's favour now exalts your youth Above his veterans of famous service. Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you. Give them all honour : seem not to command. Else they will hardly brook your late-sprung power, Which nor alliance props nor birth adorns. Norv. Sir, I have been accustomed all my days To hear and speak the plain and simple truth ; And though I have been told that there are men Who borrow friendship's tongue to speak their scorn, Tet in such language I am little skilled : Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel. Although it sounded harshly. Why remind Me of my birth obscure 7 Why slur my power With such contemptuous terms? Glen. I did not mean To gall your pride, which now I see is great. Norv. My pride ! Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to prosper. Your pride's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sake, I will not leave you to its rash direction. If thus you swell/ and frown at high-born men, Will high-born men endure a shepherd's scorn? Norv. A shepherd's scorn ! . Glen. Yes ; if you presume To bend on soldiers these disdainful eyes. As if you took the measure of their minds. And said in secret, You're no match for me— Wliat will become of you ? Norv. Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self? Glen. Ha ! dost thou threaten me ? Norv. Didst thou not hear 7 > Glen. Unwillingly I did ; a nobler foe ' ,Had not been questioned thus ; but such as thee Norv. Whom dost thou think me 7 Glen. Norval. Norv. So I am ^ And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes 7 Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy ; At best no more, even if he speaks the truih. Norv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect my truth ? Glen. Thy truth 1 thou'rt all a lie ; and wholly false Is the vain-glorious tale thou toldest to Randolph. Norv. If I were chained, unarmed, or bedrid old, Perhaps I should revile ; but as I am, • I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval Is of a race who strive not but with deeds. \'. DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 109 Did I not fear to freeze thy shallow valour, And make thee sink too soon beneath my swordj I'd tell thee — what thou art. I know thee well. Glen. Dost thou not know Glenalvon, born to command Ten thousand slaves like thee ? Norv. Villain, no more I Draw and defend thy life. I did design To have defied thee in another cause ; But Heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee. Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs. [that stirs Lord Ran. [Enters.] Hold I I command you both I the man Makes me his foe. Norv. Another voice than thine, That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph. Glen. Hear him, my lord ; he's wondrous condescending! i \ Mark the humility of Shepherd Norval I ' » Norv. Now you may scoflF in safety. iSheathet hit sword. Lord Ran. Speak not thus, Taunting each other, but unfold to me The cause of quarrel ; then I judge betwixt yon. Norv. Nay, my good lord, though I revere you mnch, ' My cause I plead not, nor demand your judgment. I blush to speak : I will not, cannot speak The opprobrious words that I from him have borne* To the liege lord of my dear native land I owe a subject's homage ; but even him And his high arbitration I'd reject. Within my bosom reigns another lord ; Honour, sole judge and umpire of itself. If ray free speech oflfend you, noble Randolph, Revoke your favours, and let Norval go -' Hence as he came, but not dishonoured I Lord Ran. Thus far I'll mediate with impartial voice; The ancient foe of Caledonia's land Now waves his banner o'er her frighted fields ; Suspend your purpose till your country's arms Repel the bold invader ; then decide , The private quarrel. Glen. I agree to this. Norv. And I. ' Glen. Norval,. Let not our variance mar the social hour. Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph. Nor frowning anger, nor yet wrinkled hate, Shall stain my countenance. Smooth thou thy brow Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame. Norv. Think not so lightly, sir, of my resentment ; « When we contend again, our strife is mortal. [Exit Randolph. HOMI. COMIC PIECES. \A THE CHAMELEON. Oft has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark— Witli eyes, that tiardly served at most To guard their master 'gainst a post; Tet round the world the blade bad been] To see' whatever could be seen— Returning from bis finish'd tour. Grown ten times perter than before : Whatever word you chance to drop, The travell'd fool your mouth will stop— " Sir, if my judgment you'll allow, I've seen, and sure I ought to know."— So begs you'd pay a due submission, And acquiesce in his decision. Two travellers, of such a cast- As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd. And, on their way, in friendly chat, Now talk'd of this, and then of that,— Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter, Of the chameleon's form and nature. " A stranger animal," cries one, « Sure never lived beneath the sun I A lizard's body, lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, Its foot, with triple claw disjoin'd ; And what a length of tail behind t How slow its pace ! and then its hue— Who ever saw so fine a blue I" " Hold there 1" the other quick replies,, "'Tis green — I saw it with these eyes, As late wilh open mouth it lay, ' And warm'd it in the sunny ray ; Stretch'd at its ease, the beast I view'd, And saw it eat the air for food." " I've seen it, sir, as well as you, And must again affirm it blue ; , > -. W OOMIO PIECES. At leisure I the beast survey'd, Extended in the cooling shade." in u> Tif, green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye."— " Green 1" cries the other in a fury ; " Wliy, sir — d'ye thinlc I've lost my eyes?" " 'Twere no great loss," the friend replies. ** For, if they always serve you thus, You'll find 'em but of little use I" . ^' So high, at last, the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows ; When, luckily, came by a third : ' To him the question they referr'd ; . Aid begg'd he'd tell 'em, if he knew. Whether the thing was green or blue. *' Sirs," cries the umpire, " cease your pother ; The creature's neither one nor t'other. I caught the animjil last night, And view'd it o'er by candle-light; I mark'd it well — ^'twas black as jet-^ You stare — but, sirs, I've got it yet, And can produce it." — " Pray, sir, do : Til lay ray life the thing is blue." " And I'll be sworn that, when you've seen The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." " Well then, at once to end the doubt," Replies the man, " I'll turn him out ; And when before your eyes I've set him. If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." He said ; then full before their sight Produced the beast, and lol — 'twas white. MlBBICK. ^^, THE WELL OF ST. KBYNE. A WBLL there is in the west country. And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind does an ash-tree grow, And a willow, from the bank above, Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyae ; Joyfully he drew nigh, For, from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not cloud in the sky. naa 112 OOMIO PIECES. He drank of the water go cool and clear, For, thirsty and hot was he , And he sat down, upon the bank, Under the willow-tree. There came a man from the neighbouring town, At the Well to fill his pail ; On the Well-side he rested it. And he bade the stranger hail. " Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger ? " quoth he, " For, an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught ^ou hast drunk this day, ^ That ever thou didst in thy life. " Or has thy good woman — if one thou bast— - Ever here in Cornwall been ? For, an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St Keyne." " I have left a good woman, who never was here," The stranger he made reply ; " But, that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why." " St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, " many a time Drank of this crystal Well, And, before the angel summon'd her. She laid on the water a spell : ««If the husband— of this gifted Well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man henceforth is he. For he shall be master for life. " But, if the wife should drink of it first,— Dear help the husband then I " The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Eeyne, And drank of the w'^'ter again. " You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes ? " He to the Cornish-man said : But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake. And sheepishly shook his head. " I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch ; But, indeed she had been wiser than I ; For she took a bottle to church." SOUTHBT. OOMIO PIEOES. 113 * If I > \ LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN. Who has e'er been in London, that overpfrown place, Has seen "Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face : Some are good, and let dearly ; while some, 'tis well knowui Are so dear, and so bad, thej are best let alone. Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely, Hired lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only ; But Will was Gfb fat, he appear'd like a tun ; — Or like two Single Gentlemen roU'd into One. He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated ; But, all the night long, he felt fever'd and heated ; And, though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep, He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep. Next night 'twas the same I — and the next! — and the nextt He perspired like an ox ; he was nervous, and vex'd. Week pass'd after week, till, by weekly succession, His weakly condition was past all expression. In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him ; For his skin, like a lady's loose gown, hung about him 1 So he sent for a doctor, and cried, like a ninny, " I have lost many pounds — make me well — there's a guinea." The doctor look'd wise : — " A slow fever," he said ; Prescribed sudorifics — and going to bed. "Sudorifics in bed," exclaim'd Will, "are humbugs! I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs I" Will kick'd out the doctor ; — but, when ill indeed. E'en dismissing the doctor dbn't always succeed ; So, calling his host, he said — " Sir, do you know I'm the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago? " Look ye, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin, " That with honest intentions you first took me in : But, from the first night — and to say it I'm bold — I've been so very hot, that I'm sure I've caught cold 1" Quoth the landlord, — " Till now, I ne'er had a dispute ; I've let lodgings ten years, — I'm a baker to boot ; In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven j And your bed is immediately—- over my oven." 114 OOMIO PIECES. "The oven ! ! ! " says Will.— Saya the host, " Why this passion T In that excollont bod died tlireo pcnplo of fashion I Wiiy so crusty, good sir?" — " Ilal' criod Will in a taking, " Wlio would not be crusty, with iialf a year's baking ?" Will paid for his rooms. Cried the liost, with a sneer, ,^ " Well, I see you've been going away half a year." — " Friend, we can't well ogreo ; — yet no quarrel "—Will said ;— " But I'd rather not perish, while you make your bread." OOLMAN. THE THREE BLACK CROWS. Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, One to 'c the other briskly by the hand ; " Hark ?," said he, " 'tis an odd story this About le crows!"—" I don't koow what It is," Replied his friend. "No! I'm suprised at that; Where I come from, it is the common chat; But you shall hear an odd affair indeed! And that it happen'd they are all agrerd : Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman, who lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short, as all the Alley knows, Taking a vomit, threw up Three Black Crows 1" " Impossible !" " Nay, but 'tis really true; I bad it from good hands, and so may you."— — " Prom whose I pray?" So, having named the man, Straight to enquire, his curious comrade ran. " Sir did you tell ? ' -relating the affair. "Yes sir, I did; and, if 'tis worth your care, • i 'Twas Mr." — such a one—" who told it me ; But, by the bye, 'twas Two black crows, not Tkree!" Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, Quick to the third the virtuoso «went. " Sir,"— and so forth.—" Why, yea ; the thing is fact, Though in regard to number not exact. It was not Two black crows, 'twas only One; The truth of that you may depend upon ; The gentleman himself told me the case."— " Where may I find him?"—" Why in"— such a place. * Away he went, and having found him out, "Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt."' Then to his last informant he referr'd, And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard : "Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?"— "Not I!"— " Bless me 1— how people propagate a lie I OOMIO PIXOES. 115 sion? d;- in. Black crows have been thrown up, Three, Two, and One : And here, I find, all comes at last to None! Did you say nothing of a crow at all?" " Crow — crow — perhaps I might ; now I recall The matter over." — "And i>riiy, sir, what was't?" " Wliy, I was horrid siclt, and at tlie last I did throw up, and told my nci{;libour so. Something that was— as black, sir, as a crow." Db. Btboh. THE NEWCASTLE A.POTHEOARY. A MAN in many a country town we know Professing openly with Death to wrestle; Entering the field against the grimly foe, Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle. Yet some affirm, no enemies they are ; But meet just lilco prize-figliters in a fair: Who first shake hands before they box, Then gire each other plaguy knocks. With all the love and kindness of a brother. So, — mtiny a suffering patient aaith,— Though the apothecary fights with Death, Still they're sworn friends to one another. A member of this ^sculapian line Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne : No man could better gild a pill ; Or make a bill, Nor mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; Or draw a tooth out of your head; Or chatter scandal by your bed ; Or spread a plaster. His fame, full six miles round the country ran, In short, in reputation he was solml All the old women call'd him " a fine man 1" His name was Bolus. Benjamin Bolus, though in trade, — Which oftentimes will genias fetter,— Read works of fancy, it is said, And cultivated the Belles Lettres. And why should this be thought so odd ? Can't men have taste that cure a phthisic? Of poetry though patron god, Apollo patronises physic. . i 116 OOMIO PIECES. Bolus loved verso ;— and took so much delid^ht In 't^ That his proscriptions he resolved to write in 't : No opportunity ho o'er lot pass Of writing tlio directions on his labels, In dnpper couplets — lilco Ony's Fables, Or rather like the lines in Iludibras. Apothecary's verse I — and whore's the treason ? 'Tis simple honest dealing ; — not n crime : When patients swallow physic without reason. It is but fair to give a little rhyme. He had a patient lying at death's door, Some three miles from the town — it might be foar; To whom one evening Bolus sent an article — In pharmacy, that's call'd cathartical ; And on the label of the stu£f, He wrote this verse ; Which one should think was clear enough, And terse : " Whtn taken, To be well shaken." Next morning early, Bolus rose ; And to the patient's house ho goes Upon his pad, Who a vile trick of stumbling had : It was ind(9ed a very sorry hack ; But that's of course : For, what's expected from a horse. With an apothecary on his back ? Bolus arrived, and gave a double tap. Between a single and a double rap.— Knocks of this kind Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance ; By fiddlers, and by opera-singers : One loud, and then a • tie one behind, As if the knocker fell, by chance. Out of their fingers. The servant let him in with dismal face Long as a courtier's out of place—- Portending some disaster : John's countenance as ^ueful look'd and grim, As if the apothecary had ph) sick'd him. And not his master. "Well, how's the patient ?" hcdi -. said. John shook bis head. OOMIO PIECES. 117 " Indeed ?— hum I — hnl — tlint's very odd, He took tUo druit^ht ?" — John (five a nod I " ?.t'l — bow? — whftt then ?— Spcnk out, you I'uncel " Why then," uays John, " we aliwik him once." " Shook him I — liow ?" Hol(i8 stnmmer'd out. "We jolted him about." "Oh I shake a patient, man — a shake won't do." " No, sir — and so we gave him two." " Two shaken !-— 'T^vo ild make the patient worse." "It did so, air — nr i • ) i, third wo tried." "Well, and wh^ I" " Then, sir, my master died t" COLMAN. THE RAZOR-SELLER. A rELLOw, in n raavket-town. Most musical cried razors up and down, And offer'd twelvre for eighteen-peuce; Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, And, for the money, quite a heap, , As evury man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard : Poor Hodge ! who suffer'd by a thick, black beard. That seem'd a slioe-brush stuck beneath hia nose, With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers said, " This rascal stole the razors, I suppose I " No matter if the fellow be a knave, \ Provided that the razors shave: " It sartinly will be a monstrous prize." * So, home the clown, with his good fortune, went Smiling in heart and soul content. And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, Hodge now began <.'ith grinning ])ain to grub. Just !' . J. hedger cutting furze : 'Twas a vile razor I— then the rest he tried- All wer*' impostors — "Ah I" Hodge sigh'd, "I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse!" In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces. He cut, and dug, and winced, and stump'd, and swore ; Brought blood and danced like mad, and made wry facea And cursed each razor's ho4jf o'er and o'er I ^ — 118 COMIC PIECES. / His muzzle form'd of opposition stuff, Firm as old Hickory, would not lose its ruff; So kept it — laughing nt the steel and suds : Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws. Vowing the direst vengeance, with clinch'd claW8| On vhe vile cheat that sold the goods. " Razors 1 a confounded dog 1 Not fit to scrape a hog!" Hodge soughi the fellow — found him, and began-— " Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun. That people flay themselves out of their lives : You rascal 1 for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster-knives. Sirrah ! I tell you, you're a knave, ' To cry up razors that can't shave." "Friend," quoth the razor man, "I am no knave : As for the razors you have bought, Upon my word, I never thought That they would shave." " Not think they'd shave !" quoth Hodge with wonderingeyes And voice not much unlike an Indian yell ; " What were they made for then, you dog!" he cries. "Made 1" quoth the fellow, with a smile, — "fo sell." Pbtbr Pindar {Dr. Wolcott). MODERN LOGIC, A CHRISTMAS STORY. Am Eton stripling, training for the law, A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw. One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf His cap, his gown, and store of learned pelf. With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome, To spend a fortnight at bis uncle's home. Arrived, and past the usual " How d'ye do's," Inquiries of old friends, and college news, " Well Tom — the road what saw you worth discerning ? And how goes study, boy — wliat is't you're learning?" " Oh, logic, Sir — but not the worn-out rules Of Locke and Bacon — antiquated fools ! 'Tis wit and wranglers' logic — thus, d'ye see, I'll prove to yon, as clear as A, B, 0, That an eel-pie's a pigeon : — to deny it. Were to swear black's white." "Indeed!" "Let's try it. An eel-pie is a pie of fish." " Well — agreed." " A fish-pie may be a Jack-pie." — " Yes, proceed." .L COMIC PIECES. 119 yes " A Jack-pie must be a John-pie — thus 'tis done, For every John-pie is a pi-ge-on.l" "Brnvo !" Sir Peter cries, "logic for ever! That beats my grandmotlier — and she was clever! But hold, my boy, it surely would be hard That wit and learning should have no reward! To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we'll cross, And then I'll give you" — " What?"— " iMy chestnut-horse." " A horse ! " cries Tom, " blood, pedigree, and paces— Oh what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races! " He went to bed, and wept for downright sorrow, To think the night must pass before the morrow ; Dreamed of his boots, his cap, his spurs, and leather breeches. Of leaping five-barred gates, and crossing ditches : Left his warm bed an hour before the lark, Dragged his old uncle fasting through the park :— , Each craggy hill and dale in vain they cross, To find out something like a chestnut horse; But no such animal the meadows cropped : At length, beneath a tree, Sir Peter stopped ; He took a bough — shook it — and down fell A fine horse chestnut In its prickly shell. •'There, Tom— take that." •'Well, Sir, and what beside?" "Why since you're booted — saddle it, and ride!" " Ride what? — A chestnut !" " Ay — come, get across— I tell you, Tom, that cliestnut is a horse. And all the horse you'll get — for I can shew, As clear as sunshine, that 'lis really so— Not by the musty, fusty, worn-out rules Of Locke and Bacon — addle-headed fools f All maxims but the wranglers' I disown. And stick to one sound argument — your own. Since you have proved to me, I don't deny That a pie- John is the same as a John-pie ! What follows, then, but as a thing of course, That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut-horse?" 1 A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. It is customary in Franco, for childron to find presents of toys and snirar- plums, m tlipir stockings, on Cliristnias morning;. On pn(|niring now tliey carao tlicro, tlie answer is, " 8t. Nicholas came down tlie chimney in the niglit, and left tliem lor you." 'TwAs the night before Christmas, when, all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse : The stockings were hung by the ciiimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon Avould be there ; 120 GOHIO PIECES. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads ; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap- When, out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter : Away to the window I flew, lilce a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow. Gave the lustre of mid-dfl,y to objects below. When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick. That I knew in a moment, it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name. " Now, Dasher 1 now, Dancer I now, Prancer ! now. Vixen ! On, Comet I on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blixen 1 — To the top of the porch 1 to the top of the wall 1 Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all !" As leaves, that, before the wild hurricane, fly. When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So, up to the house-top, the coursers they flew. With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too ; And then, in^ twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound ; He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot. And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack. His eyes — how they twinkled 1 his dimples — how merry I His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow ; And the beard on his chin w-'s as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth. And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump ; a right jolly old elf ; And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye, and a twist of his. head. Soon gave me to know I liad nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work. And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose. And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. i OOMIO PIECES. 12X He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew lilce the down of a thistle, But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night V* 0. 0. MooBi. THE SPIDER AND THE PLY. " Will you walk into my parlour?" said a spider to a fly ; " 'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy. The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, And I have many pretty things to shew when you are there." ** Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "to ask me is in vain, For, who goes up your winding stair, can ne'er come down again." " I'm sure you must be weary, with soaring up so high, Will you rest upon ray little bed ?" said the spider to the fly. " There are pietty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin ; And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in." '* Oh no, no I" said the little fly, " for I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bedl" Said the cunning spider to the fly, " Dear friend what shall I do. To prove the warm alFection I've always felt for you ? I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you're very welcome — will you please to take a slice?" " Oh no, no !" said the little fly, " kind sir, that cannot be, I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see." " Sweet creature !" said the spider, " you're witty and you're wise. How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyesl I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf, If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold— yourself." " I ihank you, gentle sir," she said, " for what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now; I'll call another day." The spider turned him round about, and went into his den. For well he knew, the silly fly would soon come back again : So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly. And set bis table ready, to dine upon the fly. Then he went out to his door again, and merrily did sing, " Oome hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing : L 122 OOMIO PIECES. Yoar robes are green and purple — there's a crest upon your head ; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead." Alas, alas 1 how very soon this silly little fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by ; With buzzing wings she bung aloft, then near and nearer drew. Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, her green and purple hue. And dreaming of her crested head — poor foolish thing I At last Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, Within his little parlour — ^but she ne'er came out again 1 MORAL. And now, dear little children, who may this story hear. To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give ear : To all deceitful councillors, close heart, and ear, and eye. And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly. Mrs. Howitt. h , THE MOTLEY FOOL. A rooL — a fool ! I met a fool i' th' forest, A motley fool ; — a miserable varlet I — As I do live by food, I met a fool ; — Who laid him down, and basked him in the sun, And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms ; In good set terms, and yet a motley fool. Good morrow, fool, quoth I : No, sir, quoth he. Gall me not fool, till Heaven hath sent me fortnne : And then he drew a dial from his poke ; And looking on it with lack-lustre eye. Says, very wisely. It is ten o'clock : Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags : 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine. And after one hour more 'twill be eleven ; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe. And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot, And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear ^ The motley fool thus moral en the time, ^ My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, \ That fools should be so deep-contemplative : '- And I did laugh, sans intermission. An hour by his dial. noble fool ! A worthy fool ! Motley's the only wear. Shaespbaeb. jrour 11 as Irew, ue, last MISCELLANEOUS. TT. SYMPATHY WITH NATURE. My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky ; So was it when my life began ; So is it now, I am a man ; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man, And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.— Wordsworth. t lARB. ASSOCIATION. When I say that the beauty of an object is made up in one's mind, of many associated feelings and ideas, it is not meant, that, at any one time, all these feelings exist either together or in immediate succession. It is sufficient that they have been, at any time, either separately or simulta- neously associated with the object which we call beautiful. Thus, let us suppose that a mother, a sister, or some one even dearer than either, had presented us with a rose ; this interesting circumstance becomes, ever afterwards, an ingredient of its beauty. It is not necessary, however, that, subsequently, we should particularly remember the occurrence when we see a rose, in order to feel, in its full force, the influence of its beauty. This principle, you will at once perceive, is of great importance in arriving at correct ideas on this subject. How innumerable are the circumstances which have con- tributed to give interest and beauty to the pleasing objects that have been familiar since childhood 1 How many of 124 MISCELLANEOUS. these circumstances have been forgotten ! The beautiful object maintains for ever its influence over our aflfections ; but, like a noble statue, whose maker is forgotten or un- known, it still bears the impress of the formative power — the stamp of the beautifying mind. The hand that chiselled the marble, has returned to dust ; the soul, that poured forth on it magnificent conceptions, has fled ; but the production of genius remains, to claim our admiration and affect our hearts. And now let me request you to think, for a moment, of some things that you esteem peculiarly dear — known in infancy — loved in childhood — remembered affectionately in youth — the brook, that flows near your home ; the tree^ under whose shadow you have played, or among whose branches you have climbed or sat ; the green hill, where the Christmas gambols and the Easter festival were kept, where you met with your comrades in the gloaming, and ceased not your sport till the moon had risen, and the stars rejoiced around her throne ; the tune, all simple and pathetic, which now melts your soul in the luxury of sadness, or rouses it, like the voice of a trumpet. — These, or such as these, the brook, the tree, the hill, and the tune, which you have known in childhood, must have great influence over your affections ; and yet, when you think of them, you will readily grant that your memory never can recall half of the associations, whose mysterious and shadowy influence flings witchery around them all. W. H. THE PRESENT ASPECT OP GREECE. Hk, who hath bent him o'er the dead, Ere the first day of death is fled— The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress- Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers, And mark'd the mild angelic air. The rapture of repose that's there— The fix'd, yet tender traits, that streak The languor of the placid cheek — And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 1 'if- MISCELLANEOUS. 125 That fires not — wins not — weeps not — now— And, but for that chill changeless brow, Whose touch thrills with mortality ; And curdles to the gazer's heart. As if to hina it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon— Yes — but for these — and these alone — Some moments — ay— one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power, So fair — so calm — so softly seal'd The first — last look — by death reveal'd I Such is the aspect of this shore. 'Tis Greece — but living Greece no more I So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. We start — for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue, which haunts it to the tomb— ' Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away I Spark of that flame — perchance of heavenly birth— Which gleams — but warms no more its cherished earthl Byron. JL ON THE PLAIN OP MARATHON. Whdrb'er we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground 1 No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould ! But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing, to behold The scenes, our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold. Defies the power, which crush'd thy temples gone : Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon. The sun — the soil — but not the slave the same- Unchanged in all, except its foreign lord. Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame : The Battle-field — where Persia's victim-horde First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword. As on the morn to distant Glory dear, When Marathon became a magic word — Which utter'd— to the hearer's eye appear The camp — the host — the fight — the conqueror's career. 126 MISCELLANEOUS. The flying Mede — his shaftless broken bowrl The fiery Greek — his red pursuing spear I Mountains above — Earth's — Oeean's plain below I Death in the front — Destruction in the rear ! Such was the scene — what now remaineth here? What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear ? The rifled urn — the violated mound — The dust — tliy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns around I Yet, to the remnants of thy splendour past, Shall pilgrims, pensive but unwearied, throng; Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast, Hflil the bright clime of battle and of song ; Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young I Which sages venerate, and bards adore. As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth ', He that is lonely, hither let him roam. And gaze complacent on congenial earth. Greece is no lightsome .land of social mirth! But he, whom sadness sootheth, may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth. When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. Btron. ON THE BEAUTY OF THE ROSE. Flowers have ever been the favourite emblems of passion and feeling. The garden and the enamelled field, in the jubilee of spring, are bathed in a flood of beauty, which flows from the fountains of love and joy, and which gives, indeed, to all nature, at times, a universal charm. At the season, when the year breaks forth into life and greenness — when the rivers burst from their icebound caves, and sweep, from the mountains, along their verdant dominions — when the concert of happiness and love swells from every grove and glen, and the very clouds clothe themselves in glory — it is then that the blushing lose peeps ; \ MISCELIiANEOUR. 127 >und I >N. of eld, lich rm. ind md ant lis the T from her cell, and breathes her perfumes to the soft breezes of the South. The rose is not only beautiful in itself, but it blooms in the midst of beauty, — every sound of the garden around it is melody, from the slender note of the robin, and the B^eet hum of the bee, to the full-throated music of the thrush. The gales, that fan the bosom of the rose, are loaded with fragrance borne from kindred flowers — the streamlet plays with the bank, on which the rose is planted — the apple blossom hangs over it, — and, last of all, the hands of the young, the loved, and the beautiful, protect it from every injury with constant care, and finally gather it to adorn the bosom. What wonder, then, is it, that the queen of flowers — the brightest daughter of June — the choicest ornament in the wreath, that decks the loveliest— should be considered as pre-eminently beautiful ? When we consider the flower itself, how exquisite is the skill displayed in the fornirition of every leaf; how sur- passing the goodness and bounty, that lavish on man, even for his recreation, such precious gifts as this ! Dull, indeed, were the mind, that could see a full-blown rose expanding in her summer pride ; th;it could feel itself regaled, through the organs of sense, with her delicious odours, and never mingle, with the wafted incense of the flower, the more grateful incense of devotion to God. Yes I These holy and elevated feelings throw an additional lustre round the beauty of the rose ; and the purity and piety of religion are auxiliary to taste. The highest principles of our nature are brought into sympathy and union with the others, whose influence, in this case, I have already described ; and our admiration of the wisdom of God in forming, and the goodness of God in bestowing, even so minute a portion of his works as a flower, is added, as another circumstance, to the whole number of associations which constitute the beauty of a rose. W. H. J. 128 MISCELLANEOUS. THE THREE SONS. I I HAVH a son, a littlo son, a boy just five years old. With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart,bcyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair; And yet his chiefest comeliness, is his sweet and serious air; I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency : But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind, The food for grave enquiring speech, he every where doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk ; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she teacheth him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn, then, are the words which he will say. Oh ! should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man, I trust that he will be ; And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silvery sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my knee: I do not think his light blue eye, is, like his brother's, keen ; Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever been ; But his little heart's a fountain pure, of kind and tender feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light,rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, who looks ^o mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, He'll sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love I And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him I MISCELLANEOUS. 129 6118 I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell, For tiicy reckon not by years and raonthg, where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infint smiles were given, And ihi-n lie bid fiircwell to eiirih, luid went to live in heaven. I cannot ti-ll wliat form he ha.^, what looks lie wi-aretli now. Nor guess how hrijrlit a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that till his siitless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, Are numbered with the secret things, which God will not reveal. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh ; But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy for ejer fresh. I know the angels fold him close, beneath their glittering wings. And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's diviuest things. ' I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever, But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. When \^ think of what our darling is, and what we still must be : When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery ; fpaiij When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. J. MOULTRIB. ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. And thou hast walked about (how strange a story 1) In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago. When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous. Of which the very ruins are tremendous. Speak 1 for thou long enough hast acted Dummy, Thou hast a tongue — come, let us hear its tune ; Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, Mummy I Revisiting tlie glimpses of the moon, Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy*bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. Tell us — for, doubtless thou canst recollect — To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? Was Cheops or Cephreues architect Of either Pyramid that bears his name 1 M 130 MISCETJ.ANEOUS. Is Pompcy's Pillar really a misnomer ? Had Thebes n hundred gates, ns sung by Homer? Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat, Has hob-a-nobb'd witli I'haraoii glass to glass ; Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Ilonu'iis hat, Or dolfd thine own to lot Queen Dido pass, Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great Temple's dedication ? I need not ask thee If that hand, when arm'd. Has any Roman soldier maiil'd and kiiiicklod, For thou wast dead, and buried, and t'uil)iilnj'd, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : — Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have, above ground, seen sonic strange mutations ; The Roman empire has begun and ended, New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations ; And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head. When the great Persian conqueror, CamV)yscs, March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, O'erthrew Osiris, Oriis, Apis, Isis, And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? If the tomb's secrets may not be confoss'd, The nature of thy ] rivate life unfold : — A heart has throbb'd beneath tiiat leatliern breast, And tears, adown that dusky cheek, have roU'd : — Have children climb'd those knees and kiss'd that face? What was thy name and station, age and race? Statue of flesh — immortal of the dead I Imperishable type of evanescence I Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecay'd within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the Jiidgnicnt-moruing, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. Why should this worthless tegument endure, ' If its undying guest be lost for ever? let ns keep the soul eml);ilm'd and pure In living virtue, that, when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. Horace Smith. MISCELLANEOUS. 131 ■' ON NATIONAL MUSIC. NoTlIINQ coiitributos more nbctually to keep alive the feelings of nntional {iride, tlian the simple Kotig of the olden time. If the singer be in carncMt — if his eye kindle with the memory of the ancient battle-field, if his voice swell triumphantly, ns he refers to the glory of his native land, he attains his object — his he:'rerK are suitably affected. The Kontiments of the song, too, become associated with tlie sounds of the tune ; and, when the mere music is afterwards heard, a similar elftet is produced. Generals, who are well acquainted with human nature, do not neglect to employ the aid of this power, when they wish to en- courage their soldiers in the hour of dang.ir. Napoleon, when crossing the Alps with his arniy, frequently caused the bugles to Si)und a charge, when the njen were sinking under fatigue, and almost unable to advance further. The martial nmsic never failed to revive their drooping spirits, and excite them to renewed efforts. The renown of their leader — the chivalrous character of their native country — the expectation of speedy triumph over their dangers, and over their enemies on the other side of the mountains — the thought of achieving an enterprise so magnificent and so new — all were suggested by the martial peal, as it rung among the Alpine rocks, and echoed through the steep defiles. It was the same principle that afterwards rendered the names of Marengo, Austeriitz, and Jena, spell-words of victory. If we look to other countries we shall find equal effects produced by national music. The melting influence of the Ranz de vacho on the Swiss, is almost proverbial. Hardy veterans were unmanned by it, and rendered soft as woman- hood. The soldier forgot to prize his honor, when the me- mory of his native hills and valleys — of his cottage and his family — came sadly before his mind. Though the moun- tains were a region of mist and thunder storms, yet there were green vales, where the limpid streams meandered through the meadow, and the golden grain waved brightly in the sunshine, where the flocks fed peacefully on the hill- side, and the shepherd chanted the song that unmanned SMITH. 132 MISOELLANEOITS. him. There he had grown from infancy to manhooJ — there lie had hunted the chamois, and shot the eagle in his flight — and there he had seen the pass, where the Austrian banner was trainpled by the free foot of the herdsman. No wonder that his soul was poured forth at his eyes, and his spirit sank within him. Such are national associations and such is their power ; but there are also private rem*nbrances, which greatly in- fluence individuals. Who carolled to the young Swissi boy the hymn of his sacred home ? What loved lip quivered with emotion, as it breathed forth the notes ? What bright eye swam in tears of sensibility ? What cheek glowed — what bosom heaved with fervour, when the lull chorus floated on the breeze ? The mountain valleys are all delightful, even to the eye of a stranger ; but there is one, which, for the native, possesses peculiar charms and superior fascination. It is that in which his parents or his wife and family, reside. There he heard it first, when it was sung beside his cradle ; and there he heard it last, when the war-trumpet called him from his home to the battle-field. W. H. THUNDER STORM AMONG THE ALPS. It is the hush of night; and all, between Thy mar(?in and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen — Save darken'd Jura, whose capp'd heights appear Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar; Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill! At intervals, some bird, from out, the brakes, Starts into voice a moment — then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill- But that is fancy, for the star-light dews All silehtly their tears of love instil, "Weeping themselves awfiy, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. MISCELLANEOUS. 133 The sky is changed I — and such a change I night, And storm, and darkness, j'e arc wondrous strong 1 Yet lovely in your strength, as i-J the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! — not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue ; And Jura answers, througli her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, wJio call to her aloud ! And this is in the night: — Most glorious night I Thou wast not sent for slumber! lei me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — ^ A portion of the tempest and of thee I How the lit lake shines ! — a phosjihoric sea ! And the big ruin conies dancins; to the earthl And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way betweea Heights — which appear as lovers, who have parted In hate, whose raining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted! Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted. Love was the very root of their fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then — departed!— Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years— all winters ! — war within themselves to wage! Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand! For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, Flasliing and cast around ! of all the band The brightest, through these parted hills, hath fork'd His lijrhtnings, — as if he did understand That, in such gaps as desolation work'd, There the hot shaft should blast Avhatever therein lurk'd. Byron. THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED. "Jamie, thy own father has forgotten thee in thy infancy, and me in my old age; hut, Jamie, forget not thou thy father, nor thy mother; for that, thou knowest and feelest, is the commuadmeut of God." •S t:' 134 MISCELLANEOUS. * : The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. He had gradunlly stolen closer and closer unto the loving old man : and now was lying, worn out with sorrow, drenched and dissolved in tears, in his grandf'atLcr's bosom. His mother had sunk down on her knees, and hid her face with her hand. " Oh ! if my husband knew but of this — he would never, never desert his dying father !" And I now knew that the Elder was praying, on his death-bed, for a disobe- dient and wicked son. At this aifecting time, the Minister took the Family- Bible on his knees, and said, " Let us sing to the praise and glory of God, part of the fifteenth psalm ;" and he read, with a tremulous and broken voice, those beautiful verses : "Within thy tabernacle, Lord, Who shall abide with thee? And in thy high and holy hill, Who shall a dweller be? — " The man that walketh uprightly And worketh righteousness, And, as he thinketh in his heart, So doth he truth express." Ere the psalm was yet over, the door was opened, and a tall, fine-looking man entered, but with a lowering and dark countenance, seemingly in sorrow, in misery, and remorse. Agitated, confounded, and awe-struck by the melancholy and dirge-like music, he sat down on a chair, and looked, with a ghastly face, towards his father's bed. When the psalm ceased, the Elder said, with a solemn voice, " My son — thou art come in time to receive thy father's blessing. May the remembrance of what will hap- pen in this room, before the morning again shine over the Hazel glen, win thee from the error of thy ways! Thou art here to witness the mercy of thy God and thy Saviour, whom thou hast forgotten." The Minister looked, if not with a stern, yet with an upbraiding countenance, on the young man who had not recovered his speech, and said, " William I for three years past your shadow has not darkened the door of the house s- . I M MISCELLANEOUS. 135 of God. They, who fear not the thunder, may tremble at the still small voice — Now is the liour for repentance — that your fatlnT's spiiit may cany up to Heaven tidings of a contrite soul saved from the company of sinners!" The youniji; man, with much cflort, advanced to the bed- side, and at last found voice to say, " Father — I am not without the aflFections of nature—and I hurried home the moment I heard that the minister had been seen riding towards our house. I hope that you will yet recover ; and, if I have ever made you unhappy, I ask your forj^iveness —for, though I may not think as you do on matters of religion, I have a human heart. Father ! I may have been unkind, but I am not cruel. I ask your forgiveness." " Come near to me, William ; kneel down by the bed- side, and let my hand feel the heaJ^of my beloved son — for blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou wert my first- born, and thou art my only living son. All thy brothers and sisters are lying in the church-yard, beside her, whose sweet face thine own, William, did once so much resemble. Long wert thou the joy, the pride of my soul, — ay, too much the pride ! for there was not in all the parish such a man, such a son, as my own William. If thy heart has since been changed, God may inspire it again with right thoughts. I have sorely wept for thee — ay, William, when there was none near me- even as David wept for Absalom — for thee, my son, my son!" A long deep groan was the only reply ; but the whole body of the kneeling man was convulsed; and it was easy to see his suiFerings, his contrition, his remorse, and his despair. The Pastor said, with a sterner voice, and aus- terer countenance than were natural to him, " Know you whose l^and is now lying on your rebellious head ? But what signifies the word father to him, who has denied God, the Father of us all?" " Oh ! press him not too hardly," said his weeping wife, coming forward from a dark corner of the room, where she tried to conceal herself in grief, fear, and shame. " Spare, oh ! spare my husband — he has ever been kind to me ; " and, with that she knelt down beside him, with her long soft white arms mournfully and affectionately laid across his neck. " Go thou, likewise, 136 MISOELLANEOTTS. 1 1 my sweet little Jamie," said the Elder, "go, even out of my bosom, and kneel down beside thy father and thy mother, so that I may bless you all at once, and with one yearning prayer." 'i'he child did as the solemn voice com- manded, and knelt down somewhat timidly by his father's side ; nor did the unhappy man decline encircling with his arm, the child too much neglected, but still dear to him as his own blood, in spite of the deadening and debasing influence of infidelity. " Put the word of God into the hands of my son, and let him read aloud to his dying father, the 25th, 2Gth, and 27th verses of the eleventh chapter of the Gospel accord- ing to St. John." The Pastor went up to the kneelers, and, with a voice of pity, condolence, and pardon, said, " There was a time when none, William, could read the Scriptures better than couldst thou — can it be that the son of my friend hath forgotten the lessons of his youth ?" He had not forgotten them — There was no need for the repent- ant sinner to lift up his eyes from the bed-side. The sacred strci^m of the Gospel had worn a channel in his heart, and the vaters were again flowing. With a choked voice he said, " Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life : And whosoever livedi, and believeth in me, shall rever die. Believest thou this ? She said unto him, Yea, Lord : I believe thou art the Christ, the sod of God, which should come into the world." " That is not an unbeliever's voice," said the dying man, triumphantly; "nor, William, hast thou an unbeliever's heart. Say that thou believest in what thou hast now read, and thy father will die happj^ !" " I do believe ; and as thou forgivest me, so may I be forgiven by my Father who is in heaven." The Elder seomed like a man sij^denly inspired with a new lite. Hi« faded eyes kindled — his pale cheeks glowed — his palsied hand seemed to wax strong —and his voice was clear «s that of manhood in its prime. "Into thy hands, God! I commit my spirit;" and, so saying, he gently sunk bacK on his pillow ; ;md I thought I heard a sigh. — There was then a long deep silence; and the father, the mother, and the child, rose from their knees, The eyes of us all were turned towards the white 1 I I t MISCELLANEOUS. 137 placid face of the fipjure now stretched in everlastinj* rest; and, without lamentations- -save the silent ld a dread of the schoolboys, by whom he was often annoyed. His wliole occupation, as he sat on the ground, was in swinging backwards and forwards, singing " pal lal" in a low pathetic voice, only interrupted at intervals on the appearance of any of his tormentors, when he clung to his mother in alarm. From morning to evening he sung his plaintive and aimless ditty ; at night when his poor mother gathered up her little wares to re- turn home, so deplorable did his defects appear, that, while she carried her table on her head, her stock of little mer- chandise in her lap, and her stool in one hand, she was obliged to lead him by the other. Ever and anon, as any of the schoolboys appeared in view, the harmless thing clung close to her, and hid his face in her bosom for protection. A human creature, so far below the standard of humanity, was nowhere ever seen : he had not even the shallow cun- ning, which is often found among these unfinished beings; ai.d his simplicity could not even be measured by the stand- art! we would apply to the capacity of a lamb. Yet it had a feeling, rarely manifested even in the aiFectionate dog, and a knowledge, never shown by any mere animal. He wassen- sible of his mother's kindness and how much he owed to her care. At night, when she spread his humble pallet, though he knew not prayer, nor could comprehend the solemnities of worship, he prostrated himself at her feet ; and, as he kissed 144 MraCELLANKOUS. thorn, niniTi})Io(l a kind of mental orison, ns if in fond and holy devotion. In the niorninji;, bdon' .she went abroad to re.*» n SPEECH OF JUDAIi BEFORE JOSEPH. TiiKN Judiih came near unto him, and said, my lord, let tliy servant, I pray thco, speak a word in my lord's cars, and let not thine anger hum a^'jiinst thy servant ; for thou art even as Pharaoh. 3Iy lord asked his servants, saying, Have ye a lather, or a brother ? And we said unto my lord, We have a father, an old man, an 1 a child of his old age, a little one; and his brother is dead, and ho alone is left of his mother, and his father htvetli him. And thou saidst unto thy servants, Bring him down unto me, that I may set mine eyes upon him : and we said unto n>y lord, Tlie lad cannot leave his father, for, if he should leave his father, his father should die : and thou saidst unto thy ser- vants. Except your youngest brother conic down with you, ye shall see my face no more. And it came to pass, when ■we came up unto thy servant my father, we told him tho words of my lord. And our father said. Go again, and buy us a little food : and we said, We cannot go down; if our youngest brother be with us, then will we go down, for we may not see the man's face except our youngest brother be with us. And thy servant my father said unto us. Yo know that my wife bare mc two sons ; ar)d tlic one went out from me, and I said, Surely he is torn in pieces — and I saw him not since : and if ye take this alcjo from me, and mischief befall him, ye shall brinj, down my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. Now therefore when I come to thy servant my father, and the lad be not with us — seeing that his life is bound up in the lad's life — it shall come to pass, when I'e seeth that the lad is not with us, that he will die ; and thy servants shall bring down the grey hairs of thy servant our father with sorrow to the grave ; for thy servant bcgajiie feurcty for the lad uuto my father, saying, If I bring 158 HPEOIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. him not unto thco, then I slmll boar the blame to my father for over. Now, therefore, I pray thee, let thy servant nbiflo, instead of the lad, a boiuhnan to my Inid, and let the lad go up with his brethren ; for how shall I <^o up to my father, and the lad be not witli me? lest, peiad venture, I see the evil that shall coine on my father. , ' NATHAN'S ADDRESS TO DAVID. And the Lord sent Nathan unto David ; and he camo unto him, and said unto him. There were two men in one city, the one rich and the other poor. The rich man had ex- ceeding many flocks and herds; but the poor man had nothing, save one little ewe lamb, which he had boU|j;ht and nourished up ; and it grew up together with him and with his children ; it did eat of his own meat, and drank of his own cup, and lay in his bosom, and was unto him as a daughter. And there camo a traveller unto the rich man, and he spared to take of his own flock and of his own herd, to dress for the wayfaring man that was come unto him; but took the poor man's lamb, and dressed it for the man that was come to him. And David's anger was greatly kindled against the man ; and he said to Nathan, As the Lord liveth, the man that hath done these things shall surely die ; and he shall restore the lamb four-fold, because he did this thing, and because he had no pity. And Nathan said to David, Tiiou art the man ! Thou hast killed Uriah the Hittite with the sword, and hast taken his wife to be thy wife, and hast slain him with the sword of the children of Ammon ; now, therefore, the sword shall never depart from thine house ; because thou hast despised ME, and hast taken the wife of Uriah the Hittite to be thy wife. EXTRACTS FROM THE SPEECH OP DEMOSTHENES TO THE ATHENIANS, AGAINST PHILIP. When I compare, Athenians, the speeches of some amongst us with their actions, I am at a loss to reconcilo f SrXOIMENS OF ELOQUXNOl. 159 ,1 what T SCO with what I hoar. Their protestationn arc full of zeal a}j;ainst the public enemy; but their inoaHurcs nro 80 inconsistent, that all tiioir protbssions bcconic suspected. By confounding you with a variety of projects, they per- plex your resolutions ; and lead you from exeoutin*;; what is in your power, by engaging you in schemes not reducible to practice. 'Tis true, there wa» a time when wo were powerful enough, not only to defend our own borders, and protect our allies, but even to invade Philip in bin own dominions. Yes, Athenians, there vtas such a juncture— I remember it well. But, by neglect of proper opportunities, we are no longer in a situation to be invaders. It will be well for us, if we can provide for our own defence, and our allies. Never did any conjuncture require so much pru- dence as this. However, I should not despair of season- able remedies, had I the art to prevail with you to bo unanimous in right measures. The opportunities, which have so often escaped us, have not been lost through ignorance, or want of judgment, but through negligence or treachery. If I assume, at this time, more than ordinary liberty of speech, I con; ire you to suflFer patiently those truths, which have no other end but your own good. You have too many reasons to be sensible how much you have suflFered by hearkening to sycophants. I shall, therefore, be plain in laying before you the grounds of past mis- carriages, in order to correct you in your future conduct. You may remember, it is not above three or four years, since we had the news of Philip's laying siege to the fort ress of Juno, in Thrace. It was, as I think, in October we received this intelligence. Wc voted an immediate supply of threescore talents ; forty men-of-war were ordered to sea ; and so zealous we were, that, preferring the neces- sities of state to our very laws, our citizens, above the age of five and forty years, were commanded to serve. What followed ? — A WHOLE year was spent idly without ANY THING BEING DONE; AND IT WAS BUT IN THE THIRD MONTH OF THE FOLLOWING YEAR, A LITTLE AFTER THE CELEBRATION OF THE FEAST OP GeRES, THAT GhARADEMUS SET SAIL, FURNISHED WITH NO 160 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. MORE THAN FIVE TALENTS, AND TEN GALLEYS NOT HALF MANNED. A rumour was spread, that Philip was sick. That rumour was followed by another, that Philip was dead ; and, then, as if all danger died with him, you dropped your preparations : whereas, then — then was your time to push and be active ; then was the titne to secure your- selves, and confound him at once. Had your resolutions, taken with so much heat, been as warmly seconded by action, you had been then as terrible to Philip, as Philip, recovered, is now to you. — " To what purpose, at this time, these reflections ? What is done, cannot be undone." — But, by your leave, Athenians, though past moments are not to be recalled, past errors may be retrieved. Have we not, now, a fresh provocation to war ? Let the memory of oversights, by which you have suffered so much, instruct you to be more vigilant in the present danger. If the OlYNTHIANS are not INSTANTLY SUCCOURED, AND WITH tour utmost efforts, you become assistants to Philip, and serve him more effectually than he can help himself. It is not, surely, necessary to warn you, that votes alone can be of no consequence. Had your resolutions, of them- selves, the virtue to compass what you intend, we should not see them multiply every day, as they do, and upon every occasion with so little effect; nor would Philip be in a condition to brave and affront us in this manner. Proceed, then, Athenians, to support your deliberations with vigour. You have heads capable of advising what is best; and you have power and opportunity to exe- cute what you determine. What time so proper for action ? what occasion so happy ? and when can you hope for such another, if this be neglected ? Has not Philip, contrary to all treaties, insulted you in Thrace ? Does he not, at this instant, straiten and inv;ul>j your confederates, whom you have solemnly sworn to protect ? Is he not an IMPLACABLE ENEMY — A FAITHLESS ALLY — THE USURPER OF PROVINCES, TO WHICH HE HAS NO TITLE NOR PRE- TENCE — A STRANGER, A BARBARIAN, A TYRANT? AND, INDEED, WHAT IS HE NOT ? SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 101 ilip, ' Observe, I beseech you, men of Athens, how different your conduct nppcars Aom the priiciiccsoryuur ancestors: they verc friends to truth and pi dn dcalin,:jr, and detested flattery and servile compliance. By unanimous consent, they continued arbiters of all Greece, for tlic space of forty-five years without interruption. A public fund, of no less than ten thousand talents, was ready f(U' any emer- gency. They exercised over the kings of Macedon, that authority which is due to barbarians; obtained, both by sea and land, in their own persons, frequent and signal victories ; and, by their noble exploits, transmitted to pos- terity an immortal memory of their virtue, superior to the reach of malice and detraction. It is to them we owe that great number of public edifices, by which the city of Athens exceeds all the rest of the world in beauty and magnificence. It is to them we owe so many stately temples, so richly embellished, but, above all, adorned with the spoils of vanquished enemies. But, visit their own private habitations; visit the houses of Aristides, Miltiades, or any other of those patriots of antiquity — you will find nothing, not the least mark or ornament, to distinguish them from their neighbours. They took part in the government, not to enrich themselves, but the public; they had no scheme or ambition, but for the public; nor knew any interest, but the public. It was by a close and steady application to the general good of their country, by an exemplary piety towards the immortal gods, by a strict faith and religious honesty betwixt man and man, and a moderation always uniforui and of a piece, that they estab- lished a reputation, which remains to this day, and will last to utmost posterity. Believe me, Athenians, if, recovering from your lethargy, you would assume the ancient freedom and spirit of your fathers — if you would be your own soldiers and your own commanders, confiding your affairs no longer to ibreign or mercenary hands — if you would charge yourselves with your own defence ; employing abroad, for the public, what you waste in unprofitable pleasures at home — the world might, once mure, behold you nudiing a figure worthy of Athenians. — " You would have us, then," you say, " do 162 SPECIMENS OP ELOQUENCE. :: service in our armies in our own persons ; aud, for so doing, you would have the pensions we receive in time of peace, accepted as pay in time of war. Is it thus we are to understand you?" — Yes, Atlienians, 'tis my plain meaning. I would make it a standing rule, that no per- son, great or little, should be the better for the public money, who should grudge to employ it for the public service. Are we in peace ? — the public is charged with your subsistence. Are we in war, or under a necessity, as at this time, to enter into a war ? — let your gratitude oblige you to accept as pay, in defence of your benefactors, what you receive, in peace, as mere bounty. Thus, without any innovation — without altering or abolishing any thing, but pernicious novelties, introduced for the encouragement of sloth and idleness ; by only converting for the future, the same funds, to the use of the serviceable, which are spent, at present, upon the unprofitable ; you may be well served in your armies, your troops regularly paid, justice duly administered, the public revenues reformed and increased, and every member of the commonwealth rendered useful to the country, according to his age and ability, without any further burden to the state. This, men of Athens ! is what my duty prompted me to represent to you upon this occasion. — May the gods inspire you to determine upon such measures as may be most expedient for the particular and general good of our country ! 1 A FINE PERSONIFICATION. Go to your Natural Religion ; lay before her Mahomet and his disciples, arrayed in arirour and blood, riding in triumph over the spoils of thousands who fell by his victorious sword. Shew her the cities he set in flames, the countries he ravaged and destroyed, and the miserable distress of all the inhabitants of the earth. When she has viewed him in this scene, carry her into his retirement; shew her the prophet's chamber, his concubines and his wives ; and let her hear him allege revelation and a divine commission, to justify his adultery and lust. When she SPECIMENS OP ELOQUENCE. 1G3 is tired with this prospect, then shew her the blessed Jesus, humble and meek, doing good to all the sons of men. Let her see him in his most retired privacies; let her follow him to the mount, and hear his devotions and sup[»liciitious to God. Carry her to his table, to view'his poor faro, and hear his heavenly discourse. Let her attend him to the tribunal, and consider the patience with which he endured the scoffs and r^'oroaches of his enemies. Lead her to his i. cross ; let her view him in the agony of death, and hear his last prayer for his persecutors — Father, forgive them, FOR THEY KNOW NOT WHAT TiiEY DO ! When Natural Religion has thus viewed both, ask her, Which is the pro- phet of God ? — But her answer we have already had, when she saw part of this scene through the eyes of the centurion who attended at the cross. By him she spake and said, Truly this man was the Son of God. Bishop Sherlock. ON THE THREATENED INVASION OF ENGLAND IN 1803. By a series of criminal enterprises, by the success of guilty ambition, the liberties of Europe have been grad- ually extinguished. The subjugation of Holland, Swit- zerland, and the free towns of Germany, has completed that catastrophe ; and we are the only people in the east- ern hemisphere, who are in possession of equal laws, and a free constitution. Freedom, driven from every spot on the Continent, has sought an asylum in a country which she always chose for her favourite abode : but she is pur- sued even here, and threatened with destruction. The inundation of lawless power, after covering the whole earth, threatens to follow us here ; and we are most exactly, most critically placed in the only aperture where it can be suC' cessfully repelled— in the Thermopylae of the world. As far as the interests of freedom are concerned — the most important by far of sublunary interests ! — you, my coun- trymen, stand in the capacity of the federal representatives of the human race; for with you it is to determine — under God — in what condition the latest posterity shall be born. 164 SPECIMENS OP ELOQUENCE. Tlicir fortunes are entrusted to your cnre; and on your conduct, at this inonieiit, depends tlie colodr nnd com- plexion of tlieir destiny. II" liberty, ciftar bcinj;' extin- guished on the Continent, is biiffevod to expire hciej whence is it ever to emerge in the niMst of that tliick night, that will invest it ? It remains v'dh you, then, to decide, whether thtit freedom, at who've voiro the kingdoms of Europe awoke from the sleep of age , to run a cavoor of virtue ""s emulation in everything great and good; the freedom, which dispelled the mists of superstitio^i, and invited the nations to behold their God; wliose magic torch kindled Ihe rays of genius, the enthusiasm of poetry, and the flame of eloquence — the freedom, which poured into our lap opulence and arts, and embollished life with innumerable institutions and improvements, till it became a theatre of wonders — it is for you to decide, whether this freedom shall yet survive, or be covered with a funeral pall, and wrapped in eternal gloom. It is not necessary to await your determination. In the solicitude yon feel to approve yourselves worthy of such a trust, every thought of what is afilicting in warfare, every apprehension of dan- ger, must vanish ; and you are impatient to mingle in the battle of the civilized world. Go, then, ye defenders of your country, accompanied with every auspicious omen; advance with alacrity into the field, where God hiniself musters the host to war. Religion is too much interested in your success, not to lend you her aid. She will shed over this enterprise her sefectest influence. While you are engaged in the field, many will repair to the closet — many to the sanctuary. Tl)e faithful of every name will employ that prayer, which has power with God. The fee- ble hands, which are une«(ual to any other weapon, will grasp the sword of the Spirit; and, from myriads of humble contrite hearts, the voice of intercession, supplication, and weeping, will mingle in its ascent to heaven, with the shouts of battle, and the shock of arms. The extent of your resources, under God, is equal to the justice of your cause. But, should Providence (letcrmine otlierwiisc, should you fall in this struggle, should the nation fall — you will have the satisfaction — the purest allotted to man— of Lay- , tv '; .■ .,*«lS».^> SPECIMENS OP ELOQUENCE. 1G5 nnd feel ing performed your part; your names will be enrolled with the most illustrious dead, while posterity, to the end of time, as often as they revolve the events of this period — and they will incea antly revolve them — will turn to you a reverential eye, while they mourn over the freedom, which is entombed in your sepulchre. I cannot but imagine, that the virtuous heroes, legislators, and patriots of every age and country, are bondirjg from their elevated seats to witness this contest, as if they were incapable, till it be brought to a favourable issue, of enjoying their eternal repose. Enjo} that repose, illustrious iujuiortals ! Your mantle fell when you ascended ; and thousands, inflamed with your spirit, and impatient to tread in your steps, are ready to swear by Him that sitteth upon the throne, and liveth for ever and ever, that they will protect freedom in her last asylum, and never desert that cause, which you sustained by your labours, and cemented with your blood. And thou, sole lluler of the children of men, to whom the shields of the earth belong, gird on thy sword, thou Most Mighty ! Go forth with our hosts in the day of battle ! Impart, in addition to their hereditary valour, that confi- dence of success, which springs from thy presence ! Pour into their hearts the spirits of departed heroes I Inspire them with their own ; and, while led by thy hand, and fighting under thy banners, open thou their eyes to behold in every valley, and in every pbun, what the prophet beheld by the same illumination— chariots of fire, and horses of fire ! Then shall the strong man be as tow, and the maker of it as a spark ; and they shall both burn together, and none shall quench them. Eoiiert Hall. SPIRIT OF BRITISH FREEDOM. I SPEAK in the spirit of the British law, which makes liberty coniinonsurate with, and inseparable from, British soil ; which proclaims, even to the stranger and sojourner, tho moment he sets his foot on British earth, that the ground, on nhicli he treads, is h"ly, and consccratod by the genius of Jniversul Emancipation. No matter in wh.it language his doom may have been ^^ronounced ; — no matter .'^...J^^l "«Mra««c!t#.* t ; 166 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. what complexion, incompatible with freedom, an Indian or an African sun may have burned upon him ; — no matter in what disastrous battle his liberty may have been cloven down ; —no matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the altar of slavery ; the first moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and the god sink together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in her own niiijobty ; his body swells beyond the measuio of his chaiiici, that burst from around him ; and he .stands redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irroj^isiible genius of Universal Emancipation. Curran. I I I ;i CHRIST'S AGONY. Christians! what an hour w;i.s that, which our Saviour passed in *he garden of Geti >•( rnauo ! In the time of his passion, his torments succeed' e awake on the enterprise of him who has travailed, in tho greatness of his strength, to seek and to save us. Chalmers. THE RESTLESSNESS OP HUMAN AMBITION. " How Bay yc to my soul, FIoo as a bird to your mountain?"— O that I Imd wincM lil^o a dovo! for tlicu would I fly awby and bo at rest" — I'Halm XI. 1, and Iv. G. To all those who arc conversant with the scenery of ex- ternal nature, it is evident, that an object, to be seen to the greatest advantage, must be placed at a certain distance from the eye of the observer. The poor man's hut, though all within bo raggcdness and disorder, and all around it be full of the most nauseous and disgusting spectacles, — ^yet, if seen at a sufficient distance, may appear a sweet and interesting cottage. That field where the thistle grows, and the face of which is deformed by the wild exuberance of a rank and pernicious vegetation, may delight the eye of a distant spectator by the loveliness of its verdure. That lake, whose waters are corrupted, and whose banks poison the air by their marshy and putrid exhalations, may charm the eye of an enthusiast, who views it from an adjoining eminence, and dwells with rapture on the quiet- ness of its surface, and on the beauty of its outline — its sweet border fringed with the gayest colouring of nature, and on which spring lavishes its finest ornaments. All is the effect of distance. It softens the harsh and disgusting features of every object. What is gross and ordinary, it can dress in the most romantic attractions. The country hamlet it can transform into a paradise of beauty, in spite of the abominations that are at every door, and tlie angry brawlings of the men and the women who occupy it. All that is loathsome or offensive, is softened down by the power of distance. — We see the smoke rising in fantastic shapes through the pure air, and the village spire peeping through the thick verdure of the trees which embosom it. The 170 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. fancy of our scntinientalist swells with pleasure, and peace and piety supply their dclightlul aKsocititioiiH to complete the hanuony of the jiicturo. This i»»iiic»ple may Kcrvc to explain a feeling which sonic of us may have experienced. — On a fine day, when the sun throw its unclouded splen- dours over a whole neighbourhood, did we never i'onn a wish that our place could be tiansfcrred to some distant and more beautiful part of the landscape ? Did the idea never rise in our fancy, that the people who sport on yon sunny bank are happier than ourselves — tluit we should like to be buried in that distant grove, and forget, for a while, in silence and in solitude, the distractions of the ■world — that we should like to repose by yon beautiful rivulet, and soothe every anxiety of our heart by the ,'2:cn- tleness of its murmurs — that v. o should like to transiiort ourselves to the distance of miles, and there enjoy the peace which resides in some sweet atid shell ercd cunceal- ment ? In a word, were there no secret aspirations of the soul for another place than what we aclu.jlly occupied? Instead of resting in the quiet enjoyment ui' our present situation, did not our wishes wander abroad and around us; and were we not ready to exclaim with the Psahnist in the text, "0 that I had wings like a dove; for then would I fly to yonder mountain, and be at rest?" Ildd. INFATUATION OF MANKIND WITH REGARD TO THE THINGS OF TIME. But, if no danger is to be apprehended while the thunder of heaven rolls at a distance, believe me, when it collects over our heads, we may be fatally convinced, that a Avell- spent life is the only conductor, that can avert the bolt. Let us reflect, that time waits for no man. Sleeping or wak'ug, our days are on the wing. If we !■ ok to those that are past, they are but as a point. When I compare the pres- ent aspect of this city with that which it exhibited within the short space of my own residence, what does the result present, but the most melancholy proof of human in.^ta- bility ? New characters in evcny scene ; new events, new principles, new passions ; a new creation insensibly arisen I ( SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 171 from the ashes of tlic old ; wliinli side soever I look, tlio r;iv;ij^o of death h-is nearly renovated all. Scarcely do wo look arf»un(l us in lilr when our chiMroii arc matured, a?)(l remind UH of the ^ravo. Tlu; };rrat fuature of all nature is rapidity of growth and declension. Ages arc rcntiwcd, but the ligure of the world pisseth away. God oidy re- main fi the same. The torrent, ihat sweeps by, runs at tho base of his immutability; and Ik; sees, with indignation, wretched mortals, ns they pass along, insulting him by tho visionary hope of sharing that attribute, which belongs to Him alone. It is to the incomprehcnsil)lc oblivion of our mortality, that tho W(»rld owes all its fasci»n.tion. Observe for what man toils. Observe what it ol'leo co.4s him to become rich and great — dismal vicissitudes ol hope and disappointment — often all that can degrade the dignity of liis nature, and offend his (Jod I Study the matter ol* tho pedestal, and tho instahility of the statue. — Scwee is it erected, — scarce prc- sentea to the stare of the midtitude, — when death, starting like u massy fragmetit from the summit of a mountain, dashes the proud colossus into dust I Where, then, i^ the promised fruit of all his toil ? Where t1\c wretched and deluded being, who fondly promised himself that he had laid up much goods for many \ears?— Gone, my b)Cihrcn, to his accouiit, a naked victim, trembling in tho hands of the living God! Yes, my brethren, that final catastrophe of all human passions, is rapid as it is awful. Fancy your- selves on that bed, from which you never shall rise, and the reflection will cxliibit, like a true and faithful mirror, what shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue. Happy they who meet that great, inevitable transition full of days ! Unhappy 1 hoy who meet it but to tremble and despair! Then it is that man learns wisdom, when too late; then it is that every thing will forsake him, but his virtues or his crimes. To him the world is past; dignities,' honours, pleasure, glory! — past like the cloud of the morning! nor could all that the great globe inherits, afford him, at that tremendous hour, as much consolation, as the recollection of having given but one cup of cold water to a child of wrctchcduess, in the name of Christ Jesus I Kiuwan. 172 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. I ( « i I THE WEDDING GARMENT. A CERTAIN kinjj; prepared a ^*umptu()us b.nnquot In honour of Iuh son. The first invit;itioiiH were i.ssiiod to the nobles of tlie land, and sundry faniillos, who had lonj; been favourites with the prince. But the ban(juetiiiji; hour arrived, and did not brin<^ them. A sulky tit had seized thcni, and, as if by combination, they all remained away. But the king was resolved that h\> mui ificeneo should not be lost, nor the honour intended for his son, defeated; and, as all the people round about wero alike his subjects, he said to liis servants, " The feast is ready, but none of the guests have come. Go out into the high- ways and hedges, and bring in all you can find." The servants went; and great surprise there was when they told their errand. One poor labourer, returning from his work, after toiling all day, had got no wages from the man who hired him, and was trudging wearily home to his empty cupboard, when the king's messenger accosted him, and told him that a feast was prepared for him. After the first gaze of incredulity, seeing by his uniform that ho was the king's servant, and really in earnest, the poor labourer turned his steps towards the palace. The next was a cripple, who sat by the wayside begging. He had gathered little that day, when the messenger told him he would find a feast at the palace, and the king desired to see him. He had heard that something rejuarkable was going on at the court, and that the king was giving an entertainment in honour of some special event in his son's history; and, though he scarcely expected anything more than a ration of bread and wine at the gate, as he knew that the king was of a very sumptuous and gracious dis- position, he did not hesitate, but raised himself on his crutches, got up, and hobbled away. Then the messenger came to a shady lane, down which a retired'old gentleman lived, on a small spot of ground of his own. The messenger had far more trouble with him. It was not so much that he questioned the message, or that he did not like the invitation, but that he was annoyed at its abruptness, and his ( n unpreparedncss. He asked if there were to be no more invitations issued SPECIMENS OP ELOQUENCE. 173 in to ong tins had incd euco son, iiliko judy, lii!j;U- The they m his 3 man Lo his 1 hiui, icv tho lat ho Q poor c next Ic had lim ho ived to ble was ,g an lis son's ig more 10 knew ous dis- on his n whicli ground iblc with message, t he was uredncss. IS issued next week, or if there was no possibility of postponiiii; tho vi.slt till the following cvcniiiL:;; lor, coiisidriiig liisst;iti(iii iu society, lie would lik»! to appear In his best, and would have beon glad of a little loiwure to get all things in order. " How- ever," said the messenger, " you know the custom of our court, — the king provides all the robes of state — all things are ready, come* away;" and, as ho posted on, tlie old householder thought, that, ratlior than run any risk, ho had better go ut once — though some notiotMJ, that, as he passed along, he occasionally eyed his threadbare garment with a look that seemed to say, he could liave put on better, had long 3 exercise it, it must be a subject of surprise that so few excel in Oratory. In any enlightened community, you will find numbers who are highly skilled in some par- ticular art or science, to the study of which they did not apply themselves, till they had almost arrived at the stage of mai,hood. Yet, with regard to the powers of speech — those powers which the very second year of our existence generally calls into action, the exercise of which goes on at our sports, our studies, our walks, our very meals, and which is never long suupended, except at the hour of refreshing sleep — with regard to those powers, how few surpass their fellow creatures of common information and moderate attainments ! how very few deserve distinction 1 — how rarely does one attain to eminence ! The causes are various ; but we must not attempt, here, to investigate them. By doing so, we might alarm many a formidable adversary ; we might excite a suspicion that we wished to undermine the foundations of modern litera- ture : although our only aim should be to render them sound and durable, and to despoil the edifice of a few mo- nastic features, that mar the harmony, and take from the general effect oi' the structure. I shall simply state, that one cause of our not generally excelling in Oratory is — ;0ur neglecting to cultivate the art of speaking — of speaking our own languaire. We acquire the power of expressing our id(;a«j almost insensibly — we consider it as a thing that is natural tu us ; wc do not regard it as an art — it is an art — a difiicult art— an intricate art DEBATE. 179 Opinion take, itory — • ; second id is, to ieas are »avent of st efforts we laegin jncy "witli prise that mnmnity, some par- vy did not b the stage f speech- — r existence eh goes on nieals, and ^e hour of s, how few malion and istiuction I enipt, here, ilarni numy spicion that dern litcra- ender them f a few nio- from the ice ot generally ivate the art We acciuirc Kousibly— ^vc io not regard I intricate art — and our ignorance of that circumstance, or our omit- ting to give it due consideration, is the cause of our defi- ciency. In the infant just beginning to articulate, you will observe every inflection that is recognised in thr* most accurate treatise on elocution — you will observe, further, an exact proportion in its several cadences, and a speaking expression in itc tones I say, you will observo these things in almost every infant. Select a dozen men — men of education — erudition — ask them to read a piece of ani- mated composition — you will be fortunate if you find one in the dozen that can raise or depress his voice — inflect or modulate it, as the variety of the subject requires. What has become of the inflections^ the cadences, and the njodu- lation of the infant ? They have not been exeicised — they have been neglected — they have never been put into the hands of the artist, that he might apply them to their proper use — they have been laid aside, spoiled, abused ; and, ten to one, they will never be good for anything ! Oratory is highly useful to him that excels in it. In common conversation, observe the advantage which the fluent [Speaker enjoys over the man that hesitates and stumbles in discourse. AVith half his information, he has twice his importance ; he commands the respect of his auditors ; he instructs and gratifies them. In the general transactions of business, the same superiority attends him. He communicates his views with clearness, precision, ani efiieet ; he carries his point by his more readiness ; he con- cludes his treaty before another kind of man would have well set about it. Docs he plead the cause of friendship ? — how happy is his friend ! Of charity ? — how fortunate is the distressed ! Should he enter the senate of his coun- try, he gives strength to the party which he espouses : should he be independent of party, he is a party in himself. If he advocates tlie cause of royalty, he deserves to be a monarch's champion ; if ho dofends the commons, he ap- proves himscli' the people's bulwark ! That you will persevere in the pursuit of so useful a study as that of Oratory, I confidently hope. That your progress ha« been, hitherto, considerable, I am about to receive a pr'X»f. 180 DEBATE. Gentlemen, the question for debate is — Was CiESAR a Great Man ? James Gibson. — Sir, to bespeak your indulgence, is a duty imposed by a consciousness of my deficiency. I am unpractised in the orator's art, nor can I boast that native energy of talent, which asks not the tempering of expe- rience ; but, by its single force, effects what seems the proper achievement of labours and of years. Let me then hope, that you will excel in favour, as much as I shall fall short in merit. Let me presume that the perform- ance of what I undertake with diffidence, will be regarded by you vnth. allowance. Let me anticipate, that failure will rot bo imputed as a crime to him who dares not hope succ— -s. ' at Ca3sar a great man?" — What revolution has taken place in thn first appointed government of the universe? — what nev wd opposite principle has begun to direct the operations of nature ? — what refutation of their long estab- lished precepts, has deprived Reason of her sceptre, and Virtue of her throne, that a character, which forms the noblest theme that ever Merit gave to Fame, should now become a question for debate ? No painter of human excellence, if he would draw the features of that hero's character, needs study a favourable light or striking attitude. In every posture it has ma- jesty ; and the lineaments of its beauty are prominent in every point of view. Do you ask me, '' Had Cassar genius ?" — he was an orator ! ' Had Caesar judgment ?" — he was a politician ! '^' Had Cocsar valour?" — he was a conqueror! " Had Caisar feeling?" — he was a friend ! It is a generally received opinion, that uncommon cir- cumstances make uncommon men — Caesar was an uncom- mon man in common circumstances. The colossal mind commands your admiration, no less in the pira' s' captive than in the victor of J*harsalia. Who, but the first of his race, could have made vassals of his savage masters, mocked them into reverence of his superior nature, and threatened, with security, the power that held him at its mercy ? Of all the striking incidents of Cissar's lifOj had DEBATE. 181 ice, is I am native f expe- ms the le then 1 shall erfonn- egarded failure lot hope- as taken levse ? — rect the ng estab- ptre, and )rms the luld now draw the wourable has nm- linent in genius?" ■he was mqueror I nmon cir- n\ uncom- ssal nund ,s' captive st of his masters, iturc, and lim at its s life; had ir I history preserved for us but this single one, it would have been sufficient to make us fancy all the rest-^at least we should have said, " Such a man was born to conquest and to empire ! " To expatiate on Caesar's powers of oratory, would only be to add one poor eulogijun to the testimony of the first historians. Cicero, himnelf, grants him the palm of almost pre-eminent merit; and seems at a loss for words to ex- press his admiration of him. His voice was musical, his delivery energetic, his language chaste and rich, ap- propriate and peculiar. And it is well presumed, that, had he studied the art of public speaking with as much industry as he studied the art of war, he would have been the first of orators. Quintilian says, he would have been the only man capable of combating Cicero ; but, granting them to have been equal in ability, what equal contest would the timid Cicero — whose nerves fail him, and whose tongue falters, when the forum glitters with arms — what equal contest could he have held with the man whose vigour chastised the Belgfic, and annihilated the Nervii, that maintained their ground till they were hewn to pieces on the spot. His abilities, as amaster of composition, were undoubt- edly of the first order. How admirable is the structure of his Commentaries ! what perspicuity and animation are there in the details ! You fancy yourself upon the field of action ! You follow the development of his plans with the liveliest curioeity ! — You Wk on with unwearied atten- tion, as he fortifies his camp, or invests his enemy, or crosses the impetuous torrent ! — You behold his legions, as they move forward, from different points, to the line of battle — you hear the shout of the onset, and the crash of the encouiiter ; and, breathless with suspens-e, mark every fluctuation of the awful tide of war ! As a politician, how consumniate was his address! — How grand his projections ! — How happy the execution of his measures ! He compels the vantjuished Helvetii to rebuild their towns and villages; making his enemies the guards, as it were, of his frontier. He captivates, by his clemency, the Arverni and the .Edui, winning to the sup- i; ■I 1 ; I I ■ ' i t^ f \ 182 DEBATE. port of his arms the strength that had been employed to overpower them. He governs his province with such equity and wisdom as add a milder but a tiiirer lustre to his glory ; and, by their lume, prepare the Uoman people for his liappy yoke. Upon the very eve of his rupture with Pompey, he sends back, on demand, the borrowed legions, covering with rewards the soldiers that m;iy no longer serve him; and whose weauons, on the morrow, m;iy be turned against his breast — presenting here a noble example of his respect of right ; and of that magnanimity, which maintains that gratitude should not cease, though benefits are discontinued. When he reigns sol«? iiiaster of the Roman world, how temperate is his triumph ! — how scrupulous his respect for the very forms of the laws ! — He discountenances the profligacy of the patricians, and en- deavours to preserve the virtue of the state, by laying wholesome restraints upon luxury. He encourages the arts and sciences, patronises genius and talent, respects religion and justice, and puts in practice every means that can contribute to the welfare, the happiness, and the sta- bility of the empire. To you. Sir, who are so fully versed in the page of history, it must be unnecessary to recount the military exploits of Caesar. Why should I compel your attention to follow him, for the hundredth time, through hostile myriads, yielding, at every encounter, to the force of his invincible arms. Full often, Sir, have your calculations hesitated to credit the celerity of his marches ; your belief recoiled at the magnitude of his operations; and your won- der reperused the detail of his successive victories, follow- ing upon the shouts of one another. As a captain, he was the first of warriors ; nor were his valour and skill more adminible than his abstinence and watchfulness ; his dis- regard of ease and his endurance of labour ; his moderation and his mercy. Perhaps, indeed, this last quality forms the most prominent feature in his character ; and proves, by the consequence of its excess, th;it virtue itself requires restraint, and has its proper bounds, which it ought not to exceed —for Caesar's moderation was his ruin ! That Caesar had a heart susceptible of friendship, and I 1 ' DEBATE. 183 allvo to the finest touches of humanity, is unquestionable. Why docs he attempt so often to avert the storm of civil war ? Why docs he pause so long upon the brink of the llubicon ? — Why docs lie weep when he beholds the head of his unfortutuitc rival ? — Why does he delight in pardon- in<^ his eneuiies— oven those very men that had deserted him ? It seems as if he lived the lover of mankind, and fell — as the bard expresses it — vanquished, not so much by the weapons as by the ingratitude of his murderers. If, Sir, a combination of the most splendid talents for war with the most sacred love of peace — of the most illus- trious public virtue with the most endearing private worth — of the most unyielding courage with the most accessiblo moderation, may constitute a great man — that title must be Caesar's. Francis M'Cracken. — No change, Sir, has taken place in the first appointed government of the universe — the operations of nature acknowledge, now, the same principle tha^^ they did in the beginning — Reason still holds her sceptre. Virtue still fills her throne, and the epithet of groat does not belong to Caesar ! I would lay it down, Sir, as an unquestionable position, that the worth of talents is to be estimated only by the use we make of them. If we employ them in the cause of virtue, their value is great — If we employ them in the cause of vice, they are less than worthless — they are per- nicious and vile. Now, Sir, let us examine Caesar's talents by this principle, and we shall find, that, neither as an orator nor as a politician — neither as a warrior nor as a friend — was Caesar a great man. If I were asked, " What was the first, the second, and the last principle of the virtuous mind ?" I should reply, " It was the love of country." Sir, it is the love of parent, brother, friend! — the love of man ! — the love of honour, virtue, and religion! — the love of every good and virtuous deed ! — I say, Sir, if I were asked, " What was the first, the second, and the last principle of the virtuous mind ?' I should reply, " It was the love of country !" Without it, man is the basest of his kind! — a selfish, cwmiogi crrr. \ I i^' 184 DEBATE. narrow speculator I — a trader in the dearest interests of his species ! — reckless of every tie of nature — sentiment — affection — a Marius — a Sylla — a Crassus — a Cataline — a Coosar I What, Sir, was Ciesar's oratory ? — How far did it prove him to be actuated by the lovo ol' country ? I'll tell you, Sir; I'll show you this great Ca3sar in such a lij^ht and posture, as shall present no air of majesty or linea- ment of beauty. How far, I say, Sir, did C«Tsar's oratory prove him to be actuated by the love of country ? It justified, for political interest, the invader of his domestic honour : — sheltered the incendiary ! — abetted treason ! — flattered the people into their own undo'ng! — assailed the liberties of his country, and bawled into silence every vir- tuous patriot that struggled to uphold them ! He would have been a greater orator than Cicero ! I question the assertion — I deny that it is correct — I revolt from it — I will not suffer it ! He would have been a greater orator than Cicero ! Well — let it pass — he might have been a greater orator, but he never could have been so groat a man. Which way soever ho had directed his talents, 4he same inordinate ambition wou'd have led to the same re- sults; and, had he devf;tr 1 hiaiself to the study of oratory, his tongue had pioductd the same effects as his sword : and equally desolated the haman kingdom. But Caesar is to be admired as a politician 1 I do not pretend to define the worthy speaker's idea of a politician ; but I shall attempt, Mr. Chairman, to put you in posses- sion of miae. By a politician, I understand a man who studies the laws of prudence and of justice, as they are applicable to the wise and happy government of a people, and the rtciprocal obligations of states. Now, Sir, how far was Caesar to be admired as a politician ? He makes war upon the innocent Spaniards, that his military talents may not suffer from inaction. This was a ready way to preserve the peace of his province, and to secure its loyalty and affection ! That he may be recorded as the first Boman that had ever crossed the Ehine in a hostile man- ner, he invades the unoffending Germans, lays waste their territories with fire, and plunders and sacks the country of the Sicambri and the Suevi. Here was a noble policy ! '1 1 DEBATE. 185 do not tician ; posses- an who ley are people, ir, how makes talents way to loyalty he first e man- — thnt planted in the minds of a bravo and formidjiblo people, the f'ntnl seeds of tlint revenjro jmd liatrod, which filially assisted in accomplishi ^ the dostniction of the lloinan empire ! Tii short, Sir, ('jcsar's viows were not of that enlarj^od natu c, wliicli could entitle) him to the name of a j^reat politician ; for he studied, not the happiness and interest of a > )mmunity, but meiely his own adv ince- ment, which lie accoinplishcd by violatinjj; the 1 nd destroyiiif; the liberties, of his country. That Caesar was a great concjueror I do no: -n^ -o dispute. His adu irers are welcome to all the ad ^ that result from such a position. I will not subtract one victim from the hosts that perished for his fame ; or abate, by a single groan, the sufferings of his vanquished enemies, from his first great battle in Gaul, to his last victory under the walls of Munda — but I will avow it to bo my opinion, that the character of a great conqueror does not neces- sarily constitute that of a great man ; lor can the recital of Casar's many victories produce any other impression upon my mind, than what proceeds from the contemplation of those convulsions of the earth, which, in a moment, inundate with ruin the plains of fertility and the abodes of peace ; or, at one shock, convert whole cities into the graves of their living population ! But Caesar's munificence, his clemency, his moderation, and his affectionate nature, constitute him a great man ! Vs liat was his munificence, his cleir.eney, or liis modera- tion ? — The automaton of his ambition ! It knew no as- piration from the Deity. It was a thing from the hands of a mechanician I — an ingenious mockery of nature ! Its action seemed spontaneous— its look argued a soul — but all the virtue lay in the finger of the operator. He could possess no real munificence, moderation, or clemency, who ever expected his gifts to be doubled by return — who never abstained, but with a view to excess ; nor spared but for the in«' ulgence of rapacity. Of the same nature, Sir, were his affections. He was indeed, a man of exquisite artifice ; but the deformity of his character was too prominent — no dress could thoroughly hide It ; nay, Sir, the very attempt to conceal served only <^, iSr^^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I uiUii 25 2.2 iim 1.25 II 1.4 1 1.6 ^ 6" ► ^% w ^"^ ^ /. Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. MSSO (716) •73-4503 V V 4 ^ N> % ^"^ ^.> 'R.'- 186 DEBATE. to discover the magnitude of the distortion. He atones to the violated and murdered laws by doin<; homa(];e to their man^s ; and expiates the massacre of thousands by dropping a tear or two into an ocean of blood ! Robert Patterson. — Sir, to form an idea of Caesar's character, it is necessary to consider the nature of the times in which he lived ; for the conduct of public men cannot be duly estimated, T7ithout a knowlege of the circum- stances under which they have acted. The 'happiness of a community resembles the health of the body. As it is not always the same regimen that can preserve, or the same medicine that can restore the latter, so the former is not always to be maintained by the same measures, or recovered by the same corrections. There was a time when kingly power had grown to so enormous an excess, as rendered its abolition necessary for the salvation of the Roman people — Let us examine whether the times in which Caesar lived, did not call for, and justify, the mea- sures which he adopted — whether ♦he liberty of the repub- lic had not degenerated into such a state of anarchy, as rendered it expedient that the power of the empire should be vested in one man, whose influence and talents could command party and control faction. The erroneous ideas that we have formed concerning Roman liberty, have induced us to pass a severe judgment on the actions of many an illustrious man. The r^dmirers of that liberty will not expect to be told that it was little better than a name. True liberty, Sir, could never have been enjoyed by a people who were the slaves of continual tumults and cabals; whose magistrates were the mere echoes of a crowd, and among whom virtue itself had no protection from popular caprice or state intrigue. By the term liberty, I understand a freedom from all responsi- bility, except what morality, virtue, and religion impose. That is the only liberty which is consonant with the true interests of man — th6 only liberty that renders his association with his fellow permanent and happy — the only iberty that places him in a peaceful, honourable, and prosperous community — the only liberty that makes him the son of a land that he would inhabit till his death, and DEBATE. 187 could mere had no By the •esponsi- ipose. nih. the ders hia py — the ible, and kes him ath, and the subject of a state that he would defend with his pro- perty and his blood ! All other liberty is but a counterfeit — the stamp a cheat, and the metul base — turbulence — insolence — licentiousness — party ferment — scltish domina- tion — anarchy — such anarchy as needed more tlian mortal talents to restrain it; and found them in a Csesar. I hold it to be an unquestionable position, that they who duly appreciate the blessings of liberty, revv/lt as much from the idea of exercising, as from that of enduring, op- pression. How far this was the case with the llomans, you may inquire of those nations that surrounded them. Ask them, " What insolent guard paraded before their gates, and invested their strongholds?" They will an- swer, " A Roman legionary." Demand of them, " What greedy extortioner fattened by their poverty, and clothed himself by their nakedness ?" They will inform you, " A Koman Quaestor." Inquire of them, " What imperious stranger issued to them his mandates of imprisonment or confiscation, of banishment or death ?" Tliey will reply to you, " A Roman Consul." Question them, " What haughty conqueror led, through his city, their nobles and kings ia chains ; and exhibited their countrymen, by thousands, in gladiators' shows for the amusement, of his fellow citi- zens?" They will tell you, " A Roman General." Re- quire of them, " What tyrants imposed the heaviest yoke ? — enforced the most rigorous exactions ? — inflicted the most savage punishments, and showed the greatest gust for blood and torture ?" They will exclaim tc you, " The Roman people." Yes, Sir, that people, so jealous of what they called their liberties, to gratify an insatiate thirst for conquest, invaded the liberties of every other nation ; and on what spot soever they set their tyrant foot, the fair and happy soil of the freeman withered at their stamp ! But the re- tributive justice of Heaven ordained that their rapacity should be the means of its own punishment. As their territories extended, their armies required to be enlarged, and their campaigns became protracted. Hence the citi- zen lost, in the camp, that independence which he had been taught in the city ; and being long accustomed to 188 DEBATE. obey, implicitly, the voice of his general, from having been sent forth the hope, returned the terror of his country. Hence, Sir, their generals for<;ot, in foreign parts, the republican principles which they had imbibed in the forum ; and, long habituated to unlimited command, from being despots abroad, learned to be traitors at home. Hence, Sir, Marius returned the salutations of his fellow-citizens with the daggers of assassins ; and, with cool ferocity, marched to the Capitol, amidst the groans of his butchered countrymen, expiring on each side of him ; — hence Sylla's bloody proscription, that turned Rome into a shambles — that tore its victims from the altars of the gods — that made it death for a man to shelter a person proscribed, though it were his son, his brother or his father; and never suflFered the executioners to take breath, till senators, knights, and citizens, to the number of nine thousand, had been inhumanly murdered ! Such, Sir, were the events that characterized the times in which Caesar lived. To such atrocities were the Roman people subject, while the rivalry of their leading men was at liberty to create divisions in the state. Had you. Sir, lived in those times, what would you have called the man, that would have stepped forward to secure your country against the repetition of those 'id scenes ? Would yon not have styled him a friend t iS country — a benefactor to the world — a great man — a demi-god ? Was not Caesar such a character ? Observe what use he makes of power. He does not employ it to gratify revenge, or to awe his countrymen ; on the contrary, the whole of his conduct encourages confidence and freedom ; while ho reforms the government, and enacts the wisest laws for the preservation of order, and for the happiness of the community. They who object to the character of Caesar, condemn it prin- cipally, upon the score of his having erected himself into the sole governor of the republic ; but let it be remembered, that the happiness of a state does not depend so much upon the form of its government, as upon the manner in which that government is administered. A country might be as prosperous and free under what was anciently called a ty- ranny, as where the chief power was vested in the people, / DEBATE. 189 gbeen )untry. ts, the forum ; I being Hence, eitizens erocity, tchered J Svlla's mbles^ is — that )scribed, er ; and senators, and, had he times e Roman men was you, Sir, the man, • country '^ould yon )enefactor jot Caesar of power. awe his s conduct jforms the eservation J. They n it prin- niself into nembered, nuch upon r in which light be as sailed a ty- the people, In short. Sir, when 08esar created himself dictator, and thereby destroyed, virtually, the republican form of govern- ment, he usurped no more than the people did when they erected themselves into a republic, and thereby destroyed the monarchy ; and the existing circumstances which ren- dered the act of the latter expedient, were not more urgent than those which gave rise to the conduct of the former. Caesar, Sir, was a great man ! Robert Gamble, Sen. — Caesar, *5ir, was not a great man. He, who, for his own private views, disobeyed the order of the senate, from whom he held his powtji — iit;. who seduced from their duty the soldiers whom he commanded in trust for the republic — he, who passed the Rubicon, though, by that step, he knew he must inundate his coun- try with blood — he, who plundered the public treasury that he might indulge a selfish and rapacious ambition — he, against whom the virtuous Cato ranked himself, whose very mercy the virtuous Cato deemed a dishonour to which death was preferable, — was not a great man. " Caesar erected himself into a tryant, that he might prevert a repetition of those atrocities which had been committed by Marius and Sylla 1" — what does the gentle- man mean by such an assertion ? Caesar pursues the same measures that Marius and Sylla did— Why ? — To prevent the recurrence of the eflfects which those measures pro- duced ! — He keeps his eye steadfastly upon them — follows them in the sam6 track — treads in their very foot-prints — Why ? That he may arrive at a different point of desti- nation ! What flimsy arguments are these I What were Sylla and Marius that Caesar was not ? If they were ambitious, was not he ambitious ? If they were treach- erous, was not he treacherous ? If they rebelled, did not he rebel ? If they usurped, did not he usurp ? If they were tyrants, was not he a tyrant ? You' were told — the people, from their long continued service in the army, gradually lost the spirit of independ- ence, and that the calamities of the state arose from that cause. Granted — it follows, then, that a spirit of inde- pendence was necessary for the prosperity of the state ; and, consequently, that the way to put a stop to its 190 DEBATE. calamities, was to revive that spirH. Did Caesar do this ? The gentleman says he had the happiness of his country at heart. From his own argument it follows, that this was the way to secure the happiness of his country — Did Caesar adopt it ? — Was it to revive in his countrymen the spirit of independence, that he audaciously stepped from the rank of their servant to that of their master ? — Was it to 'preserve the integrity which fosters that spirit, that he corrupted the virtue of all that came in contact with him, and that he dared to tempt? — Was it for the regeneration of the republic, that he converted it into a tyranny ? — Was it to restore the government to its ancient health' and soundness, that he filled all the offices of the state with his own creatures — the instruments of his usurpation ? — Was it to re-animate the people with a sense of their own dig- nity, that he called them Bruti and Cumcei — that is, beasts and fools — when they applauded the tribunes for having stripped his statues of the royal diadems with which his flatterers had dressed them ? These were the acts of Caesar. Did they tend to restore the ancient virtue of the Roman people ? No, Sir ; they tended to annihilate the chance of ite restoration — to sink the people into a viler abasement — to rob them of the very names of men. But the gentleman has brought forward a very curious argument, for the purpose of proving that the Romans were incapable of being a free people — namely, that their magistrates were the mere echoes of the people. He ad- verts, I suppose, to what were called the tribunes of the people — officers that acted particularly for the plebeian orders, and were generally chosen from their body. But those magistrates, or tribunes were, it seems, the mere voices of the people, and that circumstance rendered the people incapable of being free ! To me, at least, this is a paradox. Who elected these tribunes ? — The people. What were they ? — The* representatives of the people. Whose afiiairs did they manage? — The affairs of the people. To whom were they responsible ? — The people. What should they have been then but the voices, or, as the gentleman has expressed it, the echoes of the people ? But DXBATE. m this ? ountry xt this —Did len the i from Was it that he th him, eration —Was th' and nth his —Was wn dig- that is, nes for IS with yere the ancient nded to e people ames of curious Romans at their He ad- s of the plebeian But he mere ered the ;, this is people. people. le people. What , as the lie? But this circumstance rendered the Roman people incapable of being free ! Did it shackle them to have a control over their tribunes ? Did it enslave them to have a voice in their own measures ? Did it sell them into bondage to have the disposal of their own affairs ? If it did, I should advise you, Sir, not to meddle with that honest man, your steward. Bid him let what farms he pleases; demand what fines he pleases ; cultivate what land he pleases ; fell what timber he pleases ; keep what accounts he pleases ; and make what returns he pleases ; lest by impertinently meddling with your servant, in your own affairs, you rob yourself — ruin your estate — become involved in debt — and end your days in prison I The admirers of Caesar, and, of course, of tliat form of government which was anciently called a tyranny, are ex- tremely fond of under-rating the character of the Romans as a free people ; their liberty they always represent to us as something bordering on excess ; and, following the idea that extremes meet, they describe it as verging into that extreme which naturally leads to despotism. But the hypothesis, which is not borne out by facts, is good for nothing. It was not the liberty which the plebeians en- joyed that was Che cause of their final enslavement. — It was the senate's jealousy of that liberty — the senate's struggles for the control of that liberty — the senate's plunder of that liberty — the senate's desire to annihilate that liberty, which left it in the power of any crafty knave, miscalled a great man, who was sufficiently master of hypocrisy and daring, to set his foot on both the senate and the people, and make himself, as Cassar did, the tyrant of his country ! Francis Archer. — Mr. Chairman — B. A. Gamble. — Mr. Chairman — Francis Archer. — I believe I am in possession of the chair-^I certainly spoke first. B. A. Gamble. — I apprehend that I rose first — How- ever, the point may be easily settled — the Chairman will decide which of us first caught his attention. Chairman. — The last speaker is certainly in possession of the chair. 192 DEBATE. Francis Archer. — I acquiesce in the decision. B. A. Gamble. — When the voice of a single man can operate so instantaneously in composing a difference, who would not approve of a rational and moderate tyranny ? It is not, however, Mr. Chairman, my present object to answer the arguments which have been so ably brought forward to support the negative of this question. I rise, to submit a few observations upon the nature of the ques- tion itself. I take the liberty of stating, that I think it an injudiciously selected question — a vague and indefinite question — a question which does not receive from every mind the same interpretation. I dare assert, Mr. Chair- man, that, in this very assembly, there are various differ- ent opinions with respect to what constitutes a great man. . Some will tell you that greatness consists in rank — some in exploits — some in talents — some in virtue. Thus, Sir, the very premises of our discussion ars unsettled and wavering; and, from unsettled and wavering premises, what can proceed but indefinite and inconclusive argu- ments ? Already do the gentlemen on the opposite side endeavour to strain your question to the construction, that greatness essentially consists in goodness ; and they may quote Mr. Pope, and say " 'Tis phrase 'absurd to call a villain great." Others, again, may insist that greatness depends upon rank, and exclaim with Milton, " Worthiest, • by being good, far more than great or high." Where are we to rest. Sir, upon this doubtful basis? — This "neither . sea nor good dry land I" I confess, Mr. Chairman, that, until this point shall have been disposed of, I cannot hope for an end to the debate ; and, therefore, propose, as an amendment, that, previously to the further discussion of the question, we shall determine, " what it is that consti- tutes a great man ?" Francis Archer. — I oppose the amendment ! I oppose it, because I think it unnecessary, unprecedented, ill-timed, and indecorous. Francis Ward. — I beg your pardon, Mr. Chairman, but I believe there is not any motion before you, as the gentleman's amendment has not been seconded. KoBERT Vance. — Mr. Chairman, I second the amend- ment. II 0/ ai lit PEBATB. 193 a can I, who mny? ject to rought I rise, 5 ques- bink it lefinite i every Chair- j differ- at man. : — some Thus, tied and iremises, ve argtt- isite side ion, that hey may to call a greatness ^''ortbiest, V^here are "neither . nan, that, nnot hope ose, as an suasion of hat consti- l I oppose I, ill-timed, Chairman, you, as the the amend- Chairman. — The gentleman, then, will have the good- ness to submit his amendment in writing. Francis Archer. — I apprehend, Sir, that your recom- mendation involves a question of no small importance; namely, whether the gentleman can write. B. A. Gamble. — I thank the gentleman for his friendly insinuation, and beg leave to assure him, that if I cannot write, my deficiency is far less deplorable than his, who is master of the art of penmanship, and makes a despicable use of it : and I dare assert, that the man, who makes a bad use of his tongue, will never use his pen to much advantage. Mr. Chairman, here is the motion, ready written ; and if the writing is not mine, the dictation is ; and that is more than many a man can say who flourishes upon paper! Francis Archer. — Sir, If the little gentleman that has just snt down, imagines it would give mo any pleasure to hurt his feelings, I assure him he is much mistaken. Mr. Chairman, I object to the amendment on two grounds; first, because it is indecorous with regard to you ; secondly, because it is uncalled for with regard to the question. Your experience, Sir, could never hav? allowed you to propose a question that required revision ; and had you proposed such a question, it would have been our duty to receive it without comment. The question in point does not require revision. You do not ask if Cfcsur was a great warrior, or a great politician ; br' if he was a great man. Surely, Sir, in these enlightened tuaes, we do not inquire what it is that constitutes a great man ? Do we not refuse the name of man to him that violates the laws of morality and religion ? And, if we wish to express that a person is eminently virtuous, do we not use that name without a single epithet ? To say of any one that he is a man, is to give him credit for the noblest endowments of the heart. To say that he is not a man, is to leave hini destitute of any generous principle. The question cannot be viewed in any light but one, namely, as inquiring whether Caesar was a man of great virtues, and justifiable conduct ? If he was so, our opposition will be fruitless — If he was not so, those gentlemen exert their eloquence tp little purpose. 194 DEBATE. B. A. Gamble. — Sir, I hope the big gentleman that has just sat down, will do mc the justice to believe, that as I receive little satisfaction from being oifcndcd, so I am not sedulous to find out cause for offence. If the gentleman is serious in his apology, I ought to be, and I um — satisfied. If he is not serious, I assure him, that I pity the poverty of that man's pretensions, who thinks he can humiliate another, by reflecting upon the dimensions of his body — that least and lowest part of a man I — It is not, Sir, the consideration of five feet, or six, that ever yet operated in achieving a noble action, or performing a virtuous one ; nor have those maxims which have instructed, or those ima- ginations, which have delighted mankind, proceeded from how much a man could measure, in his stockings, the length of his back, or the thickness of his body. Those are con- siderations for your tailor ; and give me leave to assure the worthy gentleman, that though he could overlook me by a full head and a half, it would not give him the advantage of one poor eighth of an inch, with respect to height or breadth of soul or intellect, the proper, the real, the only measure of a man. With regard to my amendment, Mr. Chairman, I am not anxious to press it. That I did not propose it from any disrespectful feeling towards you, I entreat you to believe. I withdraw it, and I beg you will excuse the interruption it has occasioned. Chairman. — I cannot allow the last speaker to with- draw his amendment, without expressing my conviction, that in proposing it, he was actuated solely by the desire of giving the question a greater degree of precision. I own it has been objected to, as not being so definite as it ought to be ; and it is probable, that we might have presented it in a less jbjectionable shape. However, I trust that you will proceed with the discussion ; at the same time, keep- ing in mind, that the greatest talents, and the most brilliant achievements, are not sufficient to constitute ^ great man, unless his ends are virtuous and noble. Francis Archer.— Mr. Chairman, to you, Sir, I am sure I need not apologize for the freedom I have used with regard to the gentleman who last addressed you. Believe me. Sir, had I not known his great natural talents, had I DEBATC. 105 \ that hat as am not smun IB itisfied. poverty iiniliate body- Sir, the irated in lus one; lose ima- ded from bhe length , are con- assure the k me hy a advantage : height or il, the only inieut, Mr. 1 1 did not irds you, I >eg you will ter towith- conviction, y the desire sion. lown 5 as it ought presented it ist that you J time, keep- nost brilliant ^ great man, ,u, Sir, I am aveusedwitu .ou. Believe talents, had 1 not admired and valued them, I should notbavo presumed to ruffle him into resentment, or pique him into retort. I appeared to slight him, because I knew that lie was above slij^ht — I questioned his strenj^th, that ho miu:ht be tempted to exert it ; and I n^oicc at his triumph, ultliouj^h it lias been achieved by my own apparent defeat. But upon what ground are wo to acknowledge that Cresar was a great man ? For my part, I am at a loss to account for the infatuation of those who call him so ? for his chief merit seetus to have consisted in his talents as a warrior; and those talents he certainly employed in a cause that can- not bo defended upon any principle of morality or religion. What species of beings are we, that wo laud to the skies those men whoso names live in the recollection of a field of carnage, a sacked town, or a stormed citadel ? — that we celebrate, at our convivial meetings, the exploits of him, who, in a single day, has more than trebled the ordinary havoc of death ? that our wives and daughters weave gar- lands for the brow whose sweat has cost the groans of widows and of orphans ? — and that our very babes aro taught to twine the arms of innocence and purity about the knees that have been used to wade in blood ? — I say what species of beings are we, that we give our praise, our admiration, and our love, to that which reason, religion, interest, every consideration, should persuade us to con- demn — to avoid — to abhor I I do not mean to say, that war ought never to be waged — there are at times occasions when it is expedient — neces- sary—justifiable ; but who celebrates with songs of triumph those commotions of the elements that call the awful lightning into action— that hurl the inundating clouds to earth — and send the winds into the deep to rouse its hor- rors ? These things are necessary — but we hail them not with shouts of exultation— we do not clap our hands as they pass by us — we do not throng in crowds to their pro- cessions ; we shudder as we behold them ! What species of beings are we ? — We turn with disgust from the sight of the common executioner, who, in his time, has despatched a score or two of victims, and we press to the heels of him that, in a single day, has been the executioner of thousands. 106 DEBATE. 1 ..aolip ♦^•'•la KTCftt Lot «» not C.U Cm^r a K'-', 1-^;^^^ «.mo o.Uer Cis'u-'d «Al'i"l^-''' '•''"••"■)'"!' ' ,,, -u-and Lore wo ;i,k act of libcvahty «»s "^ \„,_l,e »vc"t tU.rty- 3,, raised the money by » ;"^"V Jj •„, their aiversioM- Twt days «ith 11.0H0 !>•••'' «»^";'X poe««und orations, . -> "' '"^ Cttt >te"u,nber of thou, prisoners, and ■nivatcH — takes vu^ » , . • i crueiUcs tlvou. to a man 1 , ,,^ ,,„d promised Was this a Kveat aet m C«9" ^ ^ ,;,,, ,•„,. t!ie so,«s tolsowl,e„.beysu™ed m=.u>^^ and spccobcs wbicli ho 1 aa wi i .^ .^ ),.,„ditti,— he bave kept bis prom"'<^]. ..VlLvtv ;-»>»' ''" '""^ ""'?" tbey bad deprived l^" »' ■^^^*''7 heir diversions -lie „ t\ieir board-lie had part''k-'-n".,,„ i,,,a railed .jt taXt among them i" »;;';; fj^bn, and only exeited then, witliout retort-thveaenul t j^ Chairman, have de "bt at liis f'-eedoms ;--s on d he, ^^^,,^ ^^ „ot one, at least, be misbt h '^^P'^^^-i^ ,,;,„ „bove tbe rest ^-• humour and conhdence h^ V -' ^^^^ ,,„ „„,„ *articuUi.ly ■ one band, whose blunt oftei » ^j„„,^ tbe at- taebment which a ^V^^'^'-f ^3;! „d geneial principle to per -do we app aud that -id a^^.^. ^^^^ ^,^^ , „, of I'lature, -l-h aUows Undn.^^^^^^^^ ^^.^.^_ ,„d ad, iniurv— ii»d vailed at only excited jrmau, have ras tbcre not 1* i\\ce, whoso J the rest?--- . ^iirticulavly duiive tlic at- 3 its attentive cral principle e tlic sense ot ise, and admi- Whnt do wc find him next about ? — llo producc« tho iniagos of Marius! — that man, w!«o, as my worthy friend has s:»id, roturned tho .saUitationsid' his fellow-citizonswith the blows of Ids assassins ; and niarchod to tlic Capitol amidst tho {groans of his butchorcd countrymen, expiring on each side of him — this was not following tho stops of Marius— it was justifying thom — it was expatiating upon them, in tho language of veneration and triumph ! it was inviting to the standard of his ambition every recreant that would sell the vigour of his arm to any cause, no matter how bloody — how unnatural — how immoral — how sacrilegious I I shall notconnnent upon the circumstance of his luiving been two hundred and fifty thousand jmundsin debt, before ho obtained any public office ; neither shall I dwell upon his exhibition of three hundred and twenty pair of gladia- tors — his diversions in the theatre— his processions and entertainments : in which, as Plutarch says, he lar out- shone the most ambitious that had gone before him; and by which he courted the favour of the vile, the witless, tho sensual, and the venal — I shall noi expatiate upon the sharo ho had in Catiline's conspiracy — I shall not track him in his military career, by pointing out the ruin which he left behind him at every step — I shall simply answer those gentlemen, who argue that Cajsar usurped the supreme power for the public good, by examining the characters of the men who abetted him. Were your country, Sir, in a state of anarchy — were it distracted by the struggles of rival parties, drawn out every now and then, in arms against one another — and were you Sir, to attempt a reformation of manners, what qualitica tions would you require in the men whom you would asso ciate with you, in such an undertaking ? What would content you ? — Talent ? — No ! Enterprise? — No ! Cour- age?— No! Reputation ?— No 1 Virtue?— No? Tho men whom, you would select, should possess, not one, but all of these — nor yet should that content you. They must be proved' men — tested men — men, that had, again and again, passed through the ordeal of human temptation — without a scar— without a blemish — without a speck ! You would not seleot the public firebraud — you would not seek 198 DEBATE. your seconds in the tavern or in the brothel — you would not enquire out the man who was oppressed with debts, contracted by licentiousness, debauchery, every species of profligacy 1 Who, Sir, I ask, were Caesar's seconds in his undertaking? Crebonius Curio, one of the most vicious and debauched young men in Rome — a creature of Pom- pey's, bought oft' by the illustrious Caesar I Marcus Anto- nius, a creature of that creature's — a young man so ad- dicted to every kind of dissipation, that he had been driven from the paternal roof — the friend and coadjutor of that Clodius, who violated the mysteries of the Bona Dea — and drove into exile the man that had been called the father of his country ! Paulus iEmilius - a patrician- — a consul — a friend of Pom peys— bought off by the great Caesar with a bribe of fifteen hundred talents! Such, Sir, were the abetters of Caesar. What, then — was Caesar's object ? Do we select extortioners to enforce the laws of equity ? — Do we make choice of profligates to guard tlie morals of society ? — Do we depute atheists to preside over the rights of reli- gion? — What, I say, was Caesar's object? I will not press the answer — I need not press the answer — the premises of my argument render it unnecessary. The achievement of great objects does not belong to the vile — or of virtuous ones to the vicious — or of religious ones to the profane. Caesar did not associate such characters with him for the good of his country— his object was the gratification of his own ambition — the attainment of supreme power ; no mat- ter by what means accomplished — no matter by what conse- quences attended. He aspired to be the highest — above the people !— above the authorities! — above the lawsl — above his country — and in that seat of eminence he was content to sit, though, from the centre to the far horizon of his power, his eyes could contemplate nothing but the ruin and desolation by which ho had reached to it ! Robert Vance. — Mr. Chairman, I solicit your atten- tion. The gentleman says, we ought not to rejoice at the tri- umphs of the warrior 1 Is this position, Sir, to be received without the least restriction ? Let us de.tect the sophistry of those who support the negative of the question. .1 DEBATE. 199 bts, iof his ious *om- Lnto- ) ad' riven that -and her of ul — a jvith a re the ? Do ?— Do ciety ? )f reli- )t press lises of vement irtuous irofane. for the of his no mat- t conse- — above aws 1 — • he was )rizon of the ruin ir atten- the tri- received sophistry A caitiflF 'inters your house at the dead hour of the night, prepared for robbery, and grnsping the instrument of mur- der ! You hear the tread of unknown feet — you rise, come upon the intruder, resist him, and lay him prostrate [ Shall your wife shudder when you approach to tell her she is safe ? Shall your children shrink from you, when you say you have averted the danger that threatened their innocent sleep ? Why should they not ? I'll tell you, Sir, — because you have followed the dictates of reason, of affection, of nature, and of God. Had you not been alarmed — notwithstanding this imminent danger, had you risen in safety, and had you found the ruffian dead at your chamber-door, without a mark of violence upon him — his ready weapon lying by his hand — had you then called your family to behold the spectacle, what would they all have done ? Would not some have fallen upon their knees ? — would not others have stood with uplift hands ? — would not all have been transfixed with gratitude — with adoration — that their Almighty guard had stretched his arm between them and destruction, and marked a limit which the mur- derer should not pass, without the penalty of death ? And is the question changed, because i/ou are the instrument of God ? It would be preposterous to say so. If, then, your wife, your children, and family, shall bless the hand that has been the means of their preservation — if they shall weep for gratitude, and press to you on every side, rejoic- ing in the protection of your arm — shall he not hear the voice of gratulation, whose skill and valor have saved the lives of thousands — have defended cities of matrons and children, not from unexpected destruction, but from de- struction again and again anticipated — approaching before their eyes, and at every step acquiring additional horror ! Sir, there are warriors whose victories should be celebrated with shjuts and songs — for whose brows our wives and daughters should weave garlands, and whose knees our infants should embrace — such warriors as guard i he bound- aries of their native land I Though they have waded through blood, fair is their aspect. Religion is the motto of their standard, and mercy glanuts from their sword. And had not Caesar been such a warrior ? Who were the 200 DEBATE. I I enemies over whom he triumphed, before his rupture with Pompcy ? Barbarians that lived by predatory warfare ! — Tlie people whose ancestors had once sacked Rome ! — who were the restless invaders of the lloman territory, and, in one of their incursions, annihilated a consular army of a hundred and twenty thousand men !— a nation of robbers 1 — ignorant of the laws of arms — regardless of leagues and treaties — the bloodhounds of havoc — that destroyed for the mere gust of destroying ! But a very curious attack has been made upon the character of Caesar, namely, that he put a few pirates to death ! I question if the worthy gentleman understands what a pirate of those times signified. Probably, he con- ceives him to have been a rough, honest, free, merry kind of fellow, that loved a roving life, and indulged himself, only now and then, in a little harmless plunder ! He will not expect to be told, that he was a man, enrolled in a formidable band — possessing, at times, a fleet of a thou- sand galleys — making frequent descents upon the Italian coasts — plundering villas — temples — and even towns! — carrying off consuls and their lictors ! — tearing virgins from the arms of their aged parents ! — murdering, in cold blood, the prisoners whom they had taken, particularly Romans — and spreading such terror over the seas, that no merchant-vessel dared to put out of port, and large districts of the empire were threatened with famine ! Surely the gentleman must be ignorant of these facts ; otherwise, he would not have chosen so untenable a position for attack. As to C£esar's forgetting that the pirate had been his host, it might indeed have been some ground for animadversion had he ever remembered that he was so. Some gentlemen, truly, may be so much in love with hospitality, as to admire it, though it should be forced upon them with handcuffs and fetters ; and may have so curious a taste for visiting, as never to go abroad, except upon the requisition of a bailiff; or value an entertainment unless the host turns the key upon them, and feasts them in a dungeon with Avails a yard thick, and windows double-barred. But, as such fancies cannot be called common, Caesar, I think, may escape without censure for not having indulged in them. DEBATE. 201 vritli ■e I— -who 1(1, in r of a 3bers 1 3S and cd for Dtt the ates to rstands he con- ry kind bimself, He will ed in a a thou- . Italian owns ! — I- virgins », in cold L'ticularly !, that no ) districts lurely the erwise, he )r attack. I his host, uidversion rentlemen, 5 to admire handcuffs ,r visiting, sition of a t turns the rith walls a it, as such think, may ia them. And Caesar is to be condemned, because he produced the images of Marius, and revived his memory and honours I Now, Sir, I conceive, a weaker ground of accusation could not have been selected-rfor, the mere circumstance of Marius's having been related to Caesar by marriage, pre- sents a very natural excuse for such a proceeding — parti- cularly as it took place upon the death of Caesar's aunt, who was the wife of Marius. I fear the worthy gentleman does not follow Bacon's recommendation, and chew and digest the nutritious food which historical reading presents to the mind ; otherwise, he must have perceived that Cae- sar's conduct, on this occasion, not only admitted of excuse, but even challenged commendation. Let him return to the page which he has examined,.! fear, too superficially, and he will find, that, up to that time, several of Sylla's partisans — partisans in his murders — remained in Rome — lived there, in peace, in safety — perhaps in power ; he will find the general assertion, that Caesar's conduct in having revived the memory of Marius, incensed the nobility ; and the general assertion, that Catulus accused him before the senate — this Catulus had been the distinguished friend of Sylla; had been raised by Sylla to the consulship; and, at gyllu's death, had preserved his remains from the de served dishonour of an ignominious burial, had procured him the most miignificent funeral that had ever been seen in Rome, and caused the vestals and pontific^s to sing hymns, in praise of the man, who, as it has been justly said, converted Rome into a shambles with his butcheries! — he will find that Caesar answered the invectives of Ca- tulus, and was acquitted with high applauses; and, that he, thereupon, attacked the remaining partisans of Sylla, brought them to trial, and having convicted such as had imbrued their, hands in the blood of their fellow-citizens, caused them to be condemned to death, or to perpetual banishment ! Let us, Sir, do justice to the dead, though their interests be parted from ours, by the lapse of a hundred generations — and, as this noble act of Caesar's followed the revival of his uncle's honours, let us believe that he revived his uncle's honours, for the purpose of performing this noble i^ 1 I i DEBATE. 202 . „ v^pitiff opposed to the n.em'.rr ff Syl^;»'° and guarded Bacnlege from . -^^mining the character of '^"^Z"" „tleman tnua* *Lrhe'ad.^t^»g»'"«'^*'"o';;c sin.^le fact-Bome waa "^olXrJ^^J '^^'/CS »Bto Cesar's gove™- "^r i «Se secures the happiness, prosper! y , iS^a-- -^.^S.,. you are not^aehted to William ^ Cleery.^^^ addressed you, I am ^u^ .^ title, ^vhich becom j ^^^ ^^ ^^^ i le^^^^^ . ,n ^ear with a pcuhar grac , ^^ ]yir. ^^a^onate Let me P'Xfwnaby of the nurse, and the prattUn=^^ thechildren? w , '^^profitable ; "om w»^ ^ ^gst, 7:rd:lt^^CyV-"2"%"t t ™ur own little domest.o «'f«l« '^ynulness of your joy Stiroteed you to the acquamtance a,y talents lor spe^^l^i^S- DEBATE. 203 sed to m ven- rtained jociated n must itters of ind ^ith neasures Lome 'was g govern- ^ that be, d glory of ndebted to ji sure tbe ■ of a wife, f et ceteras. n your new your having 70U 3oy of a v^hich you vently trust, . Chairman, ' affectionate Jve sustained, steal yoursett prattling ot Your conde- contemplation , livelier zest, H^illfeel>^« ss of your joy, a the day that of the worthy ed myself upon •etbre, attribute 1 my present presumption to the surprise which I feel at learning that you luanafjed your courtship so cunningly, as to bring it to a conclusion without the knowledge of the misf^ess you wooed, the parson that performed the cere- mony, and even without your own privacy I However, Sir, as I have risen, I shall venture an obser- vation or two upon the question before me. And here, Mr. Chairman, I feel myself tolerably bold, for I have a good cause, and thnt is more than half the battle ~ Sir, it is the whole of the battle — it is the victory itself — for, though Truth should be repulsed a hundred 'times, she will be triumphant at last. Defeated again and again, she returns unwearied, whole, and confident, to the charge — because she is immortal I " As easily may you the intrenchant air ' ' Witli your keen sword impress, as make her bleed." But this kind of style does not belong to me, Mr. Chair- man. Unfortunately, I am a fellow so given to jesting, that I am always thought to be most in jest when -I appear to be serious ; therefore. Sir, I must talk to you in my own way — catching at the ideas, just as they present them- selves, and giving them to you without examination, or order, or system, or anything else that bespeaks a man of a sedate habit of thinking — confiding everything, as I said before, to the goodness of my cause. And, first of all. Sir, I have not the least idea of calling a man great, because he has been a great conqueror ! I do not like what are called your great conquerors 1 your gen- tlemen that have slain their tens of thousands, and fought more battles than they are years old 1 I care not in what cause they may have been engaged : that is the last con- sideration ; for the very best cause maybe entrusted to the very worst man — that is, with respect to morals, prin- ciples, and so forth. It is not virtue that is requisite to form such characters ; it is the contempt of death — enter- prise— ^cunning - skill — resolution — and these may be found in a man who does not p ssess one single recommendation besides. .How many a renowned general has turned his arms against the very cause, in whose defence he first took them up, as Coesar did — Caesar, who was commissioned by 204 DEBATE. 1^ ) :! his country to subdue the Gauls, aud then coniTnissionod himself to subdue his country ? I wonder that any man, who has a regard for common sense, or plain honesty, can so far forget himself as to justify CBBsar's conduct in this particular. I shall state a very simple case to you, Mr. Chairman. You have a very large estate ; yon employ a couple of stewards to assist you in the mana<^-ement of it; and you send one of them to reside in the most distant part of it. Well, Sir, this steward is a fellow of address ; he manages his little government very skilfully ; keeps your tenants in due subjection, and your servants in adujirable order ; at the same time taking care to pecure himself in their good graces by indulgences, and gifts, and flatteries and every effective means of engaging esteem. Well, Sir, in process of time, you determine to dismiss this steward ; but you retain the other. You recall him that he may give an account of himself, and receive his discharge. Does he obey you? No: he does not stir a step! He sets his {ft-ms a-kimbo, and thus accosts your messenger — " Mr. Jack — or Thomas — or William— or Walter — present my duty to my master, and say, that when steward such- a-one receives his discharge, I'll accept mine. I should like to see your face, Mr. Chairman, upon your receiving his message. I fear it would require something more than the caresses of your wife, and the prattling of your infant family, to preserve it in its natural smoothness. What would you do with the rascal ? I need not follow the sup- position farther. You would do what -you could. You would have him fined — imprisoned — whipped— put in the pillory — hanged ; and yet. Sir, such a man — though act- ing upon a larger scale — was the immortal Caesar. It makes one sick to hear the cause of such a fellow advo- cated I And let me recall to the recollection of these gen- tlemen the truth, that greatness cannot consist in anything that is at the disposal of chance, or rather, that exists by chance. Had not fortune favoured Caesar in his first bat- tles, he would have been recalled, perhaps brought to trial and banished; and then he would have been little Caesar. And now, Sir, in the name of common sense, what DEBATE. 205 man, , can I this , Mr. »loy a )f it; tpart s; he your lirable jelt* in tteries U,Sir, sward; % le may charge. I I He snger — present d such- should ceiving )re than infant What the sup- You It in the ugh act- 5sar. It 3W advo- lese gcn- anything exists by first bat- ought to een little ise, what mighty acts did Caesar perform, when he became the mas- ter of liis country? We are told that the .servile senate created him reformer of manners — a fine reformer of man- ners, whose own manners stood so much in need of reform- ing ! Sir, they should have rather made him inspector of markets, for it was in that capacity he shono the m st con- spicuously. It is said, he limited the expense of feasts, and that his officers used to enter the houses of the citizens, and snatch from off their tables any meats that were served up, contrary to his prohibition ! , I should like to see a constable enter my parlour at dinner-time, and hand away a dish just as it had been placed upon the table ! I'd cut his fingers off with the carving-knife! But the best of it is, his restrictions affected q^rtain orders only. Men of rank might do as they pleased. They nii;:ht l.ave their litters, and their embroidered robes, and their jewels— ay 1 and, I dare say, their dishes without limit of number, or of quality, or of variety. Give me no great CsQsar for the governor of my country. Give me such government as leaves the management of a man's table to himself Give me such cities as have markets without informers — where a cook may ride in a carriage as fine as his own gilt and figured pastry, and a pin-maker may set you down to as many different dishes as there are minikins in a row I In fine, Mr. Chairman, my opinion of Caesar is this— He was a very fine fighter — a very bad patriot — a very selfish master — and a very great rogue ! Robert Templeton. — Sir, if my worthy friend has pre- sented you with a wife and family, the last speaker is not behind-hand with him, for he has given you a large estate to maintain them — an estate so large as to require two stewards to manage it ! The gentleman has made an af- fecting appeal to your feelings, in favour of your old com- panions, the bachelors of your acquaintance ; but, I trust, his oratory will not be so successful as to induce you to pay the' tax for them, while this assembly presents so many fair and irresistible arguments in favour of the marriage state. As tb the gentleman's eloquence, in opposition to Caesar's greatness, he himself tells you what degree of importauce 206 DEBATE. you are to attach to his opinions, for, he very inpjenuously says, you are not to cxjjcct anythin:^ sorious I'roiu him, but tliat you must accept of uiidiiiestud ideas, and rash con- clusions, in the place of sober reflection and lou;icfil rea- soning; : his arguments, therefore, pass for notliinj;, and do not add to the strength of his cause, or subtract from that of ours. In one instance, however, I shall comment upon what he has said, because a man should not be frivolous even in his jesting. I allude t© his wit respecting the restraint that Caesar laid upon luxury. Surely the gentleman can- not have been so great a victim to his mirth as to have laughed away the fruit of his academic labours. Surely he cannot have forgotten that Caesar had proud authority for the policy he pursued in the respect alluded to. Surely he remembers a few of the laws of Lycurgus, particularly that which prescribed the diet of the Spartans, and enjoined all ranks to eat without distinction in one common hall, where the simplest repast was provided. Surely I need not remind him, that the heroes of Greece fared upon black broth, and drew their glory no less from thf mode- ration of their appetite than from the excess of their cou- rage and patriotism. The gentleman says, it makes him sick to hear the cause of such a man as Caesar advocated I I shall prescribe for his sickness. Let him take a dose of common sense, and use a little mental exercise — that will remove his sickness. I am sure it makes me sick to hear the arguments of Cae- sar's opponents. Sir, he was a man of stupendous loftiness of mind — a man above all influence of fortune — ^himself, where other men would have been — nothing I Observe him when he is surprised by the Nervii. His soldiers are employed in pitching their camp. The ferocious enemy sallies from his concealment,. puts the Roman cavalry to the rout, and falls upon the foot. Everything is alarm, confusion, and dis- order. Every one is doubtful what course to take — every one but Caesar I He causes the banner to be erected, the charge to be sounded, the soldiers at a distance recalled — all in a moment 1 He runs from place to place — his whole I ■ : i DEBATE. 207 )usly ,but con- [ rea- ud do n t\iat 1 vrViat sven va. jstraint m can- to have Surely athority , Surely tlcularly enjoined non ball» y I need red upon [\ir mode- their cou- the cause jscribe for sense, and s sickness. Its of Cse- f mind — a fhere other m when he smployed in ies from his at, and falls jn, and dis- take— every erected, the je recalled — ^his whole frame is in notion — his words — his looks — ^his motions — hia postures, exhort his men to renieniber their former valour I He draws them up, and causes the siujnal to bo p;ivon--all in a moment ! The contest is doubtful and dreadful. Two of hia lef>ions are entirely surrounded. He seizes a buckler from one of the private men — puts himself at the head of his broken troops — darts into the thick of the battle — res- cues his legions, and overthrows his enemy I But, if you would contemplate GsBsar in a situation where he is peculiarly himself, observe him attempting to cross the sea in a fishing-bark. A storm arises — the waves and winds oppose his course — the rowers, in despair, desist from their labour 1 Csesar, from the time he had en- tered the boat, had sat in silence habited in the disguise of a slave, unknown to the sailors or the pilot. Like a genius who could command the elements, he stands before the mas- ter of the vessel in his proper shape, and cries, "Go on boldly, my friend, and fear nothing ! Thou carriest Caesar and his fortune along with thee ! " Really, Sir, I cannot command my patience, when I hear those gentlemen indulge themselves in invectives against a man, the twentieth part of whose excellence divided amongst the whole of them, would make them heroes. I shall certainly vote for the affirmative of the question. William Simms.— Sir, if my worthy friend was sick, I hope he is now in a fair way of recovery. The gentle- man has considered his case, and prescribed for him ; and he certainly could not have fallen into better hands. You must confess, Mr. Chairman, you preside over an assembly whose members entertain a very respectful sense of your merits. One has made you the father of a happy family — another has bestowed on you a handsome estate. Allow me. Sir, to recommend a physician to you — one who will be a faithful guardian of your health— who will watch, with skilful eye, the delicate complexion of your wife, and regulate with gentle and innocent doses, your children's habit of body. What, Sir, is the blessing of a wife, of child- ren, of fortune, if sickness spreads languor through our nerves, or fever through our veins ? Believe me. Sir, the gentleman's merit does not consist in his diploma only : it 208 DEBATE. . has its foundation .in knowledge, in science, and experience. Nor is his ability confined to his mere profossionail walk : he is, as you may perceive from the speech he has just made you, a philosopher and a moralist. Unlike Macbeth's physician, he — " Can minister to a mind diseased, Phtck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of tlie brain. And, with some sweet oblivious antidote, % Oleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff That weighs upon the heart." I regret, however, Mr. Chairman, that notwithstanding my eulogium, I must dissent from him with regard to his admiration of Caesar — I cannot, I confess, behold those incidents he just named, in Caesar's life, in the same li*iht that he does. When Caesar was surprised by the Nervii, he had a great cause at stake, and his conduct was the natural result of that consideration. That consideration made him collected and gave him coolness to employ the readiest means of extricating himself from the danger that threatened him. Besides, he was no raw commander ; he had subdued the Helvetians, the Germans, and the Bel- gians ; nor was his rescuing the two legions that were sur- rounded by the enemy so wonderful an exploit. He was joined, at that critical moment, by the force he had left to guard his baggage : nor was his success more the conse- quence of his courage in leading his men into the thickest of the fight, than the enthusiasm of his soldiers who fol- lowed their general, and whose dearest honour was, then, most particularly concerned in his safety. Caesar, an ambitious general attempted to cross the sea in a fishing-bark. A lover swam across the Hellespont. Caesar's fortunes and life were at stake. He had only a handful of men with him, and Antony was loitering, as he supposed near Brundusium. Leander had his mistress at stake. I will not, Mr. Chairman, trespass any longer on your patience. I am sure you will agree with me, that great exploits must have noble ends — and then, indeed, they make the executor great. i rienoe. walk : IS just cbeth's itanding rd to bis ,\d those ime UM,bt e Nervii, ) was the iideration mploy the nger that inder; he the Bel- were sur- He was had left to the conso- le thickest :b who fol- was, then, OSS the sea Hellespont, had only a Bring, as he mistress at y longer on ;h me, that len, indeed, DEBATE. , "Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, la but the mor« a fool — the more a ktiave. Who noble emls by noble meiins obtains, Or, failinpf, smiles in exile or in chains- Like Kood Aiircliiis, let him sigh, or bleed Like Socrates — that man is greAt indeed I " 209 I' Henry Herbert. — Mr, Chnirman, a pentlenian hns said, that the man whose rule secures the happiness, pros- peritv, and glory of a nation, deserves to rule it. With equal confidence I assert, that the man who obtains the rule of his country by violating its laws — how much soever he may contribute to make it happy, prosperous, and great — does not deserve to rule it. He sets a bad example — an example the more pernicious, as his virtues seem to palliate the atrocity of his usurpation. He leaves it in (he power of any wretch who may possess his ambition, without his excellence, to quote his name, and use it as an authority for the commission of similar crime. No gentleman has yet presumed to say that Cassiir's con- duct was sanctioned by the laws of Home — those laws that guarded more cautiously against the approaches to tyranny than against the invasion of a foreign enemy — those laws which justified any private man in putting to death the person whom he could afterwards prove to have been guilty of meditating usurpation. Csesar, then, did not deserve to rule his country, for he violated its laws. A good man respects the laws of his country ; Csesar was not in this view a good man — Csesar was not in this view a great man ; for goodness is an essential part of greatness. Let us now examine how far he deserved to rule his country, because, as it has been said, he secured its hap- piness, prosperity, and greatness. Sir, I do not believe that he accompli.>hed any such object. To dispose of all offices and honours just as his own interest, or fancy, directed his choice of the candidates ; to create new offices for the gratification of his favourites and creatures, making the pub- lic property the recompense of public delinquency ; to de- grade the venerable senate, by introducing into it persons whose only claim to that dignity was their servile devotion to his interests— common soldiers, the sons of freedmen, 210 DMATE. foreiRnoM, und so forth; — I say, Sir, to ndopt Buch mcns- urcs as tlio.so Imd not a tiMidoticy to Hccure tl.o ij»:r»pint!89 or prosperity of liis country. But upon whtu ground docs the {^oiitlomaii assert that Ciosar secured tlic greatness of his country ? Was it by cxtondinji; the fame of its arms ? There was another kind of fame, which the llonian people valued more than their fame of arms — the fame of their liberty. There was another kind of greatness, dearer to their pride than all the wealth of honour, that could result from foreign victory — that kiml of jj;reatnes8 which glori a not in the establishinjj;, but in the destroying of tyranny ; which drove a Turquin from the throne, and ca' t an Appius into prison ; which called their proudest herocn i. i i tho heads of armies and the rule of conquered nations, into the equal ranks of private citizens. A gentleman, speaking of Coosar's benevolent disposition, and of tho reluctance with which he entered into the civil war, observes, " How long did he pause upon tho brink of the llubicon I" How came he to the brink of that river ? How dared he cross it ? Shall private men respect the boundaries of y rivate property, and shall a man pay no re- spect to the boundaries of his country's rights ? How dared he cross (liat river ? Oh ! but he paused upon the brink 1 He should have perished on the brink ere he had crossed it I Why did he pause ? Why does a man's heart palpitate when he is on the point of committing an unlawful deed ? Why does the very murderer, his victim sleeping before him, and his glaring eye taking the measure of the blow, strike wide of the mortal part ? Because of conscience I ' Twas that made Caesar pause on the brink of the Rubi- con. Compassion ! What coTrnasaion ? The compassion of an assassin, that feels a momuutiu y shudder as his weapon begins to cut! Caesar pau . I H), .. 'I'obrint ./' the Ku- bioon I What was the Rubicoii t 'liie boundary of Cae- sar's province. From what did it separate his province ? From his country. Was that country a desert ? No : it T7as cultivated and fertile, rich and populous. Its sons were men of genius, spirit, and generosity. Its daughters Wfire lovely, susceptible, and chaste. Friendship was its in- hikOitant — Love was its inhabitant — domestic affection was DEBATE. 211 mcafl- i docs (CSS of" unns ? people f their arcr to 1 result jrlori a granny ; \ppiufl roil I the into the (position, tlie civil I hiink of lat river ? •spect the )ay no re- iow dared \\o brink \ crossed it I t palpitate rfui deed? \ngi before :' the blow, •onsciencel ' the Hubi- compassion his weapon ,, • the Hu- lary of Cse- provinee? 7 No: it Its sons Its daughters ip was its in- affectionwas its inhibllnnt Lihcriy ffM its inlinbltnnt — fill IkmukIM by the stream nt th<' Rubicori ! \Vl»at was ( 'ivsar, tWat stood upon t' '^ brink lled by the orders of his country — maintained by the treasure of his country — fighting under the banners of his country — seduced by his flatteries, his calumnies, and hi bribes, to espouse the fortunes of a traitor ! Sir, he nevir sincerely sought an accommodation. Had he wished to :!Ccomplish such an object, he would have adopted such uk asures as were likely to obtain it. He would have obeyed *\\q order of the senate, disbanded his troops, laid down his command, and appeared in Rome a private citizen. Such conduct would have procured him more dignity, more fame, njore glory, than a thousand sceptres ; he would not have come to parley with the trumpet and the standard, the spear and the buckler ; he would have proved himself to have been great in virtue. Upon the same principle, his clemency must go for nothing — clemency I To attribute clemency to a man is to imply that he has a right to be severe — a right to punish. Caesar had no right to punish. Hia clemency I It was 2i2 DEBATE. the clemency of an outlaw — a pirate — a robber — who strips his prey, but then abstains from slayiiijj!: Iiiiu ! You were also told, that he paid the most scrupulous respect to the laws. lie paid the most scrupulous respect to the laws !— he set his foot upon ; and, in that prostrate condition, mocked them with respect ! But, if you would form a just estimate of Caesar's aims, look to his triumphs after the surrender of Utica— Utica, more honoured in being the grave of Cato, than Rome in having been the cradle of Caesar. You will read. Sir, that Caesar triumphed four times. First, for his victory over the Gauls ; secondly, over Egypt ; thirdly, over Pharnac^s ; lastly over Juba, the friend of Cato, His first, second, and third triumphs were, we are told, magnificent. Before him marched the princes and noble foreigners of the countries he had conquered ; his soldiers, crowned with laurels, followed him ; and the whole city attended with acclamations. This was well — the conqueror should be honoured. His fourth triumph approaches — as magnificent as the former ones. It does not want its royal captive, its soldiers crowned with laurels, or its flushed conqueror to grace it; nor is it less honoured by the multitude of its spectators — but they send up no shout of exultation ; they heave loud sighs, their cheeks are frequently wiped; their eyes are fixed upon one object, that engrosses all their senses — their thouuhts — their aflec- tions. It is the statue of Cato, carried before the victor's chariot 1 It represents him rending open his wound, and tearing out his bowels, as he did in Utica, when Roman liberty was no more ! Now ask if Caesar's aim was the welfare of his country. Now doubt if he was a man governed by a selfish ambition. Now question whether he usurped for the mere sake of usurping? He is not con- tent to triumph over the Gauls, the Egyptians, and Phar- naces : he must triumph over his own countrymen ! He is not content to cause the statue of Scipio and Petreius to be carried before him : he must be graced by that of Cato 1 He is not content with the simple eflfigy of Cato ; he must exhibit that of his suicide ! He is not satisfied to insult the Romans with triumphing over the death of liberty ■ I '.- DEBATE. 213 jTT — vrho il i-upulous 3 respect prostrate ir's aims, t— titica, Rome in ,ur times, er Egypt; friend of ;re, we are rinces and aered ; bis ; and the >vas well — th triumph 3. It does ath laurels, 3S honoured send up no heir cheeks one object, -their affec- the victor's wound, and hen Roman din was the was a man whether he is not con- ^ and Phar- yiuenl He [ Petreius to hatofCato! he must M to id to insult of liberty they must gaze upon the representation of her expiring \igonies, and mark the writhings of her last — fatal struj»gle I Mr. Chairman, I confidently anticipate the triumph of our cause. Fkancis Ward. — Sir, with very great reluctance I present myself to your notice at this late hour. We have proved that your patience is abundant — we cannot presume that it is inexhaustible. I shall exercise it for only a few moments. Were our cause to be judged by the approba- tion which our opponents have received, it would appear to be lost. But that is far from being the case, Mr. Chair- man. The approbation they receive is unaccompanied by conviction. It is a tribute, and a merited one, to their eloquence, and has not any reference to the justice of the part they take. Our cause is not lost — is not in danger — does not apprehend danger. We are as strong as ever, as able for the contest, and as confident of victory. We fijiht under the banners of Caesar ; and Caesar never met an open enemy without subduing him. We grant that Caesar was a usurper ; but we insist that the circumstances of the times justified his usurpation. We insist that he became a usurper for the good of his country — for the ^Ivation of the republic— for the preser- vation of its very existence. What must have been the state of Roman liberty, when sucli men as Marius and Sylla could become usurpers? Monsters, against whose domination nature and religion exclaimed I Gentlemen talk very prettily about" the criminality of usurpation. They know it is a popular theme. All men are tenacious of their property ; and the gentlemen think that, if they can carry the feelings of their auditors along with them in this respect, they may be certain of success in every other. We have not any objection to their flattering themselves with such fancies ; but the cause of justice shall not be sacrified to their gratification. Surely those gentlemen must be ignorant of the state of the republic in those times ; surely they have never heard or read that massacre was the common attendant of public elections ; that the candidates brought their money, openly, to the place of election, and distributed it among the heads of the 214 DEBATE. different factions ; that those ftictions employed force and violence in farour of thTe persons who paid them ; and that scarce any oflfice was disposed of without being disputed sword in hand, and without costing the lives of many citizens. A gentleman very justly said, that the love of country is the first, the second, and the last principle of a virtuous mind. Now, Sir, it appears that the Roman people sold thtir country — its oflSces — its honours — its liberty ; sold them to the highest bidder, as they would sell their wares, a sheep, or the quarter of an ox ; and that, after they had struck the bargain, they threw themselves into it, and fought manfully for the purchaser ! Cicero and Cato lived in these times — Cicero, that saved Rome from the conspi- racy of Catiline — Cato, who would not survive the liberty of his country. The latter attempted to stop the progress of the corruption ; but his efforts were fruitless. He could neither restrain its progress nor mitigate its virulence. Thus, Sir, the independence of the republic was virtually lost before Caesar became a usurper; and therefore, to say that Caesar destroyed the independence or liberty of his country, is to assert that he destroyed a nonentity. It was happily remarked, that the power of interfering with the tribunes was fatal to the Roman people. Yes, Sir, it was fatal. The tribunes ought to have been inde- pendent of the people, from the moment of their entering on their ofiice to that of their laying it down. You were told the people had a right to the direction of their own affairs. Yes, Sir, they had a right. We do not dispute that. But it was a right by the abandonment of which they would have been gainers. It was a fatal right, by grasping which they lost everything. It was an inconsist- ent right, for they stood as much in need of being pro- tected from themselves as of being protected from the nobility. Why docs any man put his aflairsinto the hands of another, but because he cannot manage them so well hunself ? If he cannot manage them so well himself, why should he interfere with the person to whose conduct he intrusts them? Because he has a right. I know he has ; but it is an unfortunate right, for it leaves it in his DEBATE. 215 rce and ind that lisputed ,f many country virtuous jople sold rty, sold eir wares, they had •o it, and Cato lived. the conspi- the liberty tie progress He could J virulence. as virtually herefore, to 31- liberty ot mentity. I interfering )Cople. Yes, e hcen inde- lieir entering You were of their own not dispute ,ent of which ,tal right, by a an inconsist- of being pro- itcd from the into the hands , them so well U himself, why ose conduct he 1 know he leaves it m his power to ruin himself, in spite of good counsel and friend- ship. Gentlemen talk of what are called the people, as if they were the most enlightened part of the community ! Are they the guardians of learning, or of the arts, or of the sciences ? Do we select counsellors from them, or judges, or legislators ? Do we inquire among them for rhetoricians, logicians, or philosophers ? — or rather do we not consider th^m as little cultivated in mind — little regulated by judg- ment — much influenced by prejudice — greatly subject to caprice — chiefly governed by passion ? Of course. Sir, I speak of what are generjilly called the people — the crowd, the mass of the community. But you ask me for a proof of the bad eflFects that resulted to the Roman people I'roni the liberty they possessed of legislating directly for them- selves. Look, Sir, to the proceedings of the forum ? What they did they undid ; what they erected they threw down ; they enacted laws and they repealed them ; they elected patriots and they betrayed them ; they humbled tyrants and they exalted them ! You will find that the great con- verted the undue power which the people possessed, into the means of subjug iting the people. If they feared a popular leader, it was only necessary to spread by their emissaries a suspicion of his integrity, or set the engine of corruption to work upon that frailest of all fortifications, popular stability ; and thus. Sir, they carried their point, humbled their honest adversaries, and laughed in the face of the wisest and most salutary laws. Mr. Chairman, I think that the times in which Caesar lived called for and sanctioned his usurpation. I think his object was to extinguish the jealousies of party, to put a stop to the miseries that resulted from them, and to unite his countrymen. I think the divided state of the Roman people exposed them to the danger of a foreign yoke, from which they could be preserved only by receiving a domestic one. I think that Caesar W(ts a great man ; and I conclude my trial of your patience with the reply made to Brutus by Statilius, who had once determined to die in Utica with Cato, and by Favonius, an esteemed philosopher of those times. Those men were sounded by 216 DEBATE. < ! Brutus, after he had entered into the conspiracy for mur- dering Cassar. The former said, he " would rather patiently suffer the oppressions of an arbitrary master, than the cruelties and disorders which generally attend civil dissensions." The latter declared, that, in his opinion, " a civil war was worse than the most unjust tyranny." James Gibson. — Mr. Chairman, as tne opener of the debate, I am entitled to reply to the general arguments which have been adduced, with the view of supporting the negative of the question ; but it is a privilege of which I think it unnecessary to avail myself. I cannot, however, refrain from expressing my astonishment that such a question should have been proposed ; or that, in any as- sembly of rational" men, there should exist a diversity of opinion upon a subject with respect to which mankind have been unanimous in their judgment; namely, that Caesar was a great man. Francis Archer. —Mr. Chairman, I beg leave to say that the gentleman is somewhat premature in addressing you, at this stage of the debate. Several gentlemen, I am persuaded, are exceedingly anxious to deliver their senti- ments upon the question, decided as the gentleman repre- sents it to be by the unanimous consent of mankind. Chairman. — If any gentleman who has not yet spoken, is anxious to deliver his opinions, I shall be most happy to hear them ; though I must confess that, protracted as the debate has already been, it appears to me that our n re eligible course would be to adjourn the question. Several Voices. — Adjourn 1 adjourn I Chairman. — As it seems to be the general opinion that my suggestion should be adopted, I declare the debate accordingly adjourned till next vacation. In the mean time, I am persuaded that I shall consult the feelings of all those who have taken part in the debate, by rendering our common thanks to the friends who have listener to it with most indulgent patience. ■ for mur- d rather ster, than tend civil \ opinion, inny." ler of the arguments (orting the )t' which I ;, however, at such a in any as- liversity of 1 mankind finely, that 3ave to say addressing emen, 1 am their senti- 2man repre- ikind. , yet spoken, most happy )rotracted as latour ir ve )n. opinion that e the debate [n the mean le feelings of by rendering listener to it ^'