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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 &tlttt 
 
 JJV PROSE AND FERSE, 
 
 FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS, 
 
 AS RECITED BY 
 
 WILLIAM SIMM, 
 
 elocutionist. 
 
 IN FOUR PARTS. 
 
 HUDDERSFIELD: 
 
 PRINTED AT THE OFFICE OF T. KEMP. 
 
 1821.
 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 W. SIMM cannot but feel himself highly gratified by the 
 increasing approbation and growing attendance with which 
 the following course of readings and recitals have bceu ho- 
 noured. They have been sanctioned by the warmest and 
 roost general approbation of audiences, consisting of Ladies 
 and Gentlemen of the first respectability in Manchester, 
 Chester, Birmingham, Nottingham, Leicester, Hull, 
 Leeds, &c. &c. 
 
 The Lecturer returns grateful acknowledgments to the 
 Tutors (many of whom are principals in some of the first 
 Seminaries in England,) for the liberal encouragement be- 
 stowed on his humble endeavours to enlighten and enter- 
 tain the youthful mind, and engage to science and virtue, 
 To form the youthful mind to a correct and elegant taste, 
 to enable them to understand and relish the beauties of 
 fine writing, the eloquence of Demosthenes and Cicero, 
 the sublimity of Homer, the superior majesty of Milton, 
 the solemnity of Young, the tender pathos of Cowper, and 
 the wit of Stevens; to present the same instructive enjoy- 
 ments from the labours of the best Statesmen, Divines, 
 Politicians, and Poets in the British Empire. 
 
 Not only to furnish them to enjoy recitals, but to 
 strike a spark of light and life in the mind of the amiable 
 and active youth ; whereby they may be inured to read 
 with propriety of thought and feeling, to their own ad- 
 vantage, and to the noble enjoyment of their dear and 
 venerable parents and friends. 
 
 Huddtrsfifld, August, 1821. 
 
 919398
 
 's ^elections. 
 
 THE PERFECT SPEAKER; OR, COMPLETE 
 ORATOR. 
 
 IMAGINE to yourselves, a Demosthenes, addressing 
 the most illustrious assembly in the world, upon a 
 point, whereon the fate of the roost illustrious of 
 nations depended. How awful such a meeting! 
 How vast the subject! Is man possessed of talents 
 adequate to the present occasion ? Adequate yes, 
 superior. By the power of his eloquence, the au- 
 gustness of the assembly is lost in the dignity of the 
 orator; and the importance of the subject, for a 
 while, superseded, by the admiration of his talents. 
 With what strength of argument, with what powers 
 of the fancy, with what emotions of the heart, does 
 he assault and subjugate the whole man, and, at 
 once, captivate his reason, his imagination, and his 
 passions! To effect this must be the utmost effort 
 of the most improved state of human nature. Not a 
 faculty that he possesses, but is here exerted to its 
 A
 
 highest pitch. All his internal powers are at work; 
 all his external testify their energies. Within, the 
 memory, the fancy, the judgment, the passions, are 
 all busy: without, every muscle, every nerve, is 
 exerted; not a feature, not a limb, but speaks. The 
 organs of the body, attuned to the exertions of the 
 mind, through the kindred organs of the hearers, 
 instantaneously, and, as it were, with an electrical 
 spirit, vibrate those energies from soul to soul. 
 Notwithstanding the diversity of minds in such a 
 multitude, by the lightning of eloquence they are 
 inched into one mass; the whole assembly, actuated 
 in one and the same way, become, as it were, but 
 one man, and have but one voice. The universal 
 cry is Let us march against Philip Let us 
 for our liberties Let us conquer, or die ! 
 
 DR. DODD'S SPEECH, DELIVERED IN 
 COURT, PREVIOUS TO HIS SENTENCE. 
 
 MY LOUD, 
 
 I now stand before you a dreadful example of 
 human infirmity. J entered upon public life with the 
 expectations common to young men, whose educa- 
 tion has been liberal, and whose abilities have been- 
 flattered ; and when I became a clergyman, considered
 
 myself as not impairing the dignity of the order. 1 
 was not idle, nor, 1 .hope, aii useless minister. 1 
 taught the truths of Christianity with the zeal of 
 conviction, and the authority of innocence. My 
 labours were approved, my pulpil became popular; 
 and I have reason to believe, that of those who heard 
 me, some have been preserved from sin, and some 
 have been reclaimed. Condescend, my lord, to 
 think, if these considerations aggravate my crime, 
 liuw much they must embitter my punishment! 
 
 Being distinguished and elated by the confidence 
 of mankind, I had too much confidence in myself; 
 awl thinking my integrity what others thought it, 
 established in sincerity, and fortified by religion, I 
 did not consider the danger of vanity, nor suspect 
 the deceitfulness of my own heart. The day of con- 
 flict came, in temptation surprised and overwhelmed 
 me. I committed the crinfe, which I entreat your 
 lordship to believe, that my conscience hourly repre- 
 sents to me in its full hulk of mischief and malignity. 
 Many have been overpowered by temptation, who 
 are now among the penitent in heaven. 
 
 To an act now waiting the decision of vindica- 
 tive justice, I will presume to oppose the counter- 
 balance of almost thirty years (a great part of the 
 life of man) passed in exciting and exercising char- 
 ity; in relieving such distresses as I now feel, in
 
 administering those consolations which I now want. 
 I will not otherwise extenuate my offence, than by 
 declaring, what many circumstances make probable, 
 that I did not intend to be finally fraudulent. Nor 
 will it become me to apportion my punishment, by 
 alleging that my sufferings have not been much less 
 than my guilt. I have fallen from reputation, which 
 ought to have made me cautious; and from a fortune 
 which ought t have given me content. I am sunk 
 at once into poverty and scorn ; my name and my 
 crime fill the ballads in the streets, the sport of the 
 thoughtless, and the triumph of the wicked. 
 
 It may seem strange that, remembering what I 
 have lately been, I should still wish to continue what 
 I am. But contempt of death, how speciously soever 
 it might mingle with Heathen virtues, has nothing suit- 
 able to Christian penitence. Many motives impel me 
 to beg earnestly for life. I feel a natural horror of a 
 violent death, and the universal dread of untimely 
 dissolution. I am desirous of recompensing the in- 
 jury I have done to the clergy, to the world, and to 
 religion, and to efface the scandal of my crime by the 
 example of my repentance. But, above all, I wish 
 to die with thoughts more composed, and calmer 
 preparation. The gloom of a prison, the anxiety of 
 a trial, and the inevitable vicissitudes of passion, 
 leavt be mind little disposed to the holy exercises
 
 of prayer and self-examination. Let not a little time 
 be denied me, in which I may, by meditation and 
 contrition, be prepared to stand at the tribunal of 
 Omnipotence, and support the presence of that Judge 
 who shall distribute to all according to their works, 
 who will receive to pardon the repenting sinner, and 
 from whom the merciful shall obtain mercy. 
 
 For these reasons, amidst shame and misery, I 
 yet wish to live, and most humbly entreat, that I 
 may be recommended by your lordship to the cle- 
 mency of his majesty. 
 
 THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. 
 
 A MAN, in many a country town, we know, 
 Professes openly with death to wrestle; 
 
 Ent'riug the field against the grimly foe, 
 Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle. 
 
 Yet some affirm, no enemies they are; 
 But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair, 
 Who first shake hands before they box, 
 Then give each other plaguy knocks, 
 With all the love and kindness of a brother: 
 So (many a suffering patient saith) 
 Tho' the apothecary fights with death, 
 Still they're sworn friends to one another.
 
 G 
 
 A member of this .Ssculapian line, 
 Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne: 
 No man could better gild a pill; 
 Or make a bill ; 
 
 Or mis axlraught, or bleed, or blister; 
 Or draw a tooth out of your head; 
 Or chatter scandal by your bed; 
 
 Or give a clyster. 
 
 Of occupations these were quantum suff. 
 Yet, still, he thought the list not long'eijough; 
 
 And therefore midwifery he chose to pin to't. 
 This balanced things: for if he hurl'd 
 A few score mortals from the world, 
 
 He made amends by bringing others into't. 
 
 His fame full six miles round the country ran; 
 
 In short, in reputation he was solus; 
 All the old women called him "a fine man!" 
 
 His name was Bolus. 
 
 Benjamin Bolus, tho' in trade, 
 
 (Which oftentimes will genius 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 who cure a phthysic ?
 
 Of poetry the patron-god, 
 
 Apollo patronises physic. 
 
 Bolus loved verse ; and took so much delight in't, 
 That his prescriptions he resolv'd to write iu't. 
 
 No opportunity he e'er let pass 
 
 Of writing the directions on his labels, 
 In dapper couplets, like Gay's fables; 
 
 Or, rather, like the lines in Hudibras. 
 
 
 
 Apothecary's verse! and where's the treason? 
 
 'Tis si,mply honest dealing : not a 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, 
 
 .S.mc three miles from the town it might he four; 
 
 To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article 
 
 In pharmacy, that's called cathartical; 
 
 And, on the label of the stuff, 
 
 He wrote this verse, 
 Which one would think, was clear enough 
 
 And terse: 
 
 " When taken 
 
 " To be well shaken." 
 
 Next morning, early, Bolus rose; 
 And to the patient's house he goes; 
 Upon his pad,
 
 8 
 
 Who a vile trick of stumbling ha;I : 
 
 It was, indeed, a very sorry hack; 
 But that's of course : 
 For what's expected from a horse 
 
 With an apothecary on his back ? 
 
 Bolus arriv'd, and gave a doubtful 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 little one behind ; 
 As if the knocker fell by chance, 
 
 Out of their fingers. 
 
 The servant lets him in, with dismal face, 
 Long as a courtier's out of place 
 
 Portending some disaster; 
 John's countenance as rueful look'd and grim. 
 As if the apothecary had physick'd him, 
 
 And not his master. 
 
 " Well, how's the patient ?" Bolus said 
 
 John shook his head, 
 Indeed ! hum ! ha! that's very odd ! 
 '* He took the draught ?" John gave a nod, 
 " Well, how ? what then ? speak out you dunce !" 
 " Why then," says John " we shook him once."
 
 9 
 
 " Shook him ! how ?' Bolus stammer'd out : 
 
 "We jolted him about." 
 
 " Zounds! shake a patient, man! a shake won't do;" 
 " No, Sir and so we gave him two;" 
 
 Two shakes ! od's curse ! 
 
 " !T\toiild make the patient worse." 
 " It did so, Sir ! and so a third we tried." 
 " Well, and whatthen?'* "then, Sir, my masterdicd." 
 
 FARE THEE WELL! 
 
 FAKE thee well ! and if for ever 
 Still for ever, fare thee well 
 Ever though unforgiving, never 
 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 Would that breast were bar'd before thee 
 Where thy head so oft hath lain, 
 While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
 Which thou ne'er can'st know again; 
 Would that breast by thee glano'd over, 
 Every inmost thought could shew ! 
 Then thou would'stat last discover 
 *Twas not well to spurn it so 
 Though the world for this commend thee 
 Though it smile upon the blow, 
 Even its praises must offend thee, 
 Founded on another's woe 
 B
 
 10 
 
 Though my many faults defaced me ; 
 
 Could no other arm be found 
 
 Than the one which once embraced me 
 
 To inflict a cureless wound ? 
 
 Yet oh, yet thyself deceive not 
 
 Love may sink by slow decay, 
 
 But by sudden wrench, believe not, 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away j 
 
 Still thine own its life retaineth 
 
 Still must mine though bleeding beat, 
 
 And the undying thought which paiueth 
 
 Is that we no more may meet. 
 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 
 Than the wail above the dead : 
 
 Both shall live but every morrow 
 
 Wake us from a widowed bed. 
 
 And when thou would'st solace gather 
 
 When our child's first accents flow 
 
 Wilt thou teach her to say, " Father !" 
 
 Though his care she must forego? 
 
 When her little hands shall press thee 
 
 When her lip to thine is prest 
 
 Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee- 
 
 Thiuk of him thy love had bless'd. 
 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 
 Those thou never more raay'st see 
 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 
 With a pulse yet Irue to me.
 
 11 
 
 All ray faults perchance tliou knowcst 
 All my madness uone can know; 
 All my hopes where'er thou goest 
 Wither yet with thee to go 
 Every feeling hath been shaken, 
 Pride which not a world could bow 
 Bows to thee by thee forsaken 
 Even my soul forsakes me now: 
 But 'tis done all words are idle 
 Words from me are vainer still ; 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 Force their way without the will. 
 Fare thee well! thou disunited 
 Torn from every nearer tie 
 Scared in heart - and lone and blighted 
 More than this 1 scarce can die. 
 
 LADY BYRON'S ANSWER TO HER LORD'S 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 POWERLESS are thy magic numbers. 
 To revive affection's flame 
 In a bosom where it slumbers 
 Shrouded; now with duty's name. 
 
 Sacred there 'twill rest for ever; 
 Death alone its gleams remove;
 
 12 
 
 Still it lives, hit never, never, 
 Can it more awake to love. 
 
 Did neglect's cold aspects chill it? 
 Did unkindness quench its ray ? 
 Did thy wayward passions quell it? 
 Harold let thy bosom say. 
 
 Yes, that breast has been my pillow 
 Yet the treacherous wound it gave, 
 As the smooth deceitful billow 
 Wrecks the bark that trusts the wave. 
 
 Envy's dire forebodings slighting, 
 Deaf alike to friendship's voice, 
 Pride elating hope delighting, 
 I alone was Harold's choice. 
 
 Sad distinction ! dear bought glory 
 Was that heart's unstable prize 
 Now the theme of gossip's story 
 Thine's exposed to vulgar eyes. 
 
 Yet 'twas not the fond illusion 
 Fame's bright halo o'er thee spread 
 Other dreams of dear delusion 
 Faith and young affection led ! 
 
 Not a suppliant world around me 
 Could have lured thte from my side,
 
 13 
 
 No the tender bands that bound me 
 Hands but thine could ne'er divide. 
 
 But 'tis done ; the arm that held me, 
 Late the cherish'd gift of heaven, 
 Now unclasps no more to shield me, 
 And but no ! thou art forgiven. 
 
 Never can the heart forget thee 
 Which has felt a love like mine, 
 Nor our smiling infant let me 
 While she bears those eyes of thine. 
 
 Oh farewell farewell for ever ! 
 Once in happier hour we met : 
 Now wilh blasted hopes we sever, 
 Soon our sun of joy is set 
 
 Who has felt the desolation 
 Of the earthquake's dreadful reign, 
 And would choose the same foundation 
 For his peaceful bower again ? 
 
 EULOGIUM ON SCOTLAND. 
 
 Bar Eloquence. 
 
 SCOTLAND! a nation cast in the happy medium 
 between the spiritless acquiescence of submissive
 
 14 
 
 poverty, and the sturdy credulity of pampered wealth 
 and ease; ardent, and adventurous, and persevering, 
 winging her eagle flight against the blaze of every 
 science with an eye that never winks, and a wing 
 that never tires. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF A COUNTRY EXPOSED 
 TO THE INSULTS OF CRUEL SOLDIERY. 
 
 IF, for instance, you wished to convey to the mind 
 of au English matron the horrors of that direful pe- 
 riod, when, in defiance of the remonstrance of the 
 ever to be lamented Abercrombie, our poor people 
 were surrendered to the licentious brutality of the 
 soldiery, by the authority of the state, you would 
 vainly endeavour to giv-e her a general picture of lust, 
 and rapine, and murder, and conflagration. Instead 
 of exhibiting the picture of an entire province, select 
 a single object, and even in that single object, do not 
 release the imagination of our hearer from its task, 
 by giving more than an outline. Take a cottage; 
 place the affrighted mother of her orphan daughters 
 at the door, the paleness of death upon her face, and 
 more than its agonies in her heart, her aching eye, 
 her anxious ear, struggle through the mists of closing 
 day to catch the approaches of desolation and disho-
 
 15 
 
 nonr. The ruffian gang arrives; the feast of plunder 
 begins; the cup of madness kindles in its circulation. 
 The wandering glances of the ravisher become con- 
 centrated upon the shrinking and devoted victim. 
 You need not dilate; you need not expatiate: the 
 unpolluted mother, to whom you tell the story of 
 horror, beseeches you not to proceed; she presses 
 her child to her heart; she drowns it in her tears; 
 her fancy ditches more than angels' tongues could 
 describe; at a single view she takes in the whole mi- 
 serable succession offeree, of profanation, of despair, 
 of death. So it is in the question before us. If any 
 man shall hear of this day's transaction, he cannot 
 be .so foolish as to suppose that we have been confined 
 to a single character, like those now brought before 
 you. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF AN INFORMER. 
 
 BUT the learned gentleman is further pleased to say, 
 that the traverse has charged the government with 
 the encouragement of informers. This, gentlemen, 
 is another small fact that you are to deny, at the 
 hazard of your souls, and upon the solemnity of your 
 oaths. You are upon your oaths to say to the sister 
 country, that the government of Ireland uses no such
 
 16 
 
 abominable instruments of destruction as informers. 
 Let me ask you honestly what do you feel, when in 
 my hearing, when in the face of this audience, you 
 are called upon to give a verdict that every man of 
 us, and every man of you, know, by the testimony 
 of your own eyes, to be utterly and absolutely false? 
 I speak not now of the public proclamation of inform- 
 ers, with a promise of secrecy, and of extravagant 
 reward; I speak not of the fate of those horrid 
 wretches who have been so often transferred from the 
 table to the dock, and from the dock to the pillory ; 
 I speak of what your own eyes have seen, day after 
 day, during the course of this commission, from the 
 box where you are now sitting; the number of horrid 
 miscreants, who avowed upon their oaths that they 
 had come from the very seat of government from the 
 castle where they had been worked upon by the 
 fear of death, and the hopes of compensation, to give 
 evidence against tfteir fellows; that the mild and 
 wholesome councils of government are holden over 
 these catacombs of living death, where the wretch 
 that is buried a man, lies till his heart has time to 
 fester and dissolve, and is then dug up a witness! 
 Is this fancy, or is it a fact? Have you not seen 
 him, after his resurrection from that tomb, after hav- 
 ing been dug out of the region ol death and corrup- 
 tion, make his appearance upon the table, the living
 
 17 
 
 image of life and death, and the supreme arbiter of 
 both? Have you not marked when he entered, how 
 the stormy wave of the multitude retired at his ap- 
 proach ? Have you not marked how the human 
 heart bowed to the supremacy of his power in the 
 undissembled homage of deferential horror? How 
 1m glance, like the lightning of heaven, seemed to 
 rive the body of the accused, and mark it for the 
 grave, while his voice warned the devoted wretch of 
 woe and death; a death which no innocence can es- 
 cape, no art elude, no force resist, no antidote pre- 
 vent: there was an antidote a juror's oath but 
 even that adamantine chain, that bound the integrity 
 of man to the throne of eternal justice, is solved and 
 melted in the breath that issues from the informer's 
 mouth; conscience swings from her moorings, and 
 the appalcd and affrighted juror consults his own 
 safety in the surrender of the victim. 
 
 ORIGIN OF ELOQUENCE. 
 
 ELOQUENCE is the art of persuasion. Its most 
 essential requisites are, solid argument, clear method, 
 and an appearance of sincerity in the speaker, with 
 such graces of style and utterance,, as shall invite 
 and command attention. Good sense must be its 
 C
 
 18 
 
 foundation. Without this, no man can be truly elo- 
 quent ; since fools can persuade none but fools. 
 Before we can persuade a man of sense, we must 
 convince him. Convincing and persuading, though 
 sometimes confounded, are of very different import. 
 Conviction affects the understanding only; persua- 
 sion, the will and the practice. It is the business of 
 the philosopher to convince us of the truth: it is that 
 of the orator to persuade us to act conformably to it, 
 by engaging our affections in its favour. Conviction 
 is, however, one avenue to the heart ; and it is that 
 which an orator must first attempt to gain; for no 
 persuasion can be stable, which is not founded on 
 conviction. But the orator must not be satisfied 
 with convincing; he must address himself to the 
 passions; he must paint to the fancy, and touch the 
 heart; and hence, beside solid argument and clear 
 method, all the captivating and interesting arts, both 
 of composition and pronunciation, enter into the idea 
 of eloquence. 
 
 Eloquence may be considered as consisting of 
 three kinds, or degrees. The first and most inferior, 
 is that which endeavours only to please the hearers. 
 Such, in general, is the eloquence of panegyrics, 
 inaugural or funeral orations, addresses to great men, 
 and other harangues of this kind. This ornamental 
 art of composition may innocently amuse and enter-
 
 19 
 
 tain the mind ; and may be connected, at the same 
 time, with very useful sentiments. But it must be 
 acknowledged, that where the speaker intends only 
 to shine and to please, there is no small danger of 
 art being strained into ostentation, and of the com- 
 position becoming tiresome and insipid. 
 
 A second and superior degree of eloquence is, 
 when the speaker proposes, not merely to please, but 
 likewise to inform, to instruct, to convince; when 
 he is employed in removing prejudices against him- 
 self and his cause; in selecting the most proper ar- 
 guments, stating them with the greatest force, dis- 
 posing of them in the best order, expressing and 
 delivering them with propriety and beauty ; and 
 thereby preparing us to pass that judgment, or favour 
 that side of the cause to which he desires to bring us. 
 Within this degree, chiefly, is employed the elo- 
 quence of the bar. 
 
 Yet there remains a third, and still higher de- 
 gree of eloquence, by which we are not only con- 
 vinced, but are interested, agitated, and carried 
 along with the speaker; our passions arise with his; 
 we share all his emotions; we love, we hale, we re- 
 sent, as he inspires us; and are prepared to resolve, 
 or to act, with vigour and warmth. Debate, in po- 
 pular assemblies, opens the most extensive field for 
 the exercise of this species of eloquence ; and the 
 pulpit likewise admits it.
 
 20 
 
 It is necessary to remark, that this high species 
 of eloquence is always the offspring of passion. By 
 passion, we mean that state of the mind in which it 
 is agitated and fired by some object it has in view. 
 Hence the universally acknowledged power of en- 
 thusiasm in public speakers affecting their audience. 
 Hence all studied declamation, and laboured orna- 
 ments of style, which show the mind to be cool and 
 unmoved, are incompatible with persuasive eloquence. 
 Hence every kind of affectation in gesture and pro- 
 nunciation, diminish so much the merits of the speaker. 
 Hence, in fine, the necessity of being, and of being 
 believed to be, disinterested and in earnest, in order 
 to persuade. 
 
 In tracing- the origin of eloquence, it is not ne- 
 cessary to go far back into the early ages of the world, 
 or to search for it among the monuments of Eastern 
 or Egyptian antiquity. In those ages, it is true, 
 there was a certain kind of eloquence; but it was 
 more nearly allied to poetry than to what we proper- 
 ly call oratory. Whilst the intercourse among 
 men was unfrequent, and force and strength were tilt- 
 principal means employed in deciding controversies, 
 the arts of oratory, and persuasion, of reasoning and 
 debate, could be little known. The first empires 
 that arose, the Assyrian, and Egyptian, were of the 
 despotic kind. A single person, or at most a few,
 
 21 
 
 held the reins of government. The multitude were 
 accustomed to a blind obedience; they were driven, 
 not persuaded ; and consequently, none of those re- 
 finements of society which make speaking an object 
 of importance, were as yet introduced. It is not till 
 the origin of the Greek Republic, that we perceive 
 any remarkable appearance of eloquence as the art of 
 persuasion ; and these opened to it such a field as it ne- 
 ver had before, and perhaps, has never again, since that 
 time, experienced. Greece was divided into a num- 
 ber of little states. These were governed, at first, 
 by kings, who were not unmeaningly termed tyrants, 
 and who being successively, by the wisdom of the 
 people, expelled from their dominions, were succeed- 
 ed by a multitude of democratical governments found- 
 ed nearly upon the same plan, animated by the same 
 glorious spirit of freedom, mutually jealous, and ri- 
 vals of each other. Among these, Athens shone 
 forth with a superior lustre. In this state, arts of 
 every kind, but especially eloquence were brought to 
 the highest perfection. We shall pass over the orators 
 who flourished in the early period of this republic, and 
 take a view of the great Demosthenes, by whom elo- 
 quence was brought to the highest and most unrivalled 
 splendour. Not formed by nature either to please or 
 to persuade, he struggled with and surmounted, the 
 most formidable impediments. He shut himself up
 
 22 
 
 in a cave, that he might study with less distraction. 
 He declaimed by the sea shore that he might be used 
 to the noise of a tumultuous assembly, and with 
 pebbles in his mouth, that he might correct a defect 
 in his speech. He practised at home with a naked 
 sword hanging over his shoulder, that he might 
 check an ungraceful motion to which he was subject. 
 Hence the example of this great man affords the 
 highest encouragement to every student of eloquence, 
 since it shows how far art and application could avail, 
 for acquiring an excellence which nature appeared to 
 have denied. 
 
 No orator had ever a finer field than Demosthe- 
 nes, in his Olynthiacs and Philippics, which are his 
 capital orations; and undoubtedly, to the greatness 
 of the subject, and to that integrity and public spirit 
 which breathe in them, they owe a large portion of 
 their merit. The subject is, to excite the indignation 
 of his countrymen against Philip of Macedon, the 
 public enemy of the liberties of Greece; and to guard 
 them against the treacherous measures, by which that 
 crafty tyrant endeavoured to lull them into a neglect 
 of their danger. To attain this end, we see him use 
 every proper means to animate a people distinguished 
 by justice, humanity, and valour; but in many in- 
 stances become corrupt and degenerate. He boldly 
 accuses them of venality, indolence, and indifference
 
 23 
 
 to the public good; while, at the same time, he re- 
 minds them of their former glory, and of their pre- 
 sent resources. His contemporary orators, who were 
 bribed by Philip, and who persuaded the people to 
 peace, he openly reproaches as enemies to their 
 country. He not only prompts to vigorous measures, 
 but teaches how they are to be carried into execu- 
 tion. His orations are strongly animated and full of 
 the impetuosity and ardour of public spirit. His 
 composition is not distinguished by ornament and 
 splendour. It is an energy of thought, peculiarly 
 his own, which forms his character, and raises hitn 
 above his species. He seems not to attend to words, 
 but to things. We forget the orator, and think of 
 the subject. He has no parade and ostentation; no 
 studied introductions; but is like a man full of his 
 subject, who, after preparing his audience by a sen- 
 tence or two, for the reception of plain truths, enters 
 directly on business. 
 
 The style of Demosthenes is strong and concise; 
 though sometimes, it must be confessed, harsh and 
 abrupt. His words are highly expressive, and his 
 arrangement firm and manly. Negligent of lesser 
 graces, he seems to have aimed at that sublime 
 which lies in sentiment. His action and pronuncia 
 tion arc said to have been uncommonly vehement; 
 and which, from the manner of his writings, we
 
 24 
 
 should readily believe. His character appears to 
 have been of the austere, rather than of the gentle 
 kind. Htr is always grave, serious, passionate, never 
 degrading himself, nor attempting any thing like 
 pleasantry. If his admirable eloquence be in any 
 respect faulty, it is that he sometimes borders on the 
 hard and dry. He may be thought to want smooth- 
 ness and grace; which is attributed to his imitating 
 too closely the manner of Thucydides, who was his 
 great model for style, and whose history he is said 
 to have tranrcribed eight times with his own hand. 
 But these defects are more than atoned for, by the 
 masterly force of masculine eloquence, which, as it 
 overpowered all who heard it, cannot, in the present 
 day, be read without emotion. 
 
 ROMAN ELOQUENCE. 
 
 HAVING treated of the state of eloquence among the 
 Greeks, we now proceed to consider its progress 
 among the Romans; where we shall find one model, 
 at least, of eloquence, in its most splendid and cul- 
 tivated form. The Romans derived their eloquence, 
 poetry, and learning from the Greeks, and were, con- 
 sequently, far inferior to them in genius for all these 
 accomplishments. They had neither the vivacity
 
 25 
 
 nor sensibility 5 their passins were not so easily 
 moved, nor their conceptions so vigorous; in com- 
 parison of them they were a phlegmati* people. 
 Their language hore resemblance to their character ; 
 it was regular, firm, and stately; but wanted that 
 expressive simplicity, that flexibility to suit every 
 species of composition, for which the Greek tongue 
 is peculiarly distinguished. And hence, by compa- 
 rison, we shall always find, that in the Greek pro- 
 ductions there is more native genius ; in the Roman 
 more regularity and act. 
 
 Since the Roman government, during the re- 
 public was of the popular kind, public speaking no 
 doubt, became early the means of acquiring power, 
 honour, and distinction But in the rude, unpolished 
 times of the state, their speaking could hardly de- 
 serve the name of eloqueace. It was not till a 
 short time preceding the age of Cicero, that the 
 Roman orators rose into any reputation. Crassus and 
 Autumns seem to have been the most eminent: but 
 as none of their productions are extant, nor any of 
 Horlensius's, who was Cicero's rival at the bar, 
 it is not necessary to transcrite what Cicero has said 
 of them, and of the character of their eloquence. 
 The object most worthy of our attention is Cicero 
 himself, whose name alone suggests to us whatever 
 is splendid in oratory. With his life and character, 
 D
 
 26 
 
 in other respects, we are not at present concerned. 
 We shall view him only as an eloquent speaker, and en- 
 deavour to remark both his virtues and defects. His 
 virtues are, beyond doubt, superlatively great. la 
 all his orations his art is conspicuous. He begins, 
 commonly, with a regular exordium, and with much 
 address preposesses the hearers, and studies to gain 
 their affections. His method is clear, and his argu- 
 ments are arranged with exact propriety. In a su- 
 perior clearness of method he has an advantage over 
 Demosthenes. Every thing appears in its proper 
 placej he never tries to move till he has attempted 
 to convince; and in moving, particularly the softer 
 passions, he is highly successful. No one ever 
 knew the force of words more than Cicero. He rolls 
 them along with the greatest beauty and magnifi- 
 cence j and, in the structure of his sentences, is emi- 
 nently curious and exact. He is always full and 
 flowing; never abrupt. He amplifies every thing; 
 yet though his manner is generally diffuse, it is often 
 happily varied, and accommodated to the subject. 
 When an important public object rouses his mind, 
 and demands indignation and force, he departs con- 
 siderably from that loose and declamatory manner to 
 which he at other times is addicted, and becomes 
 very forcible and vehement. 
 
 This great orator, however, is not without his
 
 27 
 
 defects. In most of his orations there is too much 
 art, even carried to a degree of ostentation. He 
 seems often desirous of obtaining admiration, rather 
 than of operating conviction. He is sometimes, 
 therefore, showy rather than solid; and diffuse where 
 he ought to have been urgent. His sentences are 
 always round and sonorous ; they cannot be accused 
 of monotony, since they possess variety of cadence; 
 hul from too great fondness for magnificence, lie is 
 on some occasions deficient in strength. Though 
 the services which he had performed to his country 
 were very considerable, yet he is too much his own 
 panegyrist. Ancient manners, which imposed fewer 
 restraints on the side of decorum, may in some de- 
 gree excuse, but cannot entirely justify, his vanity. 
 
 Whether Demosthenes or Cicero be the most 
 perfect orator, is a question on which critics are by 
 no means agreed. Fenelon, the celebrated Arch- 
 bishop of Cambray, and author of Telemachus, 
 seems, in our opinion, to have stated their merits 
 with great justice and perspicuity. His judgment is 
 given in his Reflections on Rhetoric and I'oetry. 
 We shall translate the passage, though not, it is to 
 be feared, without losing much of the spirit of the 
 original. " I do not hesitate to declare," says he, 
 " that 1 think Demosthenes superior to Cicero. I am 
 persuaded no one can admire Cicero more than I do.
 
 28 
 
 lie adorns whatever he attempts. He does lionoui' 
 to language. He disposes of words in B. manner pe- 
 culiar to himself. His style has great variety of 
 character. Whenever he pleases he is even concise 
 and vehement; for instance, agarnst Catiline, against 
 Verres, against Anthony. Bui ornament is some- 
 what visible in hts writings. His art is wonderful, 
 but it is perceived. When the orator is providing for 
 the safety of the republic, he forgets not himself, nor 
 permits others to forget him, Demosthenes seems to 
 escape from himself, and to see nothing but his 
 country. He seeks not elegance of expression; he 
 produces it unthinkingly. He is superior to admira- 
 tion. He makes use of language, as a modest man 
 loes of dress, only to cover him. He thunders, he 
 lightens. He is a torrent which carries every thing 
 before it. We cannot criticise, because we are not 
 ourselves. His subject enchahis our attention, and 
 makes us forget his language. We lose siht of 
 him : Philip alone occupies OUT minds. I am de- 
 lighted with both these orators; but I confess I arm 
 less affected by the infinite art and magnificent elo- 
 quence of 'Cicero, than by the rapid simplicity of 
 Demosthenes." 
 
 The empire of eloquence, among the Romans, was 
 exceedingly short. It expired with Cicero. Nor 
 can we wonder at this being the case, since liberty
 
 29 
 
 vas no more; and since the government of Rom, 
 \vu-s delivered ovi-r to a siicoe&simii ff the most execra- 
 ble tyrants that ever disgraced and scourged tl* 
 human race. 
 
 CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IN ALL ITS 
 PARTS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION, DIVISION, NARRATION, AND 
 EXPLICATION. 
 
 HAVING already considered what is peculiar to three 
 great fields of public speaking; popular assemblies, 
 the bar, and the pulpit; we shall now treat of what 
 is common to them all, and explain the conduct of a 
 discourse, or oration, in general. 
 
 The parts which compose a regular formal ora- 
 tion, aresrx; the exordium or introduction; the state 
 and the division of the subject; narration or explica- 
 tion; the reasoning or arguments; the pathetic part ; 
 the conclusion. It is not necessary that these should 
 enter into every public discourse, or should always 
 be admitted in the order which we have mentioned. 
 There are many excellent discourses in which some 
 of these parts ar altogether omitted. But as they 
 are the nirtiiral and constituent parts of a regular ora-
 
 30 
 
 lion, and as, in every discourse, some of them must 
 occur, it is agreeable to our present purpose, to ex- 
 amine each of them distinctly. 
 
 The design of the introduction is to conciliate the 
 good opinion of the hearers, to excite their attention; 
 and to render them open to persuasion. When a 
 speaker is previously secure of the good will, the at- 
 tention, and the docility of his audience, a formal 
 introduction may, without any impropriety, be omit- 
 ted. Respect for his hearers will, in that case, only 
 require a short exordium, to prepare them for the 
 other parts of his discourse. 
 
 The introduction, where it is necessary, is that 
 part of a discourse which requires no inferior care. 
 It is always important, to begin well; to make a fa- 
 vourable impression at first setting out, when the 
 minds of the he*arers, as yet vacant and free, are 
 more easily prejudiced in favour of the speaker. We 
 must add also, that a good introduction is frequent- 
 ly found to be extremely difficult. Few parts of a 
 discourse give more trouble to the composer, or re- 
 quire more delicacy in the execution. 
 
 An introduction should be easy and natural. It 
 should always be suggested by the subject. The 
 writer should not plan it till after he has meditated 
 in his own mind the substance of his discourse. By 
 taking an opposite course, and composing in the first
 
 place an introduction, the writer will often find, that 
 he is either led to lay hold of some common-place to- 
 pic, or that instead of the introduction being; accom- 
 modated to the discourse, he is under the necessity of 
 accommodating the whole discourse to the intro- 
 duction which he had previously written. 
 
 In this part of a discourse, correctness of ex- 
 pression should be carefully studied. This is pecu- 
 liarly requisite on account of the situation of the 
 hearers. At the beginning, they are more disposed 
 to criticise than at any other period ; they are then 
 unoccupied with the subject or the arguments; their 
 attention is entirely directed to the speaker's style 
 and manner. Care therefore, is requisite, to prepos- 
 sess them in his favour; though too much art must 
 be cautiously avoided, since it will then be more 
 
 y detected, and will derogate from that persua- 
 sion which the other parts of the discourse are in- 
 tended to produce. 
 
 Modesty is also an indispensable characteristic 
 of every judicious introduction. If the speaker begins 
 with an air of arrogance and ostentation, tbe self-love 
 and pride of his hearers will be presently awakened, 
 and will follow him with a very suspicious eye through 
 the rest of his discourse. His modesty should ap- 
 pear not only in his expressions, but in his whole 
 manner; in his looks; in his gestures, and iu the
 
 32 
 
 modulation of his voice. Every audience is flattered 
 by those marks of respect and avrc which are paid 
 them by the person vrho add/eases them. The mo- 
 desty, however, of an introduction, should In-tray 
 nothing mean or abject. Together with modesty and 
 deference to his hearers, the orator sit on Id shew a 
 certain sense of dignity arising from a persuasion of 
 the justice or importance of the subject of which he is 
 tospeak. Except in particular cases, the orator should 
 not put forth all his strength at the beginning, but 
 should rise and grow upon his hearers as his discourse 
 advances. The introduction is seldom the place for ve- 
 hemence and passion. The audience must be gradu- 
 ally prepared, before the speaker can venture on strong 
 and impassioned sentiments. Yet when the subject is 
 of such a nature, that the very mention of it naturally 
 awakens some passionate emotion ; or when the un- 
 expected presence of some person or object in a popu- 
 lar assembly, inflames the speaker; either of these 
 will justify an abrupt and vehement exordium. 
 
 Thus the appearance of Catiline in the Roman 
 senate, renders the violent opening of Cicero's first 
 oration against him very natural and proper. " Quous- 
 que tandem abutere, Catikina, patientia nostra?" 
 How long, O Catiline, wilt thou abuse our 
 patiencei' And Bishop Alterbury, in preaching 
 from this text, " Blessed is he whosoever shall not
 
 33 
 
 be offended in me," ventures on this bold exordium: 
 " And can any man then, be offended in thec, blessed 
 Jesus?" Which address to our Saviour he conti- 
 nues for some time, till he enters on the division of his 
 subject. But these introductions should be attempt- 
 ed by very few, since they promise so much vehe- 
 mence and ardour through the rest of the discourse, 
 that it is extremely difficult to satisfy the expectation 
 of the hearers. 
 
 An introduction should not anticipate any mate- 
 rial part of the subject. When topics or arguments, 
 which are afterwards to be enlarged upon, are hinted 
 at, and in part exhibited in the introduction, they lose 
 |ioii their second appearance, the grace of novelty. 
 The impression intended to be made by any principal 
 idea, has always the greatest advantage, when it is 
 entire, and in its proper place. 
 
 The last circumstance which we shall observe 
 with regard to an introduction, is, that it be pro- 
 portioned both in length and in kind to the discourse 
 which follows it. In length, since nothing would be 
 more absurd than to erect an extensive portico before 
 a diminutive building; and in kiud, since it would be 
 uo less ridiculous to load with glittering ornaments 
 the vestibule of a plain dwelling-house; or to make 
 the approach to a monument as gay and lively as that 
 to an arbour. 
 
 E
 
 34 
 
 After the introduction, what generally succeeds 
 next in order, is the proposition or enunciation of the 
 subject; concerning which we shall only observe, 
 that it should be as clear and distinct as possible, and 
 expressed without affectation, iu the most concise 
 and simple manner. To this commonly succeeds the 
 division, or the laying down the method of the dis- 
 course ; in the management of which, the following 
 rules should be carefully attended to. 
 
 First, that the parts into which the subject is 
 divided, be really distinct from each other ; that is, 
 that no one conclude another. It were a ridiculous 
 division, for example, if a speaker should propose to 
 explain first the advantages of virlue, and next, those 
 of justice or temperance ; because the first head 
 plainly comprehends the second, as a genus does the 
 species. Such a method of proceeding will, there- 
 fore, involve the subject in indistinctness and disor- 
 der. 
 
 Secondly, we must be careful always to follow 
 the order of nature ; beginning with the most simple 
 points, such as are most easily understood and neces- 
 sary to be first discussed ; and proceeding thence to 
 those which are built upon the former, and which 
 suppose them to be known. The subject, in fine, 
 must be divided into those parts into which it is most 
 easily and naturally resolved.
 
 35 
 
 Thirdly, The members of a division ought to 
 exhaust the subject, otherwise the division is incom- 
 plete; the subject is exhibited by pieces and corners 
 only, without any plan being offered by which the 
 whole may be displayed. 
 
 Fourthly, Let conciseness and precision be pe- 
 culiarly studied; a division will always appear to the 
 most advantage, when the several heads are expres- 
 sed in the clearest, most forcible, and at the same 
 time, the fewest words possible. This never fails to 
 make an agreeable impression on the hearers ; and 
 contributes also to make the divisions more easily re- 
 membered. 
 
 Fifthly, An unnecessary multiplication of heads 
 should be cautiously avoided. To divide a subject 
 into a great many minute parts, by endless defect in 
 speaking. In a logical treatise this may not be im- 
 proper; but it renders an oration hard and dry, and 
 unnecessarily fatigues the memory. A sermon may 
 admit from three to five, or six heads, including sub- 
 divisions ; more are seldom allowable. 
 
 The next constituent parts of a discourse, which 
 we mentioned, were narration and explication. These 
 two are joined together, both because they fall nearly 
 under the same rules, and because they generally an- 
 swer the same purpose; serving to illustrate the cause 
 or subject of which one treats, before proceeding to
 
 36 
 
 argue either on one side or the other, or to endeavour 
 to interest the passions of the hearers. To be clear 
 and distinct, to be probable, and to be concise, are 
 the qualities which critics chiefly consider as essential 
 to narration. Distinctness is requisite to the whole 
 of the discourse, but belongs especially to narration, 
 which ought to throw a light on all that follows. At 
 the bar, a fact, or a single circumstance, left in ob- 
 scurity, or misunderstood by the judge, may destroy 
 the effect of all the arguments and reasoning which 
 the pleader employs. If his narration be improbable, 
 it will be disregarded ; if it be tedious and dillusje, it 
 will fatigue and be forgotten. To render narration 
 distinct, a particular attention is requisite in ascer- 
 taining clearly the names, the dates, the places, and 
 every other important circumstance of the facts re- 
 counted. In order to be probable in narration, it is 
 necessary to exhibit the characters of those persons 
 of whom we speak, and to shew that their actions pro- 
 ceed from such motives as are natural and likely to 
 gain belief. To be as concise as the subject will ad- 
 mit, all superfluous circumstances must be rejected, 
 by which the narration will be rendered bolh more 
 forcible and more clear. 
 
 In sermons, explication of the subject to be 
 discoursed on, occupies the place of narration at the 
 bur, and is to be conducted in a similar manner. It
 
 37 
 
 must be concise, clear, and distinct; in a style cor- 
 rect and elegant, rather than abounding with orna- 
 ment. To explain the doctrine of the text with pro- 
 priety; to give a full and clear account of the nature 
 of that virtue or duty which forms the sultject of the 
 discourse, is properly the didactic part of preaching; 
 on the right execution of which much depends, for 
 what conies afterwards in the way of persuasion. In 
 order to succeed, the preacher must meditate pro- 
 foundly on the subject, so aa to place it in a clear 
 and striking point of view. He musl consider what 
 light it may derive from other passages of scripture; 
 observe whether it be a subject nearly allied to some 
 other from which it ought to be distinguished; whe- 
 ther it can be advantageously illustrated by compar- 
 ing, or opposing it to some other thing; by pointing 
 out example, or appealing to the hearts of the hear- 
 ers; that thus a determined, precise, and circum- 
 stantial view may be afforded of the doctrine to be 
 inculcated. By such distinct and apt illustrations 
 of the known truth of religion, a preacher may both 
 display great merit as a composer, and, what is infi- 
 nitely more valuable, render his discourses weighty, 
 instructive, and beneficial. 
 
 Since the great end for which men speak on any 
 serious occasion, is to convince their hearers that 
 something is either true, or right, or good; and
 
 38 
 
 consequently to influence their practice; reason and 
 argument must constitute the foundation of all manly 
 and persuasive eloquence. With regard to argu- 
 ments, three things are necessary to be observed ; 
 first, the invention of them; secondly, their proper 
 disposition and arrangement; and, thirdly, the ex- 
 pressing them in the most forcible style and manner. 
 Invention is, Undoubtedly, the most material, and 
 the basis of the rest. But in this, art can afford only 
 small assistance. It can aid a speaker, however, in 
 arranging and expressing those arguments which his 
 knowledge of the subject has discovered. 
 
 Supposing the arguments properly chosen, we 
 must avoid blending those confusedly together that 
 are of a separate nature. All arguments whatever, 
 are intended to prove one of tbese three things: that 
 something is true; that it is right or fit ; or that it is 
 profitable and good. Truth, duty, and interest, are 
 the three great subjects of discussion among mankind. 
 But the arguments employed upon either of them are 
 generally distinct; and he who mixes them all under 
 one topic, which he calls his argument, as in ser- 
 mons is too frequently done, will render his reasoning 
 indistinct and inelegant. 
 
 With respect to the different degrees of strength 
 in arguments, the common rule is to advance in the 
 way of climax, from the weakest to the most forcible.
 
 39 
 
 This method is to be recommended, when the speaker 
 is convinced that his cause is clear, and easy to he 
 proved. But this rule must not be universally ob- 
 served. If he be apprehensive of his cause, and has 
 but one material argument on which to lay his stress, 
 putting less confidence in the rest, in this case it is 
 often proper to prejudice his hearers as early as possi- 
 ble in his favour, and dispose them to pay attention 
 to his weaker reasoning which he may afterwards in- 
 troduce. When amidst a variety of arguments, there 
 is one or two more feeble than the rest, though pro- 
 per to be used, Cicero advises that they be placed in 
 the middle, as a situation less conspicuous than either 
 the beginning or the end of the train of reasoning. 
 When arguments are strong and satisfactory, the 
 more distant they are separated, the better. , Each 
 can then bear to be introduced alone, placed in its 
 full light, and amplified and contemplated. But 
 when they are of a doubtful or presumptive nature, it 
 is safer to crowd them together, to form them into a 
 I'liiilanx, that though individually weak, they may 
 mutually support each other. Arguments should 
 never he extended too far, or multiplied too much. 
 This serves rather to render a cause suspicious, than 
 to increase its strength. A needless multiplicity of 
 arguments, both oppresses the memory and diminishes 
 the weight of that conviction, which a few well-chosen
 
 40 
 
 arguments might not full to produce. To expand 
 them also, beyond the bounds of reasonable illustra- 
 tion, is always enfeebling. When a speaker endea- 
 vours to expose a favourable argument in every pos- 
 sible point of view, it generally happens, that, fatigued 
 with the effort, he loses the spirit with which he set 
 out; and ends with feebleness what he began with 
 force. 
 
 Having attended thus far to the proper arrange- 
 ment of arguments, we proceed to another essential 
 part of a discourse, the pathetic, in which, if any- 
 where, eloquence reigns, and exerts its power. On 
 this head we shall offer the following directions, which 
 appear worthy of being remembered. 
 
 To consider carefully, whether the subject will 
 admit the pathetic, and render it proper; and if it 
 does, what part of the discourse is the most fit for its 
 admission. In determining these points, good sense 
 is the only just criterion. Many subjects admit not 
 the pathetic at all, and even in those that are sus- 
 ceptible of it, an attempt to excite the passions in 
 the wrong place, may expose the orator to ridicule. 
 It may in general be observed, that if we expect any 
 emotion which we raise to have a lasting effect, we 
 must secure in our favour the understanding and judg- 
 ment. The hearers must be satisfied, that there are 
 sufficient grounds for their engaging in the cause with
 
 41 
 
 zeal ami ardour. When argument and reasoning hate 
 produced their full effect, the pathetic is admitted 
 with the greatest force and propriety. 
 
 A speaker should cautiously avoid giving his 
 hearers warning, that he intends to excite their pas- 
 sions. Every previous preparation of this kind chills 
 their sensibility. There is also a material difference 
 between showing mankind that they ought to be 
 moved, and actually exciting their passions. To 
 every emotion or passion nature has adapted certain 
 corresponding objects, and without setting these be- 
 fore the mind, it is impossible for an orator to excite 
 that emotion. We are warmed with gratitude, we 
 are touched with compassion, not when a speaker 
 shews us that these are noble dispositions, and that 
 it is our duty to feel them, or when he exclaims against 
 us for our indifference and coldness; he is hitherto 
 addressing only our reason or conscience. He must 
 paint to us the kindnfss and tenderness of our 
 friend; he must exhibit the distress suffered by the 
 person for whom he would interest us; then, and not 
 till then, our hearts begin to be touched, our grati- 
 tude or our compassion begin to flow. The basis, 
 therefore, of all successful execution in pathetic ora- 
 tory, is, to paint the object of that passion which 
 we desire to raise, in the most natural and strik- 
 ing manner; to describe it with such crrcuin- 
 F
 
 42 
 
 stances as are likely to awaken it in the minds 
 of others. 
 
 To succeed in the pathetic, it is necessary to 
 attend to the proper language of the passions. This, 
 if we consult nature, we shall ever find is unaffected 
 and simple. It may be animated with bold and 
 strong figures, but it will have no ornament of finery. 
 There is a material difference between painting to the 
 imagination, and to the heart. The one may be 
 done with deliberation and coolness; the other must 
 always be rapid and ardent. In the former, art and 
 labour may be suffered to appear ; in the latter, no 
 proper effect can be produced, unless it seem to be 
 the work of nature only. Hence all digressions 
 should be avoided, wliich may interrupt or turn aside 
 the swell of passion. Hence comparisons are always 
 dangerous, and commonly quite improper in the 
 midst of the pathetic. It is also to be observed that 
 emotions which are violent cannot be lasting. The 
 pathetic, therefore, should not be prolonged and ex- 
 tended too much. A due regard should always be 
 preserved to what the audience will bear; for he that 
 attempts to carry them farther in passion, than 
 they will follow him, annihilates his purpose. By 
 endeavouring to warm them in the extreme, he takes 
 the surest method of freezing them completely. 
 
 Concerning the peroration or conclusion of a dis-
 
 43 
 
 course, a few words will be sufficient. Sometimes 
 the whole pathetic part comes in most properly at the 
 conclusion. Sometimes, when the discourse has 
 been altogether argumentative, it is proper to con- 
 clude with summing up the arguments, placing them in 
 one point of view, and leaving the impression of them, 
 full and strong, on the minds of the hearers. This 
 is called the recapitulation. For the principal rule 
 of a conclusion, and what nature obviously suggests, 
 is, to place that last, on which we chuse that the 
 strength of our cause sho,uld rest. 
 
 In every kind of public speaking, it is important 
 to hit the precise time of concluding, so as to bring 
 the discourse just to a point; neither ending abruptly 
 and unexpectedly, nor disappointing the expectation 
 of the hearers, when they look for the discourse be- 
 ing finished. The close should always be concluded 
 with dignity and spirit, that the minds of the hearers 
 may be left warm, and that they may depart with a 
 favourable impression of the subject and of the 
 speaker. 
 
 THE COUNTRY BUMPKIN AND RAZOR 
 SELLER. 
 
 A FELLOW, in a market town, 
 Most musically cried razors up and down, 
 And offer* d twelve for eighteen-pcnce;
 
 44 
 
 Which certainly seem'd wonderous cheap, 
 And, for the money, quite a heap, 
 
 As every man -would buy, with cash and sense. 
 
 A country bumpkin the great offer heard : 
 
 Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard 
 
 That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose, 
 With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, 
 And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, 
 
 " This rascal stole the razors, I suppose : 
 
 " No matter if the fellow be a knave, 
 " Provided that the razors shave : 
 
 " It certainly will be a monstrous prize." 
 So home the clown with his good fortune went, 
 Smiling, in heart and soul coatent, 
 
 And quickly soap'd himself to cars and eyes. 
 
 Being well lalher'd from a dish or tub, 
 Hodge now began with grinning face to grub, 
 
 Just like a hedger culling furze; 
 'Twas a vile razor! then the rest he tried 
 AH were impostors " Ah," HoJge 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 witic'd, and stamp'd, and 
 swore,
 
 45 
 
 Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphemed, and made 
 
 wry faces, 
 And curs' d each razor's body o'er and o'er. 
 
 His muzzle form'd of opposition stuff, 
 Firm as a Foxite, would not loose its mil': 
 
 So kept it' laughing at the steel and suds: 
 Hodge in a passion stretch'd his angry jaws, 
 Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws, 
 
 On the rank cheat that sold the goods. 
 " Razors ! a vile, confounded dog, 
 ' Not fit to scrape a hog \" 
 
 Hodge sought the fellow found him and begun, 
 " Perhaps, Master Razor Rogue, to you 'tis fun, 
 
 " That people flay themselves out of their lives; 
 " You rascal ! 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'm not a knave, 
 
 " As for the razors you have bought, 
 
 " Upon my soul I never thought 
 " That they would shave."
 
 ** Not think they'd shave !" quoth Hodge, with 
 wond'ring eyes, 
 
 And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; 
 " What were they made for then, you dog ;" he cries, 
 
 " Made!" quoth the fellow, wilhasmile "toscll!" 
 
 THE DISSOLUTION AND RENOVATION 
 OF NATURE. 
 
 SYLPHS ! as you hover on ethereal wing, 
 Brood the green children of parturient spring I 
 When in their lurking cells, my embryos rest; 
 I charge you guard the vegetable nest : 
 Count with nice eye, the myriad seeds that swell 
 Each vaulted womb of husks, or pod, or shell; 
 Feed with sweet juices, clothe with downy hair, 
 Or hang enshrin'd their little orbs in air. 
 So late descry'd by Herschell's piercing sight, 
 Hang the bright squadrons of the twinkling night, 
 Ten thousand marshall'd stars, a silver zone, 
 Effuse their blended lustres round her throne; 
 Suns call to suns, in lucid clouds conspire. 
 And light exterior skies with golden fire: 
 Restless rolls the illimitable sphere, 
 And one great circle forms the unmeasured year.
 
 47 
 
 Roll on, ye stars, exult in youthful prime 
 Mark with bright curves the prinlless deeps of time; 
 Near and more near your beamy cars approach 
 And listening orbs on listening orbs encroach. 
 Flowers of the sky ! ye too to age must yield, 
 Frail as your silken sisters of the field ! 
 Star after star from heaven's high arch shall rush, 
 Suns sink on suns, and system systems crush, 
 Headlong, extinct, to one dark centre fall, 
 And death and night and chaos mingle all ! 
 Till o'er the rock emerging from the storm, 
 Immortal nature lifts her changeful form, 
 Mounts from her funeral pyre, on wings of flame, 
 And soars and shines another and the same ! 
 
 SATIRE ON LAW. 
 
 WE shall now consider the law, as our laws are very 
 considerable, both in bulk and number, according as 
 the statute declares; considerandi, considerando, 
 consider andum; and are not to be meddled with by 
 those that don't understand 'em. Law always ex- 
 pressing itself with true grammatical precision, never 
 confounding moods, tenses, or genders, except in- 
 deed when a woman happens accidentally to be slain, 
 then the verdicl is always brought /Manslaughter.-
 
 48 
 
 The essence of the law is altercation; for the law can 
 altercate, fulminate, deprecate, irritate, and go on 
 at any rate. Now the quintessence of the law has, 
 according to its name, five parts. The first is the 
 beginning, or incipiendum; the second the uncer- 
 tainty, or dubitandum; the third delay, or puzzlc- 
 cndum; fourthly, replication without endum; and 
 fifthly, monstrum et horrendum; all which are ex- 
 emplified in the following case, Daniel against 
 Dishclont. 
 
 Daniel was groom in the same family wherein 
 Dishclout was conkmaid; and Daniel, returning home 
 one day fuddled, he stooped down to take a sop out 
 of the dripping-pan, which spoiled his clothes, and he 
 was advised to bring his action against the cookmaid ; 
 the pleadings which were as follow. The first per- 
 son who spoke was Mr. Serjeant Snuffle. He began, 
 saying, " Since I have the honour to be pitched 
 upon to open this cause to your lordship, I shall not 
 impertinently presume to take up any of your lord- 
 ship's time by a ronnd-about circumlocutory manner 
 of speaking or talking, quite foreign to the purpose, 
 and not any ways relating to the matter in hand. I 
 shall, I will, I design to shew what damages my 
 client has sustained hereupon, whereupon, and there- 
 upon. Now, my lord, my client being a servant in 
 the same family with Dishclout, and not being; at
 
 49 
 
 hoard wages, imagined he had a right to the fee* 
 simple of the dripping-pan, therefore he made an 
 attachment on the sop with his right hand, which the 
 defendant replevied with her left, tripped us up, and 
 tumbled us into the dripping-pan. Now in Brough- 
 ton's Reports, Slack rcrsus Smallwood, it is said 
 that primus strocus sinejocus, absolutus c&t provo- 
 cus. Now who gave tiie primus strocus? Who gare 
 the first offence? Why, the cook; she brought the 
 dripping-pan there; for, my lord, though we will 
 allow, if we had not been there, we could not have 
 been thrown dwn there; yet, my lord, if the dripping- 
 pan had not been there for us to tumble down into, we 
 could not have tumbled down into the dripping-pan." 
 The next counsel on the same side began with, " My 
 lord, he that makes use of a many words to no pur- 
 pose, has not much to say for himself, therefore I 
 shall come to the point at once, and at once immediately 
 I shall come to the point. My client was ia liquor: 
 the liquor in him having served an ejectment upon 
 his understanding, common sense was nonsuited, and 
 he was a man beside himself, as Dr. Biblibus de- 
 clares, in his Dissertation on Bumpers, in the 139th 
 folio volume of the Abridgment of the Statutes, page 
 1*286, where he says, that a drunken man is homo 
 duplicans, or a double man; not only because he 
 sees things double, but also because he is not as he 
 G
 
 50 
 
 should be, perfecto ipse he; but was as he should 
 not be, defccto ipse he." 
 
 The counsel on the other side rose up gracefully, 
 playing with his ruffles prettily, and tossing the lies 
 of his wig emphatically. He began with, "My 
 lord, and you, gentlemen of the jury, I humbly do 
 conceive I have the authority to declare that I am 
 counsel in this case for the defendant; therefore, my 
 lord, I shall not flourish away in words; words are 
 no more than fillagree work. Some people may 
 think them an embellishment; but to me it is a mat- 
 ter of astonishment, how any one can be so imperti- 
 nent to the detriment of all rudiment. But, my lord, 
 this is not to be looked at through the medium of right 
 and wrong; for the law knows no medium, and right 
 and wrong are but its shadows. Now, in the first 
 place, they have called a kitchen, my client's pre- 
 mises. Now, a kitchen is nobody's premises; a 
 kitchen is not a wash-house, nor a warehouse, a brew- 
 house, or a bake-house, an inn-house, nor an out- 
 house, nor a dwelling-house; no, my lord, 'tis abso- 
 lutely and bona fide neither more or less than a 
 kitchen, or, as the law more classically expresses, a 
 kitchea is camera ncccssaria pro usus coo/care; 
 cum saucepannis, sleivpannis, sculler o, dresser o, 
 coalkolo, stovis, smoak-jacko, pro roastandiim 
 bttilandum, fryandum, et plumb-pudding mixan-
 
 51 
 
 dum, pro turtle-soupos, calve' s-hcad-hashibus, cum 
 calipee et caltpashebus. 
 
 But we shall not avail ourselves of an alibi, but 
 admit of the existence of a cookmaid. Now, my 
 lord, we shall take it upon a new ground, and beg a 
 new trial; for as they have curtailed our name from 
 plain Mary into Moll, 1 hope the court will not allow 
 of this; for, if they were to allow of mistakes,what would 
 the law do ? For when the law don't find mistakes, it 
 is the business of the law to make them ! Therefore 
 the court allowed them the liberty of a new trial; for 
 the law is our liberty, and it is happy for us we have 
 the liberty to go to law. 
 
 THE PROSPECT OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 UNFADING hope when life's last embers burn, 
 When soul to soul, and dust to dust return, 
 Heav'n to thy charge, resigns the awful hour, 
 Oh ! then, thy kingdom come, immortal power. 
 What, though each spark of earth-born rapture fly, 
 The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye; 
 Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
 The morning dream of life's eternal day 
 Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin; 
 And all the phu'iiix spirit bums within !
 
 52 
 
 Oh ! deep enchanting prelude to repose ! 
 The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! 
 Yet hark ! I hear the panting spirit sigh 
 It is a dread and awful thing to die ! 
 Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun ! 
 Where time's far wand'ring tide has never run ! 
 From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres, 
 A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 
 'Tis heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, 
 Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! 
 While nature hears, with terror mingled trust, 
 The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust; 
 And like the trembling hebrew, when he trod 
 The roaring waves, and called upon his Gpd, 
 With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, 
 And shrieks and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 
 
 Daughter of faith ; awake ! arise ! illume 
 The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ! 
 Melt and dispel, the sceptic doubts, that roll 
 Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul ! 
 Fly like the moon eyM herald of dismay, 
 Chas'd on his night steed by the staf of day; 
 The strife is o'er the pangs of nature close, 
 And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. 
 Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze. 
 The noon of heaven undazzl'd by the blaze,
 
 53 
 
 On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
 Float the sweet tones of star-born melody : 
 Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail, 
 Bethlem's shepherds in the lonely vale, 
 When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still 
 Watch'd on the holy tower of Zion-hill ! 
 
 Soul of 111 just ! companion of the dead ! 
 Where is thy home and whither art thou fled? 
 Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, 
 Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose 
 Doom'd on his airy path awhile to burn, 
 And doom'd like thee to travel and return : 
 Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven, 
 With sounds that shook the firmament of heaven, 
 Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, 
 On bickering wheels and adamantine car; 
 From planet whirl'd to planet -more remote, 
 He visits realms beyond the reach of thought; 
 But, wheeling homeward, when his course is run, 
 Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun ! 
 So hath the traveller of the earth uufurl'd 
 Her trembling wings emerging from the world, 
 And oe'r the path by mortal never trod, 
 Sprung to her source the bosom of her God ! 
 
 Oh ! lives there, heaven! beneath thy dread expanse,
 
 54 
 
 One hopeless, dark idolater of chance, 
 Content to feed with pleasures unrefin'd, 
 The luke-warm passions of a lonely mind ; 
 Who mould'ring earthward, reft of every trust, 
 In-joyless union wedded to the dust, 
 Could all his parting energy dismiss, 
 And call this barren world sufficient bliss ? 
 Their life, alas ! of heaven-directed mien 
 Of cultur'd soul, and sapient eye serene, 
 Who hail thee man! the pilgrim of a day, 
 Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay ! 
 Frail as the leaf in autumn's yellow bower, 
 Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower ! 
 A friendless slave, a child without a sire, 
 Whose mortal life, a momentary fire, 
 Lights to the grave his chance-created form, 
 As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm, 
 And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er, 
 To night and silence sink for evermore. 
 
 Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, 
 Lights of the world and demi-gods of fame? 
 Is this your triumph, this your proud applause, 
 Children of truth and champions of her cause ? 
 For this hath science search'd on weary wing, 
 By shore, and sea, each mute and living thing, 
 Launch'd by Iberia's pilot from the steep,
 
 55 
 
 To worlds unknown and isles beyond the deep ; 
 
 Or round the cape her living chnriot driv'n, 
 
 And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of heaven, 
 
 Oh ! star-ey'd science, hast thou wander'd there, 
 
 To waft us home the message of despair ? 
 
 Then hind the palm, thy sages' brow to suit, 
 
 Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit. 
 
 Ah me ! the laurePd wreath that murder real's; 
 
 Blood nurs'd and water'd by the widow's tears, 
 
 Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, 
 
 As weaves the night-shade round the sceptic head. 
 
 What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain ? 
 
 I smile on death, if heaven- ward hope remain! 
 
 But if the warning winds of nature's strife 
 
 Be all the faithless charter of my life, 
 
 If chance awak'd, inexorable power, 
 
 Tliis frail and feverish being of an hour : 
 
 Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to weep, 
 
 Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, 
 
 To know delight but by her parting smile, 
 
 And toil, and wish, and weep, a little while; 
 
 Then melt ye elements, that form'd in vain 
 
 This troubled pulse, and visionary brain ; 
 
 Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom, 
 
 And sink ye stars, that light me to the tomb ! 
 
 Truth, ever lovely since the world began 
 
 The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man
 
 56 
 
 How can the world from balmy slumbers start 
 Reposing virtue, pillow'd on the heart ! 
 Yet if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd, 
 And that were true which nature never told, 
 Let wisdom smile not on her conquer'd field, 
 No rapture dawns, no treasure is reveal'd ! 
 Oh ! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate, 
 The doom that bars us from a better fate, 
 But, sad as angels for the good man's sin, 
 Weep to record, and blush to give it in. 
 
 SPEECH OF LORD CHATHAM, 
 
 IN THE HOUSE OF PEERS, AGAINST THE AMERI- 
 CAN WAR, AND AGAINST EMPLOYING THE 
 INDIANS. 
 
 
 
 I CANNOT, my lords, I will not, join in congratula- 
 tion on misfortune and disgrace. This, my lords, is 
 a perilous and tremendous moment : it is not a time 
 for adulation ; the smoothness of flattery cannot save 
 us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now neces- 
 sary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. 
 We must, if possible, dispel the delusion and dark- 
 ness which envelop it ; and display, in its full danger 
 and genuine colours, the ruin which is brought to 
 our doors. Can ministers still presume to expect
 
 67 
 
 support in their infatuation? Can parliament be so 
 dead to its dignity and duty, as to give their support 
 to measures thus obtruded and forced upon them? 
 measures, my lords, which have reduced this late 
 flourishing empire to scorn and contempt ? But yes- 
 terday, and England might have stood against the 
 world ; now, none so poor as to do her reverence ! 
 The people, whom we at first despised as rebels, bnt 
 \\hom we now acknowledge as enemies, are abetted 
 against us, supplied with every military - store, their 
 interest consulted, and their ambassadors entertain- 
 ed by our inveterate enemy ; and ministers do net, 
 and dare not, interpose with dignity or effect. The 
 desperate state of our army abroad is in part known. 
 No man more highly esteems and honours the Eng- 
 lish troops than I do : I know their virtues and their 
 valour; I know they can achieve any thing but im- 
 possibilities; and I know that the conquest of English 
 America is an impossibility. You cannot, my lords, 
 you cannot conquer America. What is your present 
 situation there ? We do not know the worst : but we 
 know that in three campaigns we have done nothing, 
 and suffered much. You may swell every expense, 
 accumulate every assistance, and extend your traffic 
 to the shambles of every German Despot; your at- 
 tempts will be for ever vain and impotent; doubly 
 so, indeed, from this mercenary aid on which you 
 H
 
 58 
 
 rely : for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the 
 minds of your adversaries, to overrun them with the 
 mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them 
 and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling 
 cruelty. 
 
 But, my lords, who is the man, that, in addi- 
 tion to the disgraces and mischiefs of the war, has 
 dared to authorise and associate to our arms, the to- 
 mohawk and scalping knife of the savage ? to call 
 into civilized alliance, the wild and inhuman inhabi- 
 tants of the woods ? to delegate to the merciless 
 Indian, the defence of disputed rights, and to wage 
 the horrors of his barbarous war against our brethren ? 
 My lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and 
 punishment. But, my lords, this barbarous measure 
 has been defended, not only on the principles of po- 
 licy and necessity, but also on those of morality; 
 "for it is perfectly allowable," says Lord Suffolk, 
 "to use all the means which God and nature have 
 put into our hands." I am astonished, lam shocked, 
 to hear such principles confessed; to hear them 
 avowed in this house, or in this country. My lords, 
 I did not intend to encroach so much on your atten- 
 tion; but I cannot repress my indignation I feel 
 myself impelled to speak. My lords, we are called 
 upon as members of this house, as men, as Christians, 
 to protest against such horrible barbarity! "That
 
 59 
 
 God and nature have put into our hands!" What 
 ideas of God and nature, that noble lord may enter- 
 tain, 1 know not; but I know, that such detestable 
 principles are equally abhorrent to religion and Im- 
 munity. What! to attribute the sacred sanction of 
 God and nature to the massacres of the Indian scalp- 
 ing knife ! to the savage, torturing and murdering his 
 unhappy victims! Such notions shock every precept 
 of morality, every feeling of humanity, every senti- 
 ment of honour. These abominable principles, and 
 this more abominable avowal of them, demand the 
 most decisive indignation. I call upon that right 
 reverend, and this most learned bench, to vindicate 
 the religion of their God, and to support the justice 
 of their country. I call upon the bishops to 
 interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn, 
 upon the judges to interpose the purity of their 
 ermine, to save us from this pollution. I call upon 
 the honour of your lordships, to reverence the dignity 
 of your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call 
 upon the spirit and humanity of my country, to vin- 
 dicate the national character. I invoke the genius 
 of the constitution. From the tapestry that adorns 
 these walls, the immortal ancestor of this noble lord 
 frowns with indignation at the disgrace of his country. 
 In vain did he defend the liberty, and establish the 
 religion of Britain, against the tyranny of Rome, if
 
 60 
 
 these -worse than Popish cruelties and inquisitorial 
 practices, are endured among us. To send forth the 
 merciless Indian, thirsting for blood ! against whom > 
 your protestant brethren ! to lay waste their coun- 
 try, to desolate their dwellings, and extirpate their 
 race and name, by the aid and instrumentality of these 
 ungovernable savages ! Spain can no longer boast 
 pre-eminence in barbarity. She armed herself with 
 blood-hounds to extirpate the wretched natives of 
 Mexico; we, more ruthless, loose those brutal war- 
 riors against our countrymen in America, endeared 
 to us by every tie that can sanctify humanity. I so- 
 lemnly call upon your lordships and upon every order 
 of men in the state, to stamp upon this infamous pre- 
 cedure the indelible stigma of the public abhorrence. 
 More particularly, I call upon the venerable prelates 
 of our religion, to do away this iniquity : let them 
 perform a lustrution to purify the country from this 
 deep and deadly sin. 
 
 My lords, I am old and weak, and at present 
 unable to say more: but my feelings and indignation 
 were too strong to hare allowed me to say less. I 
 could not have slept this night in my bed, nor even 
 reposed my head upon my pillow, without giving 
 >ent to my steadfast abhorrence of such enormous 
 and preposterous principles.
 
 Gl 
 MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. 
 
 WHO is she, the poor maniac, -whose wiltlly-fix'd eye* 
 Seem a heart overcharg'd to express? 
 
 She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; 
 
 She never complains hut her silence implies 
 The composure of settled distress. 
 
 No aid no compassion the maniac will seek ; 
 
 Cold and hunger awake not her care: 
 Thro* the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak 
 On her poor wither' d bosom, half bare, and her cheek 
 
 Has the deadly pale hue of despair. 
 
 Yet cheerful and happy (nor distant the day) 
 
 Poor Mary the maniac has been ; 
 The tray'ller remembers, who jonrney'd this way, 
 No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, 
 
 As Marjj the Maid of the Inn. 
 
 Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight, 
 
 As she welcom'd 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 lov'd and young Richard had settled the day- 
 And she hop'd 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 for his wife..
 
 62 
 
 'Twas in Autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, 
 
 And fast were the windows and door; 
 Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, 
 And smoaking in silence, with tranquil delight, 
 They listen' d to hear the wind roar. 
 
 "'Tis pleasant," cry'd one, "seated by the fire side, 
 "To hear the wind whistle without," 
 
 " A fine night for the abbey/' his comrade reply'd ; 
 
 "Methinks a man's courage would now be welltry'd, 
 "Who should wander the ruins about." 
 
 " I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear 
 
 " The hoarse ivy shake o'er my head; 
 " And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, 
 " Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear; 
 "For this wind might awaken the dead." 
 
 " I'll wager a dinner," the other one cry'd, 
 
 "That Mary would venture there now:" 
 "Then wager, and lose!" with a sneer he reply'd, 
 "I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, 
 "And faint if she saw a white cow." 
 
 " 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."
 
 63 
 
 With fearless good humour did Mary comply, 
 
 And her way to the ahbey 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 
 
 Where the ahbey 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 
 
 Ilowl'd dismally round the old pile: 
 Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she pass'd, 
 And arriv'd at the innermost ruin at last, 
 Where the alder tree grew in the aisle. 
 
 Well pleas'd 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 paiis'd, and she listened, all eager to hear, 
 
 And her heart panted fearfully now. 
 
 The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head: 
 
 She listen'd ; nought else could she hear, 
 The wind ceas'd, her heart sunk in her bosom with 
 dread,
 
 For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread 
 Of footsteps approaching her hear. 
 
 Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, . 
 
 She crept to conceal herself there : 
 That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, 
 And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appear, 
 
 And between them a corpse did they bear. 
 
 Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdled cold t 
 Again the rough wind hurried by< - 
 
 It blew off the hat of the one, and behold ! 
 
 Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd : 
 She fell and expected to die, 
 
 "Curse the hat!" he exclaims "nay come on and 
 first hide 
 
 "The dead body," his comrade replies. 
 She beheld them in safety, pass on by her side, 
 She seizes the hat, fear her courage supply 'd, 
 
 And fast through the abbey she dies. 
 
 She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, 
 
 She cast her eyes horribly round; 
 Her limbs could support their faint burden no morg. 
 But, exhausted and breathless, she sunk on the floor, 
 
 Unable to utter a sound.
 
 65 
 
 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, O God ! what cold horror thrill'd thro' her heart, 
 When the name of her Richard she knew ! 
 
 Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by, 
 
 His gibbet is now to be seen ; 
 Not far from the inn it engages the eye, 
 The trav'ller beholds it, and thinks with a sigh, 
 
 Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn. 
 
 THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND. 
 
 OH ! sacred truth, thy triumph ceas'd awhile, 
 And hope, thy sister, ceas'd with thee to smile, 
 When leagued oppression pour'd to northern wars 
 Herwhisker'd pandours, and her fierce hussars; 
 Wav'd her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
 Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn; 
 Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 
 Presaging wrath to Poland and to man. 
 
 Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd 
 Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid : 
 Oh, heaven ! he cried, my bleeding country save ! 
 Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? 
 
 I
 
 66 
 
 Yet though destruction sweeps these lovely plains, 
 Rise, fellow-men, our country still remains ! 
 By that dread name, who wore the sword on high! 
 And swear for her to live ! with her to die. 
 
 He said, and on the rampart heights array'd 
 His trusty warriors, few, hut undismay'd ; 
 Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
 Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; 
 Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
 Revenge or death the watchword and reply : 
 Then peal'd the notes omnipotent to charm ! 
 And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm. 
 
 In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few, 
 From rank to rank your vollied thunders dew. 
 Oh ! bloodiest picture in the book of time, 
 Sarmatia fell unwept, without a crime ; 
 Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 
 Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! 
 Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, 
 Clos'd her bright eye, and curb'd her high career: 
 Hope for a season bade the world farewell, 
 And freedom shriek'd, as Koscusco fell! 
 
 The sun went down, nor ceas'd the carnage there, 
 Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air,
 
 67 
 
 On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, 
 His blood-dy'd waters murmuring far below; 
 The storm prevails, the rampart yields away ; 
 Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! 
 Hark ! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, 
 A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ! 
 Earth shook, red meteors flash'd along the sky, 
 And conscious nature shudder' d at the cry! 
 
 Oh ! righteous heaven, ere freedom found a grave, 
 
 Why slept the sword omnipotent to save ? 
 
 Where was thine arm, O vengeance ! where thy rod 
 
 That smote the foes of Zion and of God, 
 
 That crush 'd proud Ammon, when his iron car 
 
 Was jok'd in wrath, and thunder'd from afar? 
 
 Where was the storm, that slurnber'd till the host 
 
 Of blood-slain'd Pharaoh left the trembling coast. 
 
 Then bade the deep in wild commotion Bow, 
 
 And heav'd au ocean on their march below ? 
 
 Departed spirits of the mighty dead, 
 Ye that at Marathan and Leuctra bled ! 
 Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man, 
 Fight in his sacred cause and lead the van ! 
 Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, 
 And make her arm puissant as your own ! 
 Oh ! once again to freedom's cause return, 
 The patriot Tell the Bruce of Bannockburn.
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENACHERIB. 
 
 THE Assyrians came down like the wolf on the fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
 And the sheen on their spears were like stars on the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves on the forest when summer is green, 
 That host with their banners at sun-set were seen : 
 Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay wither' d and strown. 
 
 For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, 
 And breath* d in the face of the foe as he past; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers waxtd deadly and chill, 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew 
 still. 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide; 
 But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : 
 K
 
 70 
 
 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, 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
 And the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
 That melted like snow at the glance of the Lord. 
 
 THE CAPTIVE. 
 
 BESHREW the sombre pencil! said I, vauntingly 
 for I envy not its powers, which paints the evils of 
 life with so hard and deadly a colouring. The mind 
 sits terrified at the objects she has magnified herself, 
 and blackened : reduce them to their proper size and 
 hue, she overlooks them. 'Tis true, said I, cor- 
 recting the proposition the Bastile is not an evil to 
 be despised but strip it of its towers fill up the 
 fosse unbarricade the doors call it simply a confine- 
 ment, and suppose 'tis some tyrant of a distemper 
 and not a man, which holds you in it the evil 
 vanishes, and you bear the other half without com- 
 plaint
 
 71 
 
 ) was interrupted in the hey-day of this solilo- 
 quy, with a voice, which I took to be of a child, 
 which complained " it could not get out." I looked 
 up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, 
 woman, nor child, I went out without farther atten- 
 tion. 
 
 In my return back through the passage, I heard 
 the same words repeated twice over; and, looking up, 
 I saw it was a starling hung in a little cage. " I 
 can't get out I can't get out," said the starling, 
 
 I stood looking at the bird; and to every person 
 who came through the passage it ran fluttering to the 
 side towards which they approached it, with the same 
 lamentation of its captivity " I can't get out," said 
 the starling God help thee, said I, but I will letthee 
 out, cost what it will; so I turned about the cage lo 
 get to the door; it was twisted and double twisted so 
 fast with wire, there was no getting it open, without 
 pulling it to pieces I took both hands to it. 
 
 The bird flew to the place where I was attempt- 
 ing his deliverance, and thrusting his head through 
 the trellis, pressed his breast against it, as if impa- 
 tient I fear, poor creature! said I, I cannot set thte 
 at liberty, " No," said the starling " I can't get 
 out I can't get out," said the starling. 
 
 I vow 1 never had my affections more tenderly 
 awakened: nor do I remember an incident in my life,
 
 where the dissipated spirits to which my reason had 
 been a bubble, were so suddenly called home. Me- 
 chanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to 
 nature were they chanted, that in one moment they 
 overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the 
 Bastile; and I heavily walked up stairs, unsaying 
 every word I had said in going down them. 
 
 Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, slavery, said 
 I still thou art a bitter draught! and though thou- 
 sands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, 
 thou art no less bitter on that account. "Tis thou, 
 thrice sweet and gracious goddess! addressing my- 
 self to liberty, whom all in public or in private wor- 
 ship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till 
 nature herself shall change no tint of words can 
 spot thy snowy mantle, or chyraic power tiuti thy 
 sceptre into iron with thee to smile upon him as he 
 eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, 
 from whose court thou art exiled, Gracious heaven ! 
 tried I, kneeling down upon the last step but one in 
 my ascent Grant me but health, thou great bestower 
 of it, and give me but this fair goddess as a compa- 
 nionand shower down thy mitres, if it seem good 
 unto thy divine providence, upon those heads which 
 are aching for them. 
 
 The bird in his cage pursued me into my room; 
 1 sat down close by my table, and leaning my head
 
 73 
 
 upon ray hand, I began to figure to myself the mise- 
 ries of confinement. 1 was in a right frame for it 
 and so I gave full scope to my imagination. 
 
 I was going to begin -with the million* of my 
 fellow-creatures born to no inheritance bui slavery : 
 but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I 
 could not briny it near me, and that the multitude of 
 sad groups in it did but distract me 
 
 1 took a single captive, and having first 
 
 shut him up in his dungeon, 1 then looked through 
 the twilight of his grated door to take his picture. 
 
 I beheld his body half wasted away with long 
 expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of 
 sickness of the heart it was, which arises from hope 
 <!i .ft rred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and 
 feverish j in thirty years the western breeze had not 
 once fanned his blood he had seen no sun, no moon, 
 in all that time nor had the voice of friend or kins- 
 man breathed through his lattice: his children 
 
 But here my heart began to bleed and I was 
 forced to go on with another part of the portrait. 
 
 He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little 
 straw, iu the farthest corner of his dungeon, which 
 was alternately his chair and bed: a little calendar 
 of small sticks were laid at the head, notched all over 
 with the dismal days and nights he had passed there 
 he had one of those little sticks in his hand, and with
 
 74 
 
 a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to 
 add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he 
 had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then 
 cast it down shook his head, and went on with his 
 work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, 
 as he turned his body to lay his stick upon the bundle 
 He gave a deep sigh 1 saw the iron enter his soul 
 I burst into tears I could not sustain the picture of 
 confinement which my fancy had drawn. 
 
 THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. 
 
 A BRACE of sinners for no good", 
 
 Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, 
 
 Who al Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, 
 And in a fair white wig' look'd wond'rous fine. 
 
 Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, 
 With something in their shoes much worse than gravel, 
 In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, 
 The priest had ordered peas into their shoes ; 
 A nostrum famous in old Popish times, 
 For purifying souls that stunk with crimes; 
 
 A sort of apostolic salt, 
 That popish parsons for its pow'rs exalt, 
 For keeping souls of sinners sweet, 
 Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
 
 75 
 
 The knaves set off on the same day, 
 Peas in their shoes to go and pray ; 
 
 But very different was their speed, I wot; 
 One of the sinners gallop'd on, 
 Light as a buliet from a gun : 
 The other linap'd as if he had been shot. 
 
 One saw the Virgin soon peccavi, cried, 
 Had his soul while- wash'd all so clever; 
 
 Then home again he nimbly hied, 
 
 Made fit with saints above to live for ever. 
 
 In coming back, however, let me say, 
 He met his brother rogue about half way, 
 Hobbling with outstretch'd bum and bending knees, 
 Damning the souls and bodies of the peas ; 
 His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat, 
 Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet; 
 "How now," the light-toed, white-wash'd pilgrim 
 broke, 
 
 " You lazy lubber ?" 
 
 " Odds curse it !" cried the other "'tis no joke, 
 " My feet once hard as any rock, 
 
 "Are now as soft as blubber. 
 
 "Excuse me Virgin Mary that I swear, 
 " As for Loretto, I shall not get there ;
 
 7G 
 
 " No ! to the devil my sinful soul must go, 
 " For damme me if I ha'nt lost every toe : 
 " But, brother sinner, do explain 
 " How 'tis that you are not in pain ; 
 
 " What power hath work'd a wonder for your toes ; 
 "Whilst I just like a snail am crawling, 
 " Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, 
 
 " WhHsl not a rascal comes to ease my woes ? 
 
 " How is't that you can like a greyhound go, 
 
 " Merry, as if that nought had happen'd, burn ye," 
 "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, 
 "That just before I ventur'd on my journey, 
 " To walk a little more at ease, 
 " I took the liberty to boil my peas." 
 
 VERSES 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SEL- 
 KIRK, DVRING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE 
 ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ. 
 
 I AM monarch of all I survey, 
 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 From the centre all round to the sea, 
 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 Oh solitude ! where are the charms. 
 
 That sages have seen in thy face ?
 
 77 
 
 Belter dwell in the midst of alarms, 
 Than reign in this horrible place. 
 
 I am out of humanity's reach, 
 
 I must finish my journey alone, 
 Never hear the sweet music of speech, 
 
 I start at the sound of my own. 
 The beasts that roam over the plain, 
 
 My form with indifference see; 
 They are so unacquainted with man, 
 
 Their lameness is shocking to me. 
 
 Society, friendship, and love, 
 
 Divinely bestowed upon man, 
 Oh, had I the wings of a dove, 
 
 How soon would I taste you again ! 
 My sorrows I then might assuage 
 
 In the ways of religion and truth, 
 Might learn from the wisdom of age, 
 
 And be cheered by the sallies of youth. 
 
 Religion ! what treasure untold 
 Resides in that heavenly word ! 
 
 More precious than silver and gold, 
 Or all that this earth can afford. 
 
 But the sound of the church-going bell 
 These vallies and rocks never heard, 
 L
 
 78 
 
 Never sighed at the sonud of a knell, 
 Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. 
 
 Ye winds, that have made me your sport, 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land, I shall visit no more. 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 O tell me I yet have a friend, 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see. 
 
 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 
 
 Compared with the speed of its flight, 
 The tempest itself lags behind, 
 
 And the swift winged arrows of light. 
 When I think of my own native land, 
 
 In a moment I seem to be there; 
 But alas ! recollection at hand 
 
 Seems to hurl me back to despair 
 
 But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 
 
 The beast is laid down in his lair; 
 Even here is a season of rest, 
 
 And I to my cabin repair. 
 There's mercy in every place, 
 
 And mercy, encoaraging thought! 
 Gives even affliction a grace, 
 
 And reconciles man to his lot.
 
 79 
 
 THE SPEECH OF BRUTUS ON THE 
 DEATH OF CJESAR. 
 
 ROMANS, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my 
 cause; and be silent, that you may hear: believe, 
 me for mine honour ; and have respect to mine honour, 
 that you may believe : censure me in your wisdom, 
 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 Brutus' love to Caesar 
 was no less than his. If then that friend demand, why 
 Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer, Not 
 that I loved Caesar 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 
 Caesar lov'd me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, 
 I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him: but, 
 as he was ambitious, I slew him : There are tears, 
 for his love; joy, for his fortune; honour for his va- 
 lour; and death, for his ambition, Who is here so 
 base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; 
 for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that 
 would not be a Roman ? If any, speak ; for him 
 Lave I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not 
 love his country? If any, speak; for him have I 
 offended. I pause for a reply. 
 
 Now P then none have I offended. I have done
 
 80 
 
 no more to Coesar, that you shall do to Brutus. The 
 question of his death is enroll'd in the Capitol : his 
 glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy ; nor 
 his offences enfor'd, for which he suffer* d death. 
 
 Here comes his body, mourn'd by Mark Antho- 
 ny : who though he had no hand in his death, shall 
 receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the com- 
 monwealth; 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 myself, when it 
 shall please my country to need my death. 
 
 MARK ANTONY'S FUNERAL ORATION 
 OVER CAESAR'S BODY. 
 
 FBI ENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; 
 
 I come to bury Csesar, not to praise him. 
 
 The evil, that men do, lives after them; 
 
 The good is oft interred with their bones ; 
 
 So let it be with Caesar! The noble Brutus 
 
 Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious : 
 
 If it were so, it was a grievous fault; 
 
 And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. 
 
 Here, under leaf of Brutus, and the rest 
 
 (For Brutus is an honourable man; 
 
 So are thej all, all honourable men)
 
 81 
 
 Come I to speak in Casar's funeral. 
 
 He was my friend, faithful and just to me: 
 
 But Brutus says, he was ambitious; 
 
 And Brutus is an honourable man. 
 
 He bath brought many captives to home to Rome, 
 
 Whose ransoms did the general 'coffers fill: 
 
 Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? 
 
 "When that the poor have cry'd, Caesar hath wept: 
 
 Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: 
 
 Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious; 
 
 And Brutus is an honourable man. 
 
 You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, 
 
 I thrice presented him a kingly crown, 
 
 Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? 
 
 Yet Brutus says, he was ambitions; 
 
 And, sure, he is an honourable man. 
 
 I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 
 
 But here 1 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?- 
 
 O judgment, thou art 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 ; no\ lies he there, 
 
 And none so poor to do him reverence.
 
 82 
 
 masters ! if I were dispos'd to stir, 
 Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 
 
 1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
 Who, you all know, are honourable men : 
 
 I will not do them wrong; I rather choose 
 
 To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, 
 
 Than I will wrong such honourable men. 
 
 But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar, 
 
 I found it in his closet, 'tis his will : 
 
 Let but the commons hear this testament 
 
 (Which pardon me, I do not mean to read), 
 
 And they would go and kiss dead Cuesar's wounds, 
 
 And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; 
 
 Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 
 
 And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
 
 Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 
 
 Unto their issue. 
 
 Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it ; 
 
 It is not meet you know how Caesar lov'd you. 
 
 You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ; 
 
 And, being men, hearing the will of C*esar, 
 
 It will inflame you, it will make you mad : 
 
 'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs ; 
 
 For if you should, O, what would come of it! 
 
 Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile ? 
 
 I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it. 
 
 I fear, I wrong the honourable men,
 
 83 
 
 Whose daggers have stabbed Ctesar: I do fear it. 
 
 You will compel me then to read the will ? 
 
 Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, 
 
 And let me shew you him that made tho will, 
 
 If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
 
 You all do know this mantle : I remember 
 
 The first time ever Caesar put it on; 
 
 T\vas on a summer's evening, in his tent; 
 
 That day he overcame the Nervii: 
 
 Look! in this place, ran Cassius* dagger through: 
 
 See, what a rent the envious Casca made : 
 
 Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd; 
 
 And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, 
 
 Murk how the blood of Caesar follow'd it; 
 
 As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd 
 
 If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no; 
 
 For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: 
 
 Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd him! 
 
 This was the most unkindest cut of all ; 
 
 For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 
 
 Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, 
 
 Quite vanquish'd him : then burst his mighty heart ; 
 
 And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 
 
 Even at the base of Porapey's statue, 
 
 Which all the while ran blood, great Ctesar fell. 
 
 O, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
 
 Then I, and you, and all of us fell dowu,
 
 Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. 
 
 O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel 
 
 The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. 
 
 Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold 
 
 Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here ! 
 
 Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors. 
 
 Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up 
 
 To such a sudden flood 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 are wise and honourable*, 
 
 And will, no doubt, with reasons .answer you. 
 
 I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts; 
 
 I am no orator, as Brutus is : 
 
 But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, 
 
 That love my friend ; and that they know full well 
 
 That gave me public leave to speak of him. 
 
 For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth. 
 
 Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, 
 
 To stir men's blood : I only speak right on ; 
 
 I tell you that, which you yourselves do know; 
 
 Shew you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb 
 
 mouths ! 
 
 And bid them speak for me : But were I Brutus, 
 And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
 Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 
 In every wound of Caesar, that should move 
 The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
 
 CHARACTER OF WM. PITT, LATE EARL 
 OF CHATHAM. 
 
 THE Secretary stood alone. Modern degeneracy 
 had not readied him. Original and unaccommodat- 
 ing, the features of his character had the hardihood 
 of antiquity. His august mind over-awed majesty, 
 and one of his sovereigns thought royalty so much 
 impaired in his presence, thai lie conspired to remove 
 him, in order to be relieved from his superiority. 
 
 No state chicanery, no narrow system of vicious 
 politics, no idle contest for ministerial victories, sunk 
 him lo the vulgar level of the great ; hut overbearing, 
 pursuant-, and impractible, his object was England, 
 his ambition was fame. Without dividing, he de- 
 stroyed, party ; without corrupting, he made a ve- 
 nal age unanimous. France sunk beneath him. With 
 one hand he smote the house of Bourbon, and wield- 
 ed in the other the democracy of England. The sight 
 of his mind was infinite : and his schemes were to af- 
 fect, not England, not the present age only, but 
 Europe and posterity. Wonderful were the means 
 by which these schemes were accomplished; always 
 seasonable, always adequate, the suggestions of an 
 understanding animated by ardour and enlightened 
 by prophecy. 
 
 The ordinary feelings which make life amiable 
 M
 
 86 
 
 and indolent were unknown to him. No domestic 
 difficulties, no domestic weakness reached him; but 
 aloof from the sordid occurrences of life, and unsul- 
 lied by its intercourse, he came occasionally into our 
 system, to counsel and to decide. 
 
 A character so exalted, so strenuous, so various, 
 so authoritative, astonished a corrupt eye, and the 
 treasury trembled at the name of a Pitt through all 
 her classes of venality. Corruption imagined indeed, 
 that she had found defects in this statesman, and 
 talked much of the inconsistency of his glory, and 
 much of the ruin of his victories; but the history of 
 his country, and the calamities of the enemy, an- 
 swered and refuted her. 
 
 Nor were his political abilities his only talents : 
 his eloquence was an era in the senate, peculiar and 
 spontaneous, familiarly expressing gigantic sentiments 
 and instructive wisdom ; not like the torrent of De- 
 inosthenes, or the splendid conflagration of Tully : 
 it resembled sometimes the thunder, and sometimes 
 the music of the spheres. Like Murray, he did not 
 condutt the understanding through the painful subtil- 
 ty of argumentation; nor was lie like Tevrasend, for 
 ever on the rock of exertion ; but rather lightened 
 upon the subject, and reached the point by the flash- 
 ings of the mind, which, like those of his eyes, were 
 cit, but could not be followed.
 
 87 
 
 Upon the whole, there was something in this 
 man that could create, subvert, or reform; an un- 
 derstanding, a spirit, and an eloquence, to summon 
 mankind to society, or to break the bonds of slavery 
 asunder, and to rule the wilderness of free minds 
 with unbounded authority; something that could es- 
 tablish or overwhelm empire, and strike a blow in 
 the world that should resound through the universe. 
 
 JOHN GILPIN'S JOURNEY. 
 
 JOHN GILPIN was a citizen 
 
 Of credit and renown ; 
 A trainband captain eke was he 
 
 Of famous London town. 
 
 John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 
 Though wedded we have been 
 
 These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
 No holiday have seen. 
 
 To-morrow is our wedding day, 
 
 And we will then repair 
 Unto the Bell at Edmonton 
 
 All in a chaise and pair. 
 
 My sister and my sister's child, 
 Myself and children three,
 
 88 
 
 Will All llie chaise ; so you must ride 
 On horseback after we. 
 
 He soon replied, I do admire 
 
 Of womankind but one, 
 And you are she, my dearest dear, 
 
 Therefore it shall be done. 
 
 I am a linen-draper bold, 
 
 As all the world doth know, 
 And my ^ood friend the calender. 
 
 Will lend his horse to go. 
 
 Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, That's well said; 
 
 And for that wine is dear, 
 We will be furnish'd with our own, 
 
 Which is both bright and clear. 
 
 John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; 
 
 O'erjoy'd was he to find 
 That, though on pleasure she was bent, 
 
 She had a frugal mind. 
 
 Tlie morning came, the chaise was brought, 
 
 But yet was not allow'd 
 To drive up to the door, lest all 
 
 Should say that she was proud. 
 
 So three doors off the chaise was stay 'd, 
 Where they did all get in ;
 
 89 
 
 Six precious souls, and all agog 
 To dash through thick and thin. 
 
 Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 
 
 Were never folk so glad, 
 The stones did rattle underneath, 
 
 As if Cheapside were mad. 
 
 John Gilpin at his horse's side 
 
 Sei/'d fast the (lowing mane, 
 And up lie got, in haste to ride, 
 
 But soon came down again ; 
 
 For saddletree scarce reach' d had he, 
 
 His journey to begin, 
 When, turning round his head, he saw 
 
 Three customers come in. 
 
 So down he came ; for loss of time, 
 
 Although it griev'd him sore, 
 Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 
 
 Would trouble him much more. 
 
 'Twas long before the customers 
 
 Were suited to their mind, 
 When Betty screaming came down stairs, 
 
 " The wine is left behind \" 
 
 Good lack ! quoth he yet bring it me, 
 My leathern belt likewise,
 
 90 
 
 In which I hear my trusty sword 
 When I do exercise. 
 
 Now mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) 
 
 Had two stone bottles found, 
 To hold the liquor that she lov'd, 
 
 And keep it safe and sound. 
 
 Each bottle had a curling ear, 
 Through which thp belt he drew, 
 
 And hung a bottle on each side, 
 To make his balance true. 
 
 Then over all, that he might be 
 
 Equipp'd from top to toe, 
 His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, 
 
 He manfully did throw. 
 
 Now see him mounted once again 
 
 Upon his nimble steed, 
 Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 
 
 With caution and good heed. 
 
 But finding soon a smoother road 
 
 Beneath his well-shod feet, 
 The snorting beast began to trot, 
 
 Which gall'd him in his seat. 
 
 So, fair and softly, John he cried, 
 But John he cried in vain 3
 
 91 
 
 That trot became a gallop soon, 
 In spite of curb and rein. 
 
 So stooping down, as needs he must 
 
 Who cannot sit upright, 
 He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, 
 
 And eke with all his might. 
 
 His horse, who never in that sort 
 
 Had handled been before, 
 What tiling upon his back had got 
 
 Did vronder more and more. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; 
 
 Away went hat and wig; 
 He little dreamt, when he set out, 
 
 Of running such a riy. 
 
 The \\ind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
 
 Like streamer long- and gay, 
 Till, loop and button failing both, 
 
 At last it flew away. 
 
 Then might all people well discern 
 
 The bottles he had slung; 
 A bottle swinging at each side, 
 
 As hath been said or sung. 
 
 The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, 
 Up flew the windows all;
 
 92 
 
 And ev'ry soul cried out, Well done! 
 As loud as he could bawl. 
 
 Away went Gilpin who but he? 
 
 His fame soon spread around, 
 He carries weight! he rides a race! 
 
 'Tis for u thousand pound ! 
 
 And still, as fast as he drew near, 
 
 'Twas wonderful to view 
 How in a trice the turnpike-men 
 
 Their gates wide open threw. 
 
 And now as he went bowing down 
 
 His reeking head full low, 
 The bottles twain behind his hack 
 
 Were shatter'd at a blow. 
 
 Down ran the wine into the road 
 
 Most piteous to be seen, 
 Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 
 
 As they had basted been. 
 
 But stillJie seem'd to carry weight, 
 With leathern girdle brac'd ; 
 
 For all might see the bottle-necks 
 Still dangling at his waist. 
 
 Thus all through merry Islington 
 These gambols he did play,
 
 93 
 
 1'ntil lie came unto the Wash 
 Of Edmonton so gay. 
 
 And there he threw the wash about 
 
 Ou both sides of the way, 
 Just like unto ;i trundling mop, 
 
 Or a wild goose at play. 
 
 At Edmonton his loving wife 
 
 From the balcony spied 
 Her tender husband, wondering much 
 
 To see how he did ride. 
 
 Stop, stop, John Gilpin! Here's the bousc- 
 
 They all aloud did cry ; 
 The dinner wails-, and we are tir'd j 
 
 Said Gilpin so am 1. 
 
 But yet his horse was not a whit 
 
 Inclin'd to tarry there; 
 For why ? his owner had a house 
 
 Full ten miles off at Ware. 
 
 So like an arrow swift he flew, 
 
 Shot by an archer strong ; 
 So did he fly which brings me to 
 
 The middle of my song. 
 
 Away went Gilpin out of breath, 
 And sore against his will, 
 
 N
 
 94 
 
 Till at his friend the calender's 
 His horse at last stood (.till. 
 
 The calender amaz'd to see 
 
 His neighbour in such trim, 
 Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 
 
 And thus accosted him. 
 
 What news? what news? your tidings tell; 
 
 Tell me you must and shall 
 Say why bareheaded you are come, 
 
 Or why you come at all. 
 
 Now Gilpiu had a pleasant wit, 
 
 And Lov'd a iimely joke! 
 And thus unto the calender 
 
 Jn merry guise he spoke. 
 
 I came because your horse would come; 
 
 And, if I well forebode, 
 My hat and wig will soon be here, 
 
 They are upon the road. 
 
 The calender right glad to find 
 
 His friend in merry pin, 
 Return 'd him not a single word, 
 
 But to the house went in; 
 
 When straight he came with hat and wig; 
 A wig that fltnv'd behind,
 
 05 
 
 A hat not much the worse for wear, 
 Each comely in its kind. 
 
 He held them up, and in his turn 
 Thus show'd his ready wit, 
 
 My head is twice as big as yours, 
 They therefore needs must fit. 
 
 But let me scrape the di;t away, 
 That hangs upon your face; 
 
 And stop and eat, for well you may 
 Be in a hungry case. 
 
 Said John it is my wedding-day, 
 And all the world would stare 
 
 If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
 And I should dine at Ware. 
 
 So turning to his horse, he said, 
 
 I am in haste to dine; 
 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 
 
 You shall go back for mine. 
 
 Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast! 
 
 For which he paid full dear; 
 For, while he spake, a braying ass 
 
 Did sing most loud and clear; 
 
 Whereat his horse did snort, as he 
 Had heard a lion roar,
 
 And gallop'd off with all his might, 
 As he had done before. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 Went Gilpin' s hat and wig: 
 lie lost them sooner than at first, 
 
 For why? they were too big. 
 
 Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
 
 Her husband posting down 
 Into the country far away, 
 
 She pull'd out half a crown; 
 
 And thus tmlo the youth she said, 
 That drove them to the Bell, 
 
 This shall be yours when you bring lack 
 My husband safe and well. 
 
 The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
 
 John coming back amain! 
 Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 
 
 By catching at his rein ; 
 
 But not performing what be meant, 
 And gladly would have done, 
 
 The frighted steed he frighted more, 
 And made him faster run. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 Went postboy at his heels,
 
 97 
 
 The postboy's horse right glad lo miss 
 The I urn I/ring of the wheels. 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpiu fly, 
 With postboy scampering 1 in the rear, 
 
 They rais'd the hue and cry : 
 
 Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman! 
 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 And all and each that pass'd that way 
 
 Did join in the pursuit. 
 
 And now the turnpike gates again 
 Flew open in short space; 
 
 The toll-men thinking as before, 
 That Gilpin rode a race. 
 
 And so he did, and won it too, 
 
 For he got first to town ; 
 Nor slopp'd till where he had got up 
 
 He did again get down. 
 
 Now let us sing, long live the king, 
 And Gilpin, long live he; 
 
 And, when he next doth ride abroad, 
 May I be there to see!
 
 98 
 NORVAL'S ACCOUNT OF THE HERMIT 
 
 FROM WHOM HE LEARNED THE ART OF WAR. 
 
 BF.NEATH a mountain's brow, the most remote 
 
 And inaccessible, by shepherds trod, 
 
 In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, 
 
 A hermit liv'd ; a melancholy man, 
 
 Who was the wonder of our wond'ring swains. 
 
 Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, 
 
 Did they report him; the cold earth his bed, 
 
 Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. 
 
 I went to see him; and my heart was touch ''d 
 
 With reverence and with pity. Mild he spake, 
 
 And, entering on discourse, such tales he told 
 
 As made me oft revisit his sad cell. 
 
 For he had been a soldier in his youth ; 
 
 And fought in famous battles, when the peers 
 
 Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led, 
 
 Against th' usurping infidels display'd 
 
 The blessed cross, and won the Holy Laud. 
 
 Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire 
 
 His speech struck from me, The old man would shake 
 
 His years away, and act his young encounters; 
 
 Then, having show'd his wounds, he'd sit him down, 
 
 And, all the live long day, discourse of war. 
 
 To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf 
 
 He cut the figures of the inarshal'd hosts,
 
 90 
 
 Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use, 
 Of the deep column and the lengtheii'd line, 
 The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm : 
 For all that Saracen or Christian knew 
 Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known. 
 Why this brave soldier in a desert hid, 
 Those qualities that should have grac'd a camp, 
 At last I learned 
 
 I'nhrippy man ! 
 
 Returning homewards by Messina's port 
 Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won 
 A rude and boisterous Captain of the sea, 
 Fusten'd a quarrel on him. 
 Fierce they fought, 
 
 The stranger fell; and with his dying breath, 
 DeclarM his name and lineage. Mighty power 
 The soldier cried My brother ! oh my brother ! 
 Yes, his brother: of the same parents born; 
 His only brother. They exchange forgiveness : 
 And happy in my mind was he that died, 
 For many deaths has the survivor sofler'd 
 In the wild deserts; on the rocks he sits, 
 And ruminates all day his dreadful fate. 
 At times alas ! not in his perfect mind, 
 Holds dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost, 
 And of each night, forsakes his sullen couch 
 To make sad orisons for him he slew.
 
 100 
 PARLIAMENTARY DEBATES, 
 
 IN REPROOF OF MR. WM. PITT, (LATE LORD 
 CHATHAM,) REFLECTING ON HIS YOUTH AND 
 THEATRICAL MANNER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I WAS unwilling 1 to interrupt the course of this 
 debate while it was carried on with calmness and de- 
 cency, by men who do not suffer the ardour of oppo- 
 sition to cloud their reason, or transport them to such 
 expressions as the dignity of this assembly does not 
 admit. I have hitherto deferred to answer the gen- 
 tleman who declaimed against the bill, with such flu- 
 ency of rhetoric and such vehemence of gesture, who 
 charged the advocates for the expedient now proposed 
 with having no regard to any interest but their own, 
 and with ?naking laws only to consume paper, and 
 threatened them with the defection of their adherents, 
 and the loss of their influence, upon this new discovery 
 of their folly and their ignorance. Nor, sir, do I 
 now answer him for any other purpose than to re- 
 mind him how little the clamours of rage, and petu- 
 lency of invectives, contribute to the purposes for 
 which this assembly is called together; how little 
 the discovery of truth is promoted, and the serenity 
 of the nation is established, by pompous diction and 
 theatrical emotions.
 
 101 
 
 Formidable sounds and furious declamations, 
 confident assertions and lofty periods, may affect the 
 young and unexperienced ; and perhaps the gentle- 
 man may have contracted his habits of oratory, by 
 conversing with those of his own age, than with such 
 as have more opportunities of acquiring knowledge, 
 and more successful methods of communicating their 
 sentiments. If the heat of his temper, Sir, would suf- 
 t'i T him to attend to those whose age, and long ac- 
 quaintance with business, give them an indisputable 
 right to deference and superiority, he would learn, 
 in time, to reason rather" than to prefer justness of 
 argument, and an accurate knowledge of facts, to 
 sounding epithets and splendid superlatives, which 
 may disturb the imagination for a moment, but leave 
 no lasting impression on the mind. He will learn, 
 Sir, that to accuse and prove are very different, and that 
 reproaches unsupported by evidence, affect only the 
 character of him that utters them. Excursions of fancy 
 and flights of oratory are indeed pardonable in young 
 men, but in no other! and it would surely contribute 
 more, even to the purpose for which some gentlemen 
 appear to speak, (of depreciating the conduct of the 
 administration,) to prove the inconveniences and in- 
 justice of this bill, than barely to assert them, with 
 whatever magnificence of langugae, or appearance of 
 zeal, honesty, or compassion. 
 O
 
 102 
 MR. PITT'S REPLY. 
 
 THE atrocious crime of being a young man, which 
 the honourable gentleman has, with such spirit and 
 decency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt 
 to palliate nor deny, but content myself with wish- 
 ing that I may be one of those whose follies may 
 cease with their youth, and not of thnt number who 
 are ignorant in spite of experience. Whether youth 
 can be imputed to any man as a reproach, I will not, 
 Sir, assume the provinceot' determining; but surely 
 age may become justly contemptible, if the opportu- 
 nities which it brings have past away without im- 
 provement, and vice appears to prevail, when the 
 passions have subsided. The wretch who, after 
 having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, con- 
 tinues still to blunder, and whose age has only added 
 obstinancy to stupidity, is surely the object of either 
 abhorrence or contempt, and deserves not that his 
 grey hairs should secure him from insult. Much 
 more, Sir, is he to be abhorred,' who, as he has ad- 
 vanced in age, has receded from virtue, and becomes 
 more wicked with less temptation ; who prostitutes 
 himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends 
 the remains of his life in the ruin of his country. But 
 youth, Sir, is not my only crime; I have been ac- 
 cused of acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part
 
 103 
 
 may either imply some peculiarities of gesture, or 
 dissimulation of my real sentiments, and an adoption 
 of the opinions and language of another man. 
 
 In the first sense, Sir, the charge is too trifling 
 to be confuted, and deserves only to be mentioned, 
 to be dispised. I am at liberty, like every other 
 man, to use my own language ; and though, perhaps, 
 I may have some ambition to please this gentleman, 
 I shall not lay myself under any restraint, nor very 
 solicitously copy his diction or his mien, however 
 matured by agt or modelled by experience. If any 
 man shall, by charging me with theatrical behaviour, 
 imply, that I ulttr any sentiments but my own, I 
 shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain; nor 
 nor shall my protection shelter him from the treat- 
 ment he deserves. I shall on such an occasion, with- 
 out scruple, trample upon all those forms with which 
 wealth and dignity intrench themselves, nor shall 
 any thing but ae restrain my resentment; age, 
 which always brings one privilege, that of being in- 
 solent and supercilious without punishment. But 
 with regard, Sir, to those whom I have offended, I 
 am of opinion, that, if J had acted a borrowed part, 
 I should have avoided their censure : the heat that 
 offended them is the ardour of conviction, and that 
 zeal for the service of my country, which neither 
 hope nor fear shall influence me to suppress. I will
 
 104 
 
 not sit unconcerned while my liberty is invaded, nor 
 look in silence on public robbery. I will exert my 
 endeavours, at whatever hazard, to repel the aggres- 
 sor, and drag the thief to justice, whoever may pro- 
 tect them in their villainy, and whoever may partake 
 of their plunder. 
 
 SATIRE UPON LAW SUITS. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 LAW is law, law is law, and as in such and so forth, 
 and hereby and aforesaid, provided, always, never- 
 theless, notwithstanding. Law is a country dance, 
 people are led up and down in it till they are tired. 
 Law is like a book of surgery, there are a great many 
 terrible cases in it. It is also like physic, they that 
 take least of it are best off. Law is like a homely 
 gentlewoman, very well to follow. Law is like a 
 scolding wife, very bad when it follows us. Law is 
 like a new fashion, people are bewitched to get into 
 it; it is also like bad weather, most people are glad 
 when they get out'of it. 
 
 We shall now mention a cause, called, '' Bullum 
 versus Boalum :" farmer A and farmer B. Farmer 
 A was seized or possessed of a bull ; farmer B was 
 possessed of a ferry-boat. Now the owner of the
 
 105 
 
 ferry-boat having made his boat fast to a post on 
 shore, with a piece of hay, twisted rope-fashion, or, 
 as we say, vttlgo vocato, a hay-band. After he had 
 made his boat fast to a post on shore, as it was very 
 natural for a hungry man to do, he went up town to 
 dinner: farmer A's bull, as it was very natural for a 
 hungry bull to do, came down town to look for a 
 dinner j and, observing, discovering, seeing, and 
 spying-out, some turnips in the bottom of the ferry- 
 boat, the bull scrambled into the ferry-boat: he ate 
 up the turnips, and to make an end of his meal, fell 
 to work upon the hay -band : the boat, being eaten from 
 its moorings, floated down the river, with the bull in 
 it; it struck against a rock, beat a hole in the bot- 
 tom of the boat, and tossed the bull overboard; 
 whereupon the owner of the bull brought his action 
 against the boat, for running away with the bull. 
 The owner of the boat bronght his action against 
 the bull for running away with the boat. And thus 
 notice of trial was given, Btillum versus Boatum, 
 Boattun versus Bullum. 
 
 Now the counsel for the bull began with saying, 
 "my lord, and you, gentlemen of the jury, we are 
 counsel in this cause for the bull. We are indicted 
 for running away with the boat. Now, my lord, we 
 have heard of running horses, but never of running 
 bulls before. Now, my lord, the bull could no more
 
 106 
 
 run away with the boat, than a man. in a coach may 
 be said to run away with the horses; therefore, my 
 lord, how can we punish what is not punishable? 
 how can we eat what is not eatable ? or, how can 
 we drink what is not drinkable? or, as the law 
 says, how can we think on that which is not think- 
 able? Therefore, my lord, as we are counsel in 
 this cause for the bull, if the jury should bring the bull 
 in guilty, the jury would be guilty of a bull." 
 
 The counsel for the boat observed that the bull 
 should be nonsuited, because, in his declaration, he 
 had not specified what colour he was of; for thus wisely, 
 and thus learnedly, spoke the counsel "my lord, 
 if the bull was uo colour, he must be of some colour; 
 and, if he was not of any colour, what colour could 
 the bull be of?" I over-ruled this motion myself, by 
 observing the bull was a white bull, and that white is 
 no colour: besides, as I told my brethren, they should 
 not trouble their heads to talk of colour in Ihe law, 
 for the law can colour any thing. This cause being 
 afterwards left to reference, upon the award both 
 hull and boat were acquitted, it being proved, that 
 the tide of the river carried them both away; upon 
 which I gave it as my opinion, that, as the tide of 
 the river carried both bull and boat away, buth bull 
 and boat had a good action against the water-bailiff. 
 
 My opinion being taken, an action was issued,
 
 107 
 
 and, upon the traverse, this point of law arose. How, 
 wherefore, and whether, why, when, and what, what- 
 soever, whereas, and whereby, as the hoat was not 
 a compos mentis evidence, how could an oath be ad- 
 ministered ? The point was soon settled by Boatum's 
 attorney declaring that, for his client, he would 
 swear any thing. 
 
 The water bailiff's charter was then read, taken 
 out of the original record in the true law latin; which 
 set forth, in their declaration, that they were carried 
 away either by the tide of flood or the tide of ebb. 
 The charter of the water-bailiff was as follows: 
 " Aquce baili/ft est magistratus in choisi, super 
 omnibus Jisliibus qui habucrent Jinnos ct scalos, 
 chics, shells, ct talos, qui swimmarc in frcshibus 
 vel saltibus river is, lafcos, pondis, canalibus, et 
 well-boats, sive oysteri, prawni, ic/tilini, shrimpi, 
 turbittos solus;" that is not turbots alone, but tur- 
 bots and soals both together. But now comes the 
 nicety of the law; the law is as nice as a new-laid 
 egg, and not to be understood by addle-headed peo- 
 ple. Bullum and Boatum mentioned both ebb and 
 flood to avoid quibbling; but, it being proved that 
 they were carried away neither by the tide of flood, 
 nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly upon the top of 
 high water, they were nonsuited ; but, such was the 
 lenity of the court, upon their paying all costs, they 
 were allowed to begin again, de novo.
 
 108 
 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 chil! November's surly blast 
 
 Made fields and forests bare, 
 One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 
 
 Along the banks of Ayr, 
 I spy'd a man, whose aged step 
 
 Seem'd weary, wom with care; 
 His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 
 
 And hoary was his hair. 
 
 Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou? 
 
 Began the rev'rend sage; 
 Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 
 
 Or youthful pleasure's rage? 
 Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 
 
 Too soon thou bast begun 
 To wander forth, with me, to mourn 
 
 The miseries of man. 
 
 The sun that overhangs yon moors, 
 
 Outspreading far and wide, 
 Where hundreds labour to support 
 
 A haughty lordling's pride; 
 I've seen yon weary winter-sun 
 
 Twice forty times leturn ;
 
 109 
 
 And ev'ry time has added proofs, 
 That man was made ta mourn. 
 
 man ! while in thy early years, 
 
 How prodigal of time! 
 Mis-spending all thy precious hours, 
 
 Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
 Alternate follies take the sway i 
 
 Licentious passions burn ; 
 Which tenfold force gives nature's law, 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 Look not alone on youthful prime, 
 
 Or manhood's active might ; 
 Man then is useful to his kind., 
 
 Supported is bis right : 
 But see him on the edge of life, 
 
 With cares and sorrows worn, 
 Then age and want, O ill-match'd pair! 
 
 Show man was made to mourn. 
 
 A few seem favourites of fate, 
 
 In pleasure's lap carest; 
 Yet, think not all the rich and great 
 
 Are likewise truly blest. 
 But, oh ! what crowds in ev'ry land, 
 
 Are wretched and forlorn ; 
 Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 P
 
 Many and sharp the num'rous ills 
 
 Inwoven with our frame ! 
 More pointed still we make ourselves, 
 
 Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
 And man, whose heav'n-erected face 
 
 The smiles of love adorn, 
 Man's inhumanity to man 
 
 Makes countless thousands mourn 1 
 
 See yonder poor, o'erlahourM wight, 
 
 So abject, mean, and vile, 
 Who begs a brother of the earth 
 
 To give him leave to toil ; 
 And see his lordly fellow-worm 
 
 The poor petition spurn, 
 Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 
 
 And helpless offspring mourn. 
 
 If Fra design'd yon lordling's slave, 
 
 By Nature's law design'd, 
 Why was an independent wish 
 
 E'er planted in my mind ? 
 If not, why am 1 subject to. 
 
 His cruelty and scorn ? 
 Or why has man the will and pow'r 
 
 To make his fellow mourn ? 
 
 Yet, let not this too much, my son, 
 Disturb thy youthful breast ;
 
 Ill 
 
 This partial view of human-kind- 
 
 Is surely not the last ! 
 The poor, oppressed, honest man; 
 
 Had never, sure, been born, 
 Had there not been some recompense 
 
 To comfort those that mourn ! 
 
 O death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 
 
 The kindest and the best ! 
 Welcome the hour my aged limbs 
 
 Are laid with thee at rest ! 
 The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 
 
 From pomp and pleasure lorn ; 
 But, oh ! a blest relief to those 
 
 That weary-laden mourn ! 
 
 JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THE DEAD 
 BODY OF LUCRETIA. 
 
 YES, noble lady, I swear by this blood, which was- 
 once so pure, and which nothing but royal villainy 
 could have polluted, that I will pursue Lucius Tar- 
 quinius the proud, his wicked wife, and their children, 
 with fire and sword : nor will I ever suffer any of that 
 family, or of any other whatsoever to be king in Rome. 
 Ye Gods ! I call you to witness this my oath !
 
 There, Romans, turn your eyes to that sad spectacle 
 the daughter of Lucretius, Collatinus' wife she 
 died by her own hand. See there a noble lady, 
 whom the lust of a Tarquin reduced to the necessity 
 of being her own executioner, to attest her innocence. 
 Hospitably entertained by her as a kinsman of her 
 husband, Sextus, the perfidious guest, became her 
 brutal ravisher. The chaste, the generous Lucretia 
 could not survive the insult. Glorious woman ! But 
 once only treated as a slave, she thought life no longer 
 to be endured. Lucretia, a woman, disdained a life 
 that depended on a tyrant's will ; and shall we, shall 
 men, with such an example before our eyes, and af- 
 ter five and twenty years of ignominious servitude, 
 shall we, through a fear of dying, defer one single in- 
 stant to assert our liberty ? No, Romans, now is 
 the lime ; the favourable moment we have so long 
 waited for is come. Tarquin is not at Rome. The 
 patricians are at the head of the enterprise. The 
 city is abundantly provided with men, arms, and all 
 things necessary. There is nothing wanting to se- 
 cure the success, if our own courage does not fail 
 us. Can all those warriors, who have ever been so 
 brave when foreign enemies were to be subdued, or 
 when conquests were to be made to gratify the ambi- 
 tion and avarice of Tarquin, be then only cowards, 
 when they are to deliver themselves from slavery?
 
 113 
 
 Some of you, perhaps, are intimidated by the army 
 which Tarquin now commands. The soldiers, you 
 imagine, will take part with their general. Banish 
 BO groundless a fear. The love of liberty is natural 
 to all men. Your fellow-citizens in the camp feel 
 the weight of oppression with as quick a sense as 
 you that are in Rome. They will as eagerly seize 
 the occasion of throwing off the yoke. But let us 
 grant there may be some amongst them, who, through 
 baseness of spirit, or a bud education, will be dispos- 
 ed to favour the tyrant. The number of these can 
 be but small, and we have means sufficient in our 
 hands to reduce them to reason. They have left us 
 hostages more dear to them than life. Their wives, 
 their children, their fathers, their mothers, are here 
 in the city. Courage, Romans, the gods are for us: 
 those gods, whose temples and altars the impious 
 Tarquin hath profaned by sacrifices and libations 
 made with polluted hands, polluted with blood, and 
 with numberless unexpiated crimes committed against 
 his subjects. Ye gods, who protected our forefathers, 
 ye genii, who watch for the preservation and glory 
 of Rome, do you inspire us with courage and una- 
 nimity in this glorious cause, and we will to our last 
 breath defend your worship frem all profanation.
 
 &fmm'g 
 
 PART III. 
 
 ST. PAUL'S DEFENCE BEFORE KING 
 AGRIPPA. 
 
 I THINK myself happy, ting Agrippa, because I 
 shall answer for myself this day before thee, touching 
 all things whereof I am accused of the Jews; 
 especially because I know thee to be expert in all 
 customs and questions which are among the Jews: 
 wherefore I beseech thee to hear me patiently. My 
 manner of life from my youth, which was at the first 
 among mine own nation at Jerusalem, know all the 
 Jews; which knew me from the beginning, (if they 
 would testify,) that after the most straitcsl sect of 
 our religion, I lived a Pharisee. And now I stand and 
 am judged for the hope of the promise made of God 
 unto our fathers; unto which promise our twelve 
 tribes, instantly serving God day and night, hope to 
 come: for which hope's sake, king Agrippa, I am 
 accused of the Jews. Why should it be thought a 
 
 a
 
 116 
 
 thing incredible with you, that God should raise the 
 dead ? I verily thought with myself that I ought 
 to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of 
 Nazareth. Which thing I also did in Jerusalem: 
 and many of the saints did I shut up in prison, having 
 received authority from the chief priests; and when 
 they were put to death, I gave my voice against 
 them. And I punished them oft in every synagogue, 
 and compelled them to blaspheme : and, being (ex- 
 ceedingly mad against them, I persecuted them even, 
 unto strange cities. Whereupon, as I went to Da- 
 mascus, with authority and commission from the chief 
 priests: At mid-day, O king, I saw in the way a 
 light from heaven, above the brightness of the sun, 
 shining round about me, and them which journeyed 
 with me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, 
 I heard a voice speaking unto me, and saying, in 
 the Hebrew tongue, Saul, Saul, why persecutes! 
 thou me ? It is hard for thee to kick against the 
 pricks. And I said, Who art thou, Lord ? And he 
 said, I am Jesus, whom thou persecutes!. But rise, 
 and stand upon thy feet; for I have appeared unto 
 thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister and a 
 witness both of those things which thou hast seen, 
 and of those things in the which I will appear unto 
 thee ; delivering thee from the people, and from the 
 Gentiles, unto whom now send thee. To open their
 
 117 
 
 eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and 
 from the power of Satan unto God, that they may 
 receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance among 
 them which are sanctified by faith that is in me. 
 Whereupon, O king Agrippa, I was not disobedient 
 unto the heavenly vision : but shewed first unto them 
 of Damascus, and at Jerusalem, and throughout all 
 the coasts of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that 
 U.ey should repent and turn to God, and do works 
 meet for repentance. For these causes the Jews 
 caught me in the temple, and went about to kill me. 
 Haviug therefore obtained help of God, I continue 
 unto this day, witnesselh both to small and great, 
 saying none other things than those which the pro- 
 phets and Moses did say should come; that Christ 
 should suffer, and that he should be the first that 
 should rise from the dead, and 'should shew light 
 unto the people, and to the Gentiles. And as he 
 thus spake for himself, Festus said with a loud voice, 
 Paul, tliuu art beside thyself; much learning dolli 
 make thee mad. But he said, I am not mad, most 
 noble Festus; but speak forth the words of truth and 
 soberness. For the king knowelh of these things, 
 before whom I also speak freely : for I am persuaded 
 that none of these things are hidden from him ; for 
 this thing was not done in a corner. King Agrippa, 
 betlievest thou the prophets ? I know that thou
 
 118 
 
 believest. Then Agrippa said unto Paul, almost 
 thou persuadest me to be a Christian. And Paul 
 said, I would to God, that not only thou, but also 
 all that hear ine this day, were both almost, and al- 
 together such as I am, except these bonds. 
 
 PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDRO- 
 MACHE. 
 
 HECTOR now pass'd, with sad presaging heart 
 To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part; 
 At home he sought her, but he sought in vain ; 
 She, with one maid of all her menial train, 
 Had thence retir'd; and with her second joy, 
 The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy : 
 Pensive she stood on llion's towery height. 
 Beheld the war, and sicken' d at the sight : 
 There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore, 
 Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore; 
 Hector, this heard, return'd without delay; 
 Swift through the town he trod his former way, 
 Through streets of palaces, and walks of state; 
 And met the mourner at the Scaeon gale. 
 With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair, 
 His blameless wife, Action's wealthy heir: 
 The nurse stood uear, in whose embraces press'd
 
 119 
 
 His only hope hung smiling at her breast, 
 Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn, 
 Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn. 
 Silent the warrior smil'd, and pleas'd resigned 
 To lender passions all his mighty mind : 
 His beauteous princess cast a mournful look, 
 Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke; 
 Her bosom labour'd with a boding sigh, 
 And the big tear stood trembling in her eye. 
 
 The chief began 
 
 Still foremost let me stand, to guard the throne, 
 To save uiy father's honours and my own. 
 Yet come it will the day decreed by fates: . 
 (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates I) 
 The day when thou, imperial Troy ! must bend, 
 And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. 
 And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, 
 My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, 
 Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore, 
 Not all my brothers gasping on the shore; 
 As thine Andromache ! thy griefs I dread ; 
 I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led ! 
 In Argive looms our battles to design, 
 And woes, of which so large a part was thine! 
 To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring 
 The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring. 
 R
 
 120 
 
 There, while you groan beneath the load of life, 
 They cry, behold the mighty Hector's wife! 
 Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, 
 Embitters all thy woes, by naming me. 
 The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, 
 A thousand griefs shall waken at the name! 
 May 1 lie cold before that dreadful day, 
 Press' d with a load of monumental clay 1 
 Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, 
 Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep. 
 
 Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy 
 Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. 
 The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, 
 Scar'd at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. 
 With secret pleasure each fond parent smil'd, 
 And Hector hasted to relieve his child; 
 The glittering terrors from his brow unbound, 
 And plac'd the beaming helmet on the ground. 
 Then kiss'd the child, and lifting high in air, 
 Thus to the gods preferr'd a father's prayer: 
 
 O thou! whose glory fills th' ethereal throne, 
 And all ye deathless powers ! protect my son ! 
 Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, 
 To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, 
 Against his country's foes the war to wage, 
 And rise the Hector of the future age ! 
 So when triumphant from successful toils 
 Of heroes slain he bears the recking spoils,
 
 121 
 
 Whole hosts may hail him with deserv'd acclaim, 
 And say, this chief transcends his father's fame: 
 While pleas'd, amidst the general shouts of Troy, 
 His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy. 
 
 He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms, 
 Restor'd the pleasing hurden to her arms ; 
 Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, 
 Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey'd. 
 The troubled pleasure soon cliaslis'd by fear, 
 She mingled with the smile a tender tear. 
 Thesoftcn'd chief with kind compassion view'd, 
 And dry'd the falling drops, and thus pursued : 
 
 Andromache ! my soul's far better part ! 
 Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? 
 No hostile hand can antedate my doom, 
 Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. 
 l'i\M is the term to all the race of earth; 
 And such the hard condition of our birth, 
 No force can then resist, no flight can save; 
 All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. 
 No more but hasten to thy tasks at home, 
 There guide the spindle, and direct the loom : 
 Me glory summons to the martial scene, 
 The field of combat is the sphere for men ; 
 Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, 
 The first in danger, as the first in fame. 
 
 Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes 
 His towery helmet, black with shading plumes.
 
 122 
 
 His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, 
 Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, 
 That streamed at every look : then moving slow, 
 Sought her own palace, and iudulg'd her woe. 
 There, while her tears deplor'd the godlike man, 
 Through all her train the soft infection ran, 
 The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, 
 And mourn the living Hector, as the dead. - 
 
 THREE BLACK CROWS. 
 
 Two honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand, 
 One took the other, briskly, by the hand ; 
 Hark ye, said, 'tis an odd story this 
 About the crows ! I don't know what it is, 
 Reply'd his friend No! I'm surpriz'd 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 agreed. 
 Not to detain you from a thing so strange, 
 A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change, 
 This week, in short, as all the alley knows, 
 Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows. 
 
 Impossible! Nay, but 'tis really true; 
 
 1 have it from good hands, and so may you
 
 123 
 
 From whose, I pray ? So having nam'd the man. 
 
 Straight to enquire his curious comrade ran. 
 
 Sir, did you tell relating the affair 
 
 Yes, Sir, I did ; and if 'tis woith your care, 
 
 Ask Mr. such-a-one, he told it me, 
 
 But, by the bye, 'twas tico black crews, not three. 
 
 Resolvkl to trace so wondrous an event, 
 
 Whip to the third the virtuoso went. 
 
 Sir and so forth Why yes ; the thing is fact, 
 
 Tho', 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 goes he, and having found him out, 
 
 Sir, be so good as to resolve a donbt 
 
 Then to his last informant he referr'd, 
 
 And begg'd to kuow, if true, what he had heard: 
 
 Did you, Sir, throw up a black crow ? Not I 
 
 Bless me! how people propagate a lie! 
 
 Black crows have been thrown up, three, ttvo and one; 
 
 And here I find all conies at last to none ! 
 
 Did you say nothing of a crow at all P 
 Crow--crow perhaps I might ; now I recall
 
 124 
 
 The matter over. And pray, Sir, what was't? 
 Why I was horrid sick, and, at the last, 
 I did throw up, and told my neighbour so, 
 Something that was as black, Sir, as a crow. 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 
 
 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won, 
 
 By Philip's warlike son : 
 Aloft in awful state 
 The godlike hero sate 
 
 On his imperial throne : 
 His valiant peers were plac'd 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 flow'r of youth and beauty's pride. 
 Happy, happy, happy pair; 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave deserve the fair. 
 
 Timotheus, plac'd on high 
 
 Amid the tuneful quire, 
 
 With flying fingers touch'd the lyre :
 
 The trenblin g notes ascend the sky, 
 And heav'nly joys inspire. 
 The song began from Jove, 
 Who left his blissful seats above, 
 Such is thepow'r of mighty love! 
 A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god : 
 Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, 
 
 When lie to fair Olyrapia press'd, 
 And slainp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the 
 
 world 
 
 The lisl'ning crowd admire the lofty sound; 
 A present deity they shout around, 
 A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound: 
 With ravUh'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 : 
 The jolly god in triumph comes; 
 Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; 
 Flush'd with a purple grace 
 He shows his honest face. 
 
 Now give the hautboys breath: he comes! he comes! 
 Bacchus ever fair and young,
 
 126 
 
 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. 
 
 Sooth'd 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 heav'n and earth defy'H, 
 
 Chang* d his hand, and check'd his pride. 
 
 He chose a mournful muse 
 
 Soft pity to infuse : 
 
 He sung Darius great and good, 
 
 By too severe a fate, 
 
 Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, 
 
 FalPn from his high estate, 
 
 And welt' ring his blood: 
 Deserted at his utmost need 
 By those his former bounty fed, 
 On the bare earth expos'd he lies, 
 With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 
 With downcast look the joyless victor sate,
 
 127 
 
 Revolving in Ins nlter'd soul 
 The various turns of fate below ; 
 And now and then u sigh he stole, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 The mighty master smil'd to sec 
 That love was in the next degree : 
 Twas but a kindred sound to move ; 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 Softly sweet in Lydian measures, 
 Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. 
 War he sung is toil and trouble ; 
 Honour but an empty bubble; 
 
 Never ending, still beginning, 
 Fighting still, and still destroying: 
 
 If the world be worth thy winning, 
 Think, O think it worth enjoying ! 
 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, 
 Gaz'd on the fair 
 Who c:uis'(l his care, 
 
 And siyhM and look'd, and 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 vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. 
 S
 
 128 
 
 Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
 And louder yet, and yet a louder strain, 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
 And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
 Has rais'd up his head ; 
 As awak'd Iroin the dead, 
 And amaz'd, he stares around. 
 Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, 
 See the furies arise, 
 See the snakes that they rear, 
 How they hiss in the air, 
 And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
 Behold a ghastly band, 
 Each a torch in his hand ; 
 
 These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
 And unbury'd remain 
 Inglorious on the plain; 
 Give the vengeance due 
 To the valiant crew, 
 
 Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
 How they point to the Persian abodes, 
 And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods! 
 The princes applaud, wjth a furious joy ; 
 And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy; 
 Thais led the way, 
 To light him to his prey, 
 And, like another Helen, firM another Troy.
 
 129 
 
 Thus long ago, 
 
 Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, 
 While organs yet were mute; 
 Timotheus to his breathing 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, 
 Enlurg'd the former narrow bounds, 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 Let old Tiuiotheus yield the prize, 
 Or both divide the crown; 
 He rais'd a mortal to the skies; 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
 CANT OF CRITICISM. 
 
 AMD how did Garrick speak the soliloquy last 
 night ? Oh, against all rule, my Lord, most un- 
 grammatically ! betwixt the substantive and the ad- 
 jective, which should agree together iu number, case, 
 and gender, he made a breach thus stopping as 
 if the point wanted settling; and betwixt the no- 
 minative case, which your lordship knows should go-
 
 130 
 
 vern the verb, he suspended his voice in the epilogue 
 a dozen times, three seconds, and three fifths by a 
 stop-watch, my lord, each time. Admirable gram- 
 marian ! But in suspending his voice was the sense 
 suspended likewise? did no expression of attitude or 
 countenance fill up the chasm? Was the eye silent? 
 Did you narrowly look? I look'd only at the stop- 
 watch, my lord. Excellent observer ! 
 
 And what of this new book the whole world 
 makes such a rout about ? Oh ! 'tis out of all plumb, 
 my lord, quite an irregular thing ! not one of the 
 angles at the four corners was a right angle. I had 
 my rule and compasses, &c. my lord, in my pocket. 
 Excellent critic ! 
 
 And for the epic poem your lordship bid me 
 look at; upon taking the length, breadth, height, and 
 depth of it, and trying them at home upon an exact 
 scale of.Bossu's 'tis out, my lord, in every one of 
 its dimensions. Admirable connoisseur! 
 
 -And did you step in, to take a look at the 
 
 grand picture in your way back? 'Tis a melancho- 
 ly daub ! my lord : not one principle of the pyramid 
 
 in any one group ! and what a price! for there 
 
 is nothing of the colouring of Titian the expression 
 of Rubens the grace of Raphael the purity of Do- 
 minichiuo the corregiescity of Corregio the learn- 
 ing of Poussin the airs of Guido the taste of the 
 Carrachi's or the grand contour of Angelo.
 
 131 
 
 Grant me patience, just Heaven! Of all the 
 
 cants which are canted in this canting world though 
 the cant of hypocrites may be the worst the cant of 
 criticism is the most tormenting! 
 
 I would go fifty miles on foot, to kiss the hand 
 of that man, whose generous heart will give up the 
 reins of his imagination into his author's hands be 
 pleased he knows not why, and cares not wherefore, 
 
 EXILE OF ERIN. 
 
 THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, 
 
 The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: 
 For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing 
 
 To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 
 But the day-star attracted his eyes' sad devotion ; 
 
 For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 
 Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion, 
 
 He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 
 
 Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger, 
 
 The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; 
 But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 
 
 A home and a country remain not to me. 
 Never again in the green sunny bowers, 
 Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet 
 hours, 
 
 T
 
 132 
 
 Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, 
 And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! 
 
 Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, 
 
 In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; 
 But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, 
 
 And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! 
 Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me 
 
 In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase 
 
 me? 
 Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? 
 
 They died to defend me, or live to deplore! 
 
 Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood' 
 
 Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? 
 Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ? 
 
 And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? 
 Oh! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure, 
 
 Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure ? 
 Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measutv, 
 
 But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 
 
 Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, 
 One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : 
 
 Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! 
 Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 
 
 Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, 
 Green be thy fields sweetest isle of the ocean !
 
 133 
 
 And thy harp-striking bardssingaloud with devotion 
 Erin mavournin ! Erin go bragh!* 
 
 ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLE- 
 SHIRE. 
 
 AT the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, 
 
 I have nuis'd in a sorrowful mood, 
 On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, 
 
 Where the home of my forefathers stood. 
 All rn'm'd and wild is the roofless abode, 
 
 And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; 
 And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road, 
 Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode 
 
 To his hills that encircle the sea. 
 
 Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, 
 
 By the dial-stone aged and green, 
 One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, 
 
 To mark where a garden had been. 
 Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, 
 
 All wild in tbe silence of nature it drew 
 From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace; 
 For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the place 
 
 Where the flower of my forefathers grew. 
 
 * Ireland my darling Ireland for ever.
 
 Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all 
 
 That remains in this desolate heart! 
 The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, 
 
 But patience shall never depart ! 
 Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and 
 bright, 
 
 In the days of delusion, by fancy combin'd 
 With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, 
 Abandon my soul like a dream of the night, 
 
 And leave but a desart behind. 
 
 Be luish'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns, 
 
 When the faint and the feeble deplore; 
 Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems 
 
 A thousand wild waves on the shore! 
 Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, 
 
 May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate ! 
 Yea! even the name I have worshipped in vain, 
 Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again ; 
 
 To bear is to conquer our fate. 
 
 CATO ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE 
 SOUL, 
 
 IT must be so Plato, thou reason's! well 
 Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
 This longing after immortality ? 
 Or whence this secret dread, and inward herror,
 
 13o 
 
 Of falling into nonght? Why shrinks the soul 
 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
 
 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us; 
 
 'Tis Heav'n itself that points out an hereafter, 
 
 And intimates eternity to man. 
 
 Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 
 
 Thro' what variety of untry'd being, 
 
 Thro' what new scenes and changes must we pass ! 
 
 The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies hefore me; 
 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it. 
 
 Here will I hold. If there's a pow'r above us, 
 
 (And that there is, all nature cries aloud 
 
 Thro' all her works) he must delight in virtue ; 
 
 And that which he delights in must be happy. 
 
 But when or where? This world was made for Ciesai. 
 
 I'm weary of conjectures this must end 'em. 
 
 Thus am I doubly arm'd My death and life, 
 My bane and antidote, are both before me. 
 This in a moment brings me to an end; 
 Rut this informs me I shall never die. 
 The soul, secnr'd in her existence, smiles 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its point; 
 The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
 Grow dim with aye, and nature sink iu years; 
 But thou shall flourish in immortal youth, 
 Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
 The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
 
 136 
 
 EXTRACT OF A SPEECH AGAINST WIL- 
 UAMS, THE PUBLISHER OF THE AGE 
 OF REASON. 
 
 BUT it seems this is an age of reason, and the time 
 and the person are at last arrived, that are to dissipate 
 the errors which have overspread the past generations 
 of ignorance. The believers in Christianity are many, 
 but it belongs to the few that are wise to correct their 
 credulity. (But) belief is an act of reason, and su- 
 perior reason may, therefore, dictate to the weak. 
 In running the mind along the long lisl of sincere 
 and devout Christians, I cannot helj) lamenting that 
 Newton had not lived to this day to have shallowness 
 filled up with this new flood of light. But this sub- 
 ject is too awful for irony. I will speak plainly and 
 directly. Newton was a Christian ! Newton whose 
 mind burst forth from the fetters fastened by nature 
 upon our finite conceptions : Newton whose science 
 was truth, and the foundation of whose knowledge of 
 it was philosophy, not those visionary and arrogant 
 presumptions which too often usurp its name, but 
 philosophy resting upon the basis of mathematics, 
 which, like figures, cannot lie: Newton who carried 
 the line and rule to the uttermost barriers of creation, 
 and explored the principles by which all created mat- 
 ter exists and is held together. But this extraordi-
 
 137 
 
 nary man in the mighty reach of his mind overlooked, 
 perhaps, the errors which a minute investigation of 
 the created things on this earth might have taught 
 him. What shall then be said of the great Mr. 
 Boyle, who looked into the organic slructnre of all 
 matter, even to the inanimate substances which the 
 foot treads upon? Such a man may be supposed to 
 have been equally qualified with Mr. Paine to look 
 up through nature to nature's God. Yet the result 
 of all his contemplation was the most confirmed and 
 devout belief, in all which the other holds in contempt 
 as despicable and drivelling superstition. But this 
 error, perhaps, might arise from a want of due atten- 
 tion to the foundations of human judgment, and the 
 structure of that understanding which God has given 
 us for the investigation of truth. Let that question 
 be answered by Mr. Locke, who, to the highest 
 pitch of devotion and adoration was a Christian : Mr. 
 Locke whose office was to detect the errors of think- 
 ing* by g' n ? up to the very fountains of thought, and 
 to direct into the proper track of reasoning the devious 
 mind of man, by showing him its whole process, 
 from the first perceptions of science to the last conclu- 
 sion of ratiocination: putting a rein upon false 
 opinion by practical rules for the conduct of human 
 judgment. 
 
 But these men, it may be said, were only deep
 
 ras 
 
 thinkers, and lived in their closets, unaccustomed to 
 the traffic of the world, aiid to the laws which prac- 
 tically regulate mankind. Gentlemen! in the place 
 where we now sit to administer the justice of tins- 
 great country, the never-to-be-forgotten Sir Matthew 
 Hale presided ; whose faith in Christianity is an ex- 
 alted commentary upon its truth and reason, and 
 whose life was a glorious example of its fruits; 
 whose justice, drawn from the pure fountain of Chris- 
 tian dispensation, will be in all ages a subject of the 
 highest reverence and admiration. But it is said by 
 the author, that the Christian fable is but the tale of 
 the more ancient superstitions of the world, and may^ 
 be easily detected by a proper understanding of the 
 mythologies of the heathens. Did Milton understand 
 these mythologies ? Was he less versed in the super- 
 stitions of the world? No! they were the subject of 
 his immortal song; and though shut out from all 
 recurrence to them, and poured them forth from the 
 stores of a memory rich with all that man ever knew, 
 and laid them in their order as the illustration of real 
 and exalted faith, the unquestionable source of that 
 fervid genius which has cast a kind of shade upon all 
 the other works of man. 
 
 He pass'd the bounds of flaming space, 
 Where angels tremble while they gaze; 
 He saw; till blasted with excess of light, 
 He clos'd his eyes in endless night.
 
 139 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 THOU lingering star, with lessening ray. 
 
 That lov'st to greet the early mom, 
 A gaiu t l.oii usher'sl in the day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 Oh Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 See'st Ihou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Ilear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 That s-.icred hour can I forget; 
 
 Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
 Wliere by the winding Ayr we met, 
 
 To live one day of parting love! 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records pure of transport past; 
 Thy image at our last embrace 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last! 
 
 Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods thick'ning green, 
 The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 
 
 Twin'd ain'rous round the raptur'd scene; 
 The flowers sprung wanton to be prest, 
 
 The birds sang love on every spray, 
 Till too, too soon the glowing West 
 
 Prodaim'd the speed of winged day. 
 U
 
 HO 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 
 
 Antl fondly broods with miser care; 
 Time but the impression deeper makes, 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear ! 
 My Mary! dear departed shade! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the sighs that rend his breast ? 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE SPEECH OF THE 
 
 RIGHT HON. JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN, IN BE- 
 HALF OF ARCHIBALD HAMILTON ROWAN, ESQ. 
 SECRETARY TO THE SOCIETY OF UNITED IRISH- 
 MEN, WHEN PROSECUTED FOR A LIBEL. 
 
 A jury being sworn, the attorney -general stated 
 the case on the part of the crown. The evidence 
 being gone through,- 
 
 Mr. Curran said, 
 
 Gentlemen of tbe jury, when I consider the 
 period at which this prosecution is brought forward; 
 when I behold the extraordinary safeguard of armed 
 soldiers resorted to,* no doubt for the preservation of 
 
 * A few moments before Mr. Curran entered into his 
 client's defence, a guard was brought into the conrt-house 
 by the sheriff.
 
 peace and order; when I catch, as I cannot but do, 
 the throb of public anxiety which beats from one end 
 to the other of this hall: when I reflect what may be 
 the fate of a man of the most beloved personal char- 
 acter, of one of the most respected families of our 
 country, himself the only individual of that family, I 
 may almost say of that country, who can look to that 
 possible fate with unconcern? Feeling as I do all 
 these impressions, it is in the honest simplicity of my 
 heart I speak, when I say, that I never rose in a 
 court of justice with so much embarrassment, as up- 
 on this occasion. 
 
 If, gentlemen, I could entertain a hope of finding 
 refuge for the disconcertion of my mind in the per- 
 fect composure of yours ; if I could suppose that 
 those awful vicissitudes of human events, which have 
 been stated or alluded to, could leave your judgment 
 undisturbed, and your hearts at ease; I know I 
 should form a most erroneous opinion of your charac- 
 ter: I entertain no such chimerical hope; I form no 
 such unworthy opinion; 1 expect not that your hearts 
 can be more at ease than my own ; I have no right 
 to expect it ; but 1 have a right to call upon you, in 
 the name of your country, in the name of the living 
 God, of whose eternal justice you are now adminis- 
 tering that portion which dwells with us on this side 
 of the grave, to discharge your breasts, as far as you
 
 142 
 
 are able, of every bias of prejudice or passion ; that 
 if my client be guilty of the offence charged upon 
 him, you may give tranquillity to the public, by a 
 firm verdict of conviction; or, if he be innocent, by 
 as firm a verdict of acquittal : and that you will do 
 this in defiance of the paltry artifices and senseless 
 clamours that have been resorted to, in order to bring 
 him to his trial with anticipated conviction. And, 
 gentlemen, I feel an additional necessity of thus con- 
 juring you to be upon your guard, from the able and 
 imposing statement which you have just heard on 
 the part of the prosecution. I know well the virtues 
 and talents of the excellent person who conducts that 
 prosecution ; I know how much he would disdain to 
 impose on you by the trappings of office; but I also 
 know how easily we mistake the lodgment which 
 character and eloquence can make upon our feelings, 
 for those impressions that reason and fact, and proof, 
 only ought to work upon our understandings. 
 
 Perhaps, gentlemen, I shall act not unwisely 
 in waving any further observation of this sort, and 
 giving your minds any opportunity of growing cool 
 and resuming themselves, by coming to a calm and 
 uncoloured statement of mere facts, premising only to 
 you, that I have it in strictest injunction from my 
 
 The late Lord Kil warden, then attorney-general.
 
 143 
 
 client, to defend him upon facts and evidence only, 
 and to avail myself of no technical artifice or 
 snbtilty that could withdraw his cause from the test 
 of that inquiry which it is your province to exercise, 
 and to which only he wishes to be indebted for an 
 acquittal. 
 
 [ The following expression had occurred in the 
 address above mentioned :] " In four words lies all 
 our power Universal Emancipation and Represen- 
 tative Legislature." 
 
 [In reference to this Mr. Curran in a subse- 
 quent part of his speech thus proceeds :] 
 
 " Universal Emancipation !" I speak in the 
 spirit of the British law, which makes liberty com- 
 mensurate with, and inseperable from, British soil; 
 which proclaims even to the stranger and sojourner, 
 the moment he sets his foot upon British earth, that 
 t!:o ground on which he treads is holy, and conse- 
 c:;i!dl by the genius of universal emancipation. No 
 matter in what language his doom may have been 
 pronounced; no matter what complexion compatible 
 with freedom an Indian or an African sun may have 
 burnt 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 up- 
 on the altar of slavery; the first moment he touches 
 the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and the god sink
 
 144 
 
 together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in her own 
 majesty ; his body swells beyond the measure of his 
 chains, that burst from around him ; and he stands 
 redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the 
 irresistable genius of universal emancipation. 
 
 [A sudden burst of applause from the court and 
 hall, which was repeated for a considerable length 
 of time,, interrupted Mr. Curran. Silence being at 
 length restored, he proceeded:] 
 
 Gentlemen, I am not such a fool as to ascribe any 
 effusion of this sort to any merit of mine. It is the 
 mighty theme, and not the inconsiderable advocate, 
 that can excite interest in the hearer ! What you 
 hear is but the testimony which nature bears to her 
 own character ; it is the effusion of her gratitude to 
 that power which stamped that character upon her. 
 
 [Mr. Curran thus describes the character of 
 his client:] 
 
 Gentlemen, let me suggest another observation 
 or t*o, if still you have any doubt as to the guilt or 
 innocence of the defendant. Give me leave to suggest 
 to you, what circumstances you ought to consider 
 in order to found your verdict. You should consider 
 the character of the person accused; and in this your 
 task is easy. I will venture to say, there is not a 
 man in this nation more known than the gentleman 
 who is the subject of this prosecution ; not only by
 
 U5 
 
 the part he has taken in public concerns, and which 
 he has taken in common with many; but still more 
 so, by that extraordinary sympathy for human afflic- 
 tion, which I am sorry to think he shares with so 
 small a number. There is not a day that you bear 
 the cries of your starving manufacturers in your streets, 
 that you do not also see the advocate of their suffer- 
 ings, that you do not see his honest and manly fi- 
 gure, with uncovered head, soliciting for their relief ; 
 searching the frozen heart of charity, for every string 
 that can be touched by compassion, and urging the 
 force of every argument and every motive, save that 
 which his modesty suppresses the authority of his 
 own generous example. Or if you see him not there, 
 you may trace his steps to the private abode of dis- 
 ease, and famine, and despair; the messenger of hea- 
 ven, bringing with him food and, medicine, and con- 
 solation. Are these the materials of which you sup- 
 pose anarchy and public rapine to be formed ? Is 
 this the man, on whom to fasten the abominable 
 charge of goading on a frantic populace to mutiny 
 and bloodshed? Is this the man, likely to apostatize 
 from every principle that can bind him to the state 
 his birth, his property, his education, his character, 
 and his children? Let me tell you, gentlemen of the 
 jury, if you agree with his prosecutors, in thinking 
 that there ought to be a sacrifice of such a man, on
 
 146 
 
 such an occasion, and upon the credit of such evidence, 
 you are to convict him never did you, never can 
 you give a sentence, consigning- any man to public 
 punishment, with less danger to his person or to his 
 fame: for where could the hireling be found to fling 
 contumely or ingratitude at his head, whose private 
 distresses he had not endeavoured to alleviate, or 
 whose public condition he had not laboured to im- 
 prove? 
 
 I cannot, however, avoid averting to a circum- 
 stance that distinguishes the case of Mr. Rowan, 
 from that of the late sacrifice in a neighbouring 
 kingdom.* 
 
 The severer law of that country, it seems and 
 happy for them that it should enables them to re- 
 move from their sight the victim of their infatuation. 
 The more merciful spirit of our law deprives you of 
 that consolation ; his sufferings must for ever remain 
 before our eyes, a continual call upon your shame 
 and your remorse. But those sufferings will do more; 
 they^ will not rest satisfied with your unavailing con- 
 trition, they will challenge the great and paramount 
 in quest of society ; the man will be weighed against 
 the charge, the witness, and the sentence; and 
 
 * Scotland; from whence Messrs. Muir, Palmer, anil 
 otbers were transported for sedition.
 
 1-17 
 
 impartial justice will demand, why has an Irish jury 
 Jone this (iced ? The moment he ceases to be re- 
 garded as a criminal, he becomes of necessity an 
 accuser: and let me ask you, what can your most 
 zealous defenders be prepared to answer to such a 
 charge? When your sentence shall have sent him 
 forth to that stage, which guilt alone can render in- 
 famous, let me tell you, he will not be like a little 
 statue upon a mighty pedestal, diminishing by eleva- 
 tion; but he will stand a striking and imposing object 
 upon a monument, which, if it does not (and it can- 
 not) record the atrocity of his crime, must record the 
 atrocity of his conviction. Upon this subject, there- 
 fore, credit me when I say, that I am still more anxious 
 for you, than 1 can possibly be for him. Not the jury 
 of his own choice, which the law of England allows, but 
 which ours refuses; collected in that box by a per- 
 son, certainly no friend of Mr. Rowan, certainly not 
 very deeply interested in giving him a very impartial 
 jury. Feeling this, as I am persuaded yon do, you can- 
 not be surprised, however you may be distressed, at the 
 mournful presage, with which an anxious public is led to 
 fear the worst from your possible determination. But 
 I will not, for the justice and honour of our common 
 country, suffer my mind to be borne away by such me- 
 lancholy anticipation. I will not relinquish the confi- 
 dence that this day ^yill be the period of his suffering:.; 
 X
 
 148 
 
 .jmd, however mercilessly he has been hillier pur- 
 sued, that your verdict will send him home to the 
 arms of his family, and the "wishes of his country. 
 But if, which heaven forbid ! it hath still been unfor- 
 tunately determined, that because he hath not bent 
 to power and authority, because he would not how 
 down before the golden calf, and worship it, he is to 
 be, bound and cast into the furnace: I do trust in 
 God, that there is a redeeming spirit in the consti- 
 tution, which will be seen to walk with the sufferer 
 through the flames, and to preserve him unhurt hy 
 the conflagration. 
 
 [In a subsequent stage of the proceedings in this 
 ease, Mr. Cm-ran had occasion to address the Judge*, 
 when he thus concludes.] 
 
 You are standing on the scanty isthmus that 
 divides the great ocean of duration. On one side of 
 the past, on the other of. the future, a ground that 
 v,h.ile you yet hear me, is washed from beneath our 
 feet. Let me remind you, my lords, while your de- 
 termination is yet in your power, " Dum vcrsatur ad- 
 /me inlra penetratio vestce" that on that ocean of 
 future you must s< t your judgment afloat. And 
 future ages will assume the same authority which 
 you have assumed; posterity feel lh same emotions 
 which you have felt, when your little hearts have 
 beaten, and your infant eyes have overflowed, at
 
 149 
 
 reading the sad history of the {Sufferings of a Russtl 
 or a Sidney. 
 
 [The conclusion of Mr. Curran's Speech was 
 marked by another hurst of applaufee, siirlilar to those 
 which accompanied his former exertions in this cause.] 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BU3AOO. 
 
 BEYOND Busaco's mountains dun, 
 When far had roll'd the sultry sun, 
 And night her pall of gloom had thrown 
 O'er nature's still convexity ! 
 
 High on the heath our tents were spreld, 
 The cold turf was our cheerless bed, 
 And o'er the hero's dew-chill'd head, 
 The banners tiapp'd incessantly. 
 
 The loud war-trumpet woke the morn; 
 The quiv'ring drum, the peeling horn: 
 From rank to rauk the cry is borne, 
 Arise for death or victory. 
 
 The orb of day in crimson dye, 
 Began to mount the morning sky; 
 Then what a scene for warrior's eye, 
 Hung on the bold declivity.
 
 150 
 
 The serried bay'ncts glitt'ring stood 
 Like icicles, on hills of blood ; 
 An aerial stream, a silver wood, 
 Reel'd in the flick'ring canopy. 
 
 Like waves of ocean rolling fast, 
 Or thunder-cloud before the blast, 
 Massena's legions stern and vast, 
 Rush'd to the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Light boil'd the war-cloud to the sky, 
 In phantom low'rs columns high; 
 But dark and dense their bases lie, 
 Prone on the battle's boundary. 
 
 The thibtle w.-u'd her bonnet blue, 
 The harp her wildest war-notes threw, 
 The red rose paiu ; d a fresher hue, 
 Busaco, in thy heraldry. 
 
 Hail, gallant brothers! woe befall 
 The foe that braves thy triple wall! 
 Thy sons, O wretched Portugal! 
 Roos'd at their feats of chivalry. 
 
 Philosoph was in the antique chair, 
 All carv'd and gilt, and rais'd above his peers,
 
 151 
 
 He ask'd a question made hie brethren stare, 
 
 Rolling his major dowu to hide his ears! 
 
 " As we have rang'd completely grubs and preens, 
 
 " Pray in what genus do you class your beans r" 
 
 " How class our beans?" cried Fungus, " let me see.' 
 
 " How class our beans?" roar'd Horace (vis-a-vis). 
 
 " How class our beaus?' ; went individual round, 
 
 And all seem'd lost in reveries profound ! 
 
 Silence assurn'd the absolute command, 
 
 Each head lean'd pond'rous on its kindred hand. 
 
 No bund of nincompoops were e'er so posed, 
 
 And some .o'er-wrung by study, dreamt and dozed. 
 
 D.D.'s, Lords, M.D's wak'd in deep distress, 
 
 And ignorance hoodwink'd every F.R.S. 
 
 Till an old woman who at their desire, 
 
 Was wont to empt the pot, and stir the fire, 
 
 Ended the matter.'as bye-slanders ought, 
 
 And sav'd ttuir brains from being pierc'd by thought. 
 
 " Your honours, sure," quoth she, can't he mistaken: 
 
 " 1 always class my beans with bacon." 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 Now stood Eliza on the wood-crown'd height, 
 O'er Minden's plains, 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 pufsVd, 
 And view'cl his hanner, or believed she vic\v'd. 
 Pteas'd with the distant roar, with quicker tread, 
 Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ; 
 And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm, 
 SUpt on her kerchief, cradled by her arm ; 
 While round her brows bright beams of honour dait, 
 And love's warm eddies circle round her heart, 
 Near and more Dearth' intrepid beauty press'.! ; 
 Saw, through the driving smoke, his dancing crest; 
 Heard the exulting shout, "They run ! they run!' 1 
 " Great God !" she cry'd " he's safe ! the baltlo's 
 won !" 
 
 A ball now issues through the airy tides, 
 (Some fury wing'd it, arid 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 while veil, her iv'ry bosom slains. 
 "Ah me 1 " she cry'd, and, sinking on the ground, 
 Kiss'd her dear babes, regardless of the wound : 
 " Oh ! cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn ; 
 Wait, gushing lif<-, oh! wait my love's return: 
 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;
 
 " On me, on me," she cry'd, "exhaust your rage!' J 
 
 Then with weak arms, her weeping babes carcss'd. 
 
 And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stain'd vest. 
 
 From tent to tent In' impatient warrior flies, 
 
 Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes, 
 
 Eliza's name along the camp he calls, 
 
 Eliza echoes through the canvass walls; 
 
 Quick through themunnuriuggloom his footsteps tread, 
 
 O'er groaning heaps, the dying and tlie dead, 
 
 Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood, 
 
 Lo, dead Eiiza, welt 'ring in her blood 1 
 
 Soon hears his list'ning son the welcome sounds, 
 
 With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds : 
 
 "Speak low," he cries, and gives his little haud, 
 
 " Eliza sleeps upon the dew-cold sand," 
 
 Poor weeping babe, with bloody lingers press'd, 
 
 And try'd with pouting lips, her milkless breast. 
 
 Alas I we both with cold and hunger quake 
 
 \\liy how you weep? mama will soon awake. 
 
 " She'll wake no more!" the hopeless mourner cry'd, 
 
 Upturn'd his eyes, and clasp'd his eyes, and sigh'd ; 
 
 Stretch'd on the ground awhile entranc'd he lay, 
 
 And press'd warm kisses on the lifeless clay; 
 
 And then upsprunif with wild convulsive start, 
 
 And all the father kindled in his heart: 
 
 " Oh ! heavens 1" he cry'd, " my first rash vow 
 
 forgive ; 
 These Lii.d to earth ! for these 1 pray to live 1
 
 154 
 
 Round his chill habes he \vrap[>'d his crimson vest, 
 And clasp'd them sobbing to his aching breast. 
 
 THE THREE WARNINGS. 
 
 THE tree of deepest root is found 
 Least willing still to quit the ground; 
 'Twas therefore said hy ancient sages, 
 
 That love of life increas'd with years, 
 So much, that in onr latter stages, 
 When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 
 
 The greatest love of life appears. 
 
 This great affection to believe, 
 When all confess, but few perceive, 
 If old assertions can't prevail, 
 Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale. 
 
 When sports went round, and all were gay, 
 On neighbour Dohson's wedding-day, 
 Death calTd aside the jocund groom 
 With him into another room; 
 And Inokinir grave ' You must', says he, 
 ' Quit your sweet bride, and come with. me.' 
 ' With you ! and quit my Susan's side ? 
 'With you !' the hapless husband cried: 
 ' Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard ! 
 ' Besides, in truth, I'm not preparM:
 
 ' My thoughts on other matters go; 
 
 ' This is my wedding-night, you know.' 
 
 What mure he urg'd I have not heard, 
 
 His reasons could not well be stronger; 
 So death tlie poor delinquent spar'd, 
 And left to live a little longer. 
 Yet calling up a serious look, 
 
 His hour-glass trembled while he spoke 
 ' Neighbour/ he said, 'farewell; no more 
 ' Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour: 
 ' And further, to avoid all blame 
 ' Of cruelty upon my name, 
 ' To give you time tor preparation, 
 And fit you for your future station, 
 ' Three several warnings you shall have, 
 ' Before you're sumtnon'd to the grave: 
 ' Willing for once I'll quit my prey, 
 
 And grant a kind reprieve; 
 ' In hopes you'll have no more to say, 
 But when I call again this way, 
 
 ' Well pleas'd the world will leave.' 
 
 To these conditions both consented, 
 And parted perfectly contented. 
 
 What next the hero of our tale befell, 
 How long he liv'd, how wise, how well, 
 How roundly he pursued his course, 
 And smok'd his pipe, and strok'd his horse, 
 Y
 
 156 
 
 The willing muse shall tell : 
 He chaffer'd then, he bought, lie sold, 
 Nor once perceiv'd his growing old, 
 
 Nor thought of Death as near; 
 His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
 Many his gains, his children few, 
 
 He pass'd his hours in peace: 
 But while he view'd his wealth increase, 
 While thus along Life's dusty road 
 The beaten track content he trod, 
 Old Time, whose hasle no mortal spares, 
 Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares, 
 
 Brought on his eightieth year. 
 
 And now, one night, in musing mood, 
 
 As all alone he sate, 
 Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate 
 Once more befoie him stood. 
 Half kilPd with anger and surprise, 
 
 So soon retum'd !' old Dobson cries. 
 
 So soon, d'ye call il!' Dealh replies: 
 ' Surely, my friend, you're but in jest ! 
 
 Since I was here before 
 
 ' 'Tis six and thirty years at least, 
 
 * And you are now fourscore.' 
 
 ' So much the worse/ the clown rejoin'd ; 
 
 To spare the aged would be kind; 
 
 However, see your search be legal; 
 And your authority is'l regaP
 
 157 
 
 ' Else you are come on a fool's errand, 
 
 With but a Secretary's warrant. 
 
 ' Beside* you promis'd me Three Warnings, 
 
 Which I have look'd for nights and mornings! 
 ' But for that loss of time and ease, 
 
 ' I can recover damages/ 
 
 ' 1 know,' cries death, that, at the best, 
 I seldom am a welcome guekt; 
 ' But don't be captious, friend, at least: 
 
 I little thought you d still be able 
 
 To stump about your faim ami stable; 
 ' Your years have run to a great length ; 
 
 I wish you joy, though, of your strength!' 
 
 ' Hold/ says the farmer, ' not so fast! 
 
 < 1 have been lame these four years past.' 
 
 And no great wonder,' Death replies: 
 
 < However, you still keep your eyes; 
 
 ' And sure, to see one's loves and friends, 
 
 ' For legs and arms would make amends.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' says Dobson, ' so it might, 
 
 But latterly I've lost my sight.' 
 
 This is a shocking story, 'faith; 
 ' Yet there's some comfort still,' says Death: 
 ' Each strives your sadness to amuse; 
 ' I warrant you hear all the news.' 
 
 There's none,' cries he; ' and if there were, 
 ' I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.'
 
 158 
 
 ' Nay, then !" the spectre stern rejoin'd, 
 
 ' These are unjustifiable yearnings; 
 ' If you are Lame, and Deaf, and Blind, 
 
 ' You've had your Three sufficient Warnings. 
 ' So come along, no more we'll part :' 
 He said, and tonch'd him with his dart; 
 And now, old Dobson turning pale, 
 Yields to his fate so ends my tale.
 
 PART IV. 
 
 OTHELLO'S ADDRESS TO THE SENATE. 
 
 MOST potent, grave, and reverend seigniors, 
 My very noble and approv'd good masters, 
 That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, 
 It is most hue: true, I have married her; 
 The very head and front of my offending 
 li.ith this extent; no more. Rude am 1 in speech, 
 And little hltss'd with the set phrase of peace; 
 For since these arms of mine had seven years pith, 
 Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd 
 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 *hall I grace my cause, 
 In speaking for myself. Ytt, by your patience, 
 I will a round uiivarnisu'd tale deliver, 
 Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, 
 What conjuration, and what mighty magic, 
 Y
 
 160 
 
 (For such proceedings I am charged withal) 
 
 I won his daughter with. 
 
 Her father lov'd me, oft invited me; 
 Still questioned me the story of my life, 
 From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
 That I have past. 
 
 I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days, 
 To th' very moment that he Sade me tell it. 
 Wherein 1 spoke of most disastrous chances, 
 Of moving accidents hy flood and field; 
 Of hair-!>readth 'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach; 
 Of bein-r 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 
 
 heav'n, 
 
 It was my bent to speak. All these to hear 
 Would Desdemona seriously incline. 
 But still the house affairs would draw her hence, 
 Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
 She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 
 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,
 
 161 
 
 But not distinctively. I did consent, 
 
 And often did beguile her of her tears, 
 
 When I did speak of some distressful stroke 
 
 That my youth suffcVd. My story being done, 
 
 She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. 
 
 She swore in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 
 
 'Twas piliful, 'twas wondrous piliful 
 
 She wish'd she had not heard it yet she wish'd 
 
 That heav'n had made bor such a man: she thank' d me, 
 Anil Inule rne, if I had a friend that lov'd her, 
 I should but teach him how to tell my &tory, 
 And that would woo her. On this hint I spake; 
 She lov'd me for the dangers I had past ; 
 And I lov'd her, that she did pity them. 
 This only is the witchcraft I have u&'d. 
 
 EPISODE OF CONRAD AND ELLENORE. 
 
 WHAT plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew, 
 What sorrow choked thy lonsj and last adieu, 
 Daughter of Conrad ! when he hfard his knell, 
 And bade his country and his child farewell ! 
 Doom'd the long Isles of Sydney Cove to see, 
 The marker of his crimes, but true to thee, 
 Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart, 
 And thrice returu'd to bless Ihee and to part ;
 
 162 
 
 Thrice from his trembling lips he murmnr'd low 
 
 The plaint that own'd unutterable woe, 
 
 Till faith prevailing o'er his sullen doom, 
 
 As bursts the morn o'er night's unfathom'd gloom, 
 
 Lur'd his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, 
 
 Beyond the realms of nature and of time. 
 
 " And weep not thus," he cried, "young EHenore,'' 
 
 My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more ! 
 
 Short shall this half extinguished bosom burn, 
 
 And soon these limbs to kindred dust return ! 
 
 But not my child, wii.lt life's precarious fire, 
 
 The immortal ties of nature shall expire, 
 
 These shall resist the triumph of decay, 
 
 "U hen time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away; 
 
 Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie, 
 
 But that whicn warm'd it once shall never die ! 
 
 The spark unburied in its mortal frame, 
 
 With living light, eternal and the same, 
 
 Shall beam on joy's interminable years, 
 
 UnveiPd by darkness unassuaged by tears ! 
 
 " Yet on the barren shore and storury deep, 
 
 One tedious watch is Conrad doom'd to weep, 
 
 But when I gain'd the home without a friend, 
 
 And press the uneasy couch where none attend, 
 
 This last embrace, still cherish'd in my heart, 
 
 Shall calm thu struggling spirit ere it part !
 
 163 
 THE AUCTIONEER AND THE LAWYER. 
 
 A CITY Auctioneer, one Samuel Stubbs, 
 Did greater execution with his hammer, 
 Assisted ny his puffing clamour, 
 
 Than Gog and Magog with their clubs, 
 
 Or that great Fee-fa-fum of war, 
 
 The Scandinavian Thor, 
 
 Did with his mallet, which (see Bryant's 
 
 Mythology) felPd stoutest giants: 
 
 For Samuel knock'd down houses, churches, 
 
 And woods of oak and elms and birches, 
 
 \Vith greater ease than mad Orlando 
 
 Tore the first tree he laid his hand to. 
 
 \ 
 
 He ought in reason, to have rais'd his own 
 Lot by knocking others' down ; 
 And had he been content with shaking 
 His hammer and his hand, and taking 
 Advantage of what brought him grist, he 
 Might have been as rich as Christie }'-- 
 But somehow when thy midnight bell, Bow, 
 
 Sounded along Cheapside its knell, 
 
 Our spark was busy in Pall-mall 
 Shaking his elbow, 
 Marking, with paw upon his mazzard, 
 
 The turns of hazard ; 
 
 Z
 
 1(34 
 
 Or rattling in a box the dice, 
 
 Which seem'd as if a grudge they bore 
 To Stubbs : for often in a trice, 
 Down on the nail he was compell'd to pay 
 All that his hammer brought him in the day, 
 And sometimes more. 
 
 Thus, like a male Penelope, our wight, 
 What he had done by day undid by night, 
 No wonder, therefore, if, like her, 
 
 He was beset by clamourous brutes, 
 Who crowded round him to prefer 
 
 Their several suits. 
 
 One Mr. Snipps, the tailor, had the longest 
 
 Bill for many suits of raiment, 
 And naturally thought he had the strongest 
 
 Claim for payment. 
 But debts of honour roust be paid, 
 Whate'er becomes of debts of trade; 
 And so our stilish auctioneer, 
 From month to month throughout the year, 
 Excuses, falsehoods, pleas alleges, 
 Or flatteries, compliments, and pledges. 
 When in the latter mood one day, 
 He squeez'd his hand, and swore to pay. 
 " but when ?" " Next month. You may depend ori't 
 My dearest Snipps, before the end on't
 
 Your face proclaims in every feature, 
 Yon wouldn't harm a fellow creature 
 You're a kind soul, I know you are, Snipps." 
 *' Ay, so you said six months ago, 
 But such fine words I'd have you know, 
 Butters no parsnips." 
 
 This said, he bade his lawyer draw 
 
 A special writ, 
 
 Serve it on Stubbs, and follow it 
 Up with the utmost rigour of the law. 
 
 This lawyer was a friend of Stubbs, 
 
 That is to say, 
 
 In a civic way, 
 
 "Where business interposes not its rubs ; 
 For where the main chance is in question, 
 
 Damon leaves Pythias to the stake, 
 
 Py lades and Orestes break, 
 And Alexander cuts Hephaestion ; 
 But when our man of law musi sue his friends, 
 Tenfold politeness made amends. 
 
 So when he met our auctioneer, 
 
 Into his oulstretch'd hand he thrust his 
 
 Writ, and said with friendly leer, 
 " My dear, dear Stubbs, pray do me justice;
 
 166 
 
 In this affair I hope you see 
 No censure can attach to me 
 Don't entertain a wrong impression; 
 
 I'm doing now what must be done 
 
 In my profession." 
 
 " And so am I," Stubbs answered with a frowii, 
 
 So crying, " Going going going gone !" 
 He knock'd him down ! 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 HOPE, unyielding to Despair, 
 Springs for ever fresh and fair ; 
 Earth's serenest prospects fly, 
 Hope's enchantments never die. 
 
 At Fortune's frown, in evil hour, 
 Though honour, wealth, and friends depart, 
 She cannot drive, with all her power, 
 This lonely solace from the heart : 
 
 And while this the soul sustains, 
 
 Fortune still unchanged remains; 
 
 Wheresoe'er her wheel she guides, 
 
 Hope upon the circle rides. 
 
 The Syrens, deep in ocean's caves, 
 .Sing while abroad the tempests roar,
 
 167 
 
 Expecting soon the frantic waves 
 
 To ripple on a smiling shore ; 
 
 In the whirlwind, o'er the spray, 
 They behold the halcyon play ; 
 And through midnight clouds afar, 
 Hope lights up the morning star. 
 
 This pledge of bliss in future years 
 
 Makes smooth and easy every toil; 
 
 The swain, who sows the waste with tears, 
 
 lu fancy reaps a teeming soil : 
 
 What though mildew blight his joy, 
 Frost or flood his crops destroy. 
 War compel his feet to roam, 
 Hope still carols Harvest Home! 
 
 The monarch exil'd from his realm, 
 The slave in fetters at the oar, 
 The seaman sinking by the helm, 
 The captive on his dungeon floor; 
 
 All through peril, pain, and death, 
 Fondly cling to paiiing breath ; 
 Glory, freedom, power are past, 
 But the dream of hope will last 
 
 Weary and faint, with sickness worn, 
 Blind, lame and deaf, and bent with age,
 
 168 
 
 By man the load of life is borne 
 To his last step of pilgrimage: 
 
 Though the branch no longer shoot, 
 
 Vigour lingers at the root, 
 
 And in winter's dreariest day 
 
 Hope foretells returning May. 
 
 When, wrung with guilt, the wretch would end 
 His gloomy days in sudden night, 
 Hope comes, an unexpected friend, 
 To win him back to hated light: 
 
 " Hold !" she cries; and from his hand 
 
 Plucks the suicidal brand; 
 
 " Now await a happier doom, 
 
 " Hope will cheer thee to the tomb." 
 
 When virtue droops, as comforts fail, 
 And sore afflictions press the mind, 
 Sweet Hope prolongs her pleasing tale, 
 Till all the world again looks kind : 
 
 Round the good man's dying bed, 
 
 Were the wreck of nature spread, 
 
 Hope would set his spirit free, 
 
 Crying, " Immortality !"
 
 JG9 
 DELPHI. 
 
 BY A YOUTH SIXTEEN YEARS OF AGE. 
 
 YES ! there are names at which the world must Low, 
 
 O'er which the tide of ages rolls in vain; 
 Lives there a man but feels his bosom glow, 
 
 Gazing on Delphi's solitary reign ? 
 No sound is heard on yon deserted plain, 
 
 Save the wild wind that whistles through the trees 
 In melancholy tone; as though the fane 
 
 Received its homage from the passing breeze, 
 Tho' man is silent there and all that once could please. 
 
 Oh! Phoebus! all thy glory's past away, 
 
 Thy domes and palaces decayed to dust; 
 Where is the grandeur of thine earlier day ? 
 
 Gone like the mem'ry of the good and just 
 In man's ungrateful mind. Oh ! who would trust 
 
 To human promises and human fame r 
 His emblem be yon mould'ring ivyed bust, 
 
 Which seems to say, " Proud man thy spirit tame, 
 "For power is but a shade, and empire but a name!" 
 
 Yet still a charm, a spirit ling'ring loves 
 The spot, and binds us to it: lo ! the cave, 
 
 The laughing fountain, e'en the murm'ring doves 
 Sound a wild dirge o'er parted glory's grave. 
 
 Oh! mighty mother of the great and brave,
 
 170 
 
 Who can refuse the sympathetic tear, 
 To days, thai time has hurried 'neath the wave, 
 
 And men whose spirits seem to linger near, 
 For poet, warrior, sage, have bent and worshipped here. 
 
 Peace to their ashes ! cold, cold, is the hand 
 
 That grasp'd the victor steel, and mute the tongue 
 Of those who rung their summons thro' the land 
 
 When freedom call'd, and ev'ry harp was strung 
 To mightier themes, that now remain unsung 
 
 By Grecia's servile sons : Oh ! it might wake 
 The dead from their long sleep, to see the throng 
 
 Of supple slaves before their tyrant quake? 
 Are these the sons of those who Persia's fetters broke ? 
 
 They died and pass'd away I is this the whole ? 
 
 Does history give no tribute to their name P 
 Bright is the rest of each immortal soul, 
 
 And loud the nations raise their fond acclaim 
 Above the sepulchre of perish'd fame, 
 
 Where the wild waves their endless burden sweep 
 Round Salarnis' green isle, unchang'd, the same, 
 
 Since first th' Athenian Chieftain sunk to sleep; 
 He sleeps for ever there, whilst nations o'er him weep. 
 
 Such are the thoughts that crowd upon the mind 
 At sight of yon lone fane, and ruin'd shrine.
 
 171 
 
 Where now is heard the gently whisp'ring wind, 
 
 Once thund'red forth the oracle divine. 
 Here Phrebus dwelt, here dwelt the tuneful nine, 
 
 Where high Parnassus spreads his snowy shroud. 
 These pass'd away, then why should man repine 
 
 At griefs that pass like yonder morning cloud, 
 Since the same doom awaits the humble and the proud. 
 
 Can all the pomp, the pageantry of power 
 
 Cast o'er the gloom of life one cheering beam ? 
 Can aught arrest th' inevitable hour, 
 
 When we must sail down dark oblivion's stream ? 
 Oh jio ! 'tis folly all: we vainly deem 
 
 To leave a name that shall not pass away ; 
 Glory is but the shadow of a dream. 
 
 And fleeting is the melancholy ray, 
 That lingers round our tomb for one brief, little day. 
 
 Yet who can gaze on yonder cloud capp'd hill, 
 
 Nor feel a pulse awaken in his heart ! 
 Yon thunder-riven cliffs are sacred ; still 
 
 That lingers there, which cannot all depart. 
 Soon fade away the pomp, the pride of art ; 
 
 The stately column and the sculptur'd stone 
 Are sunk to dust ; yet might the gazer start 
 
 To see the dwelling-place of gods so lone. 
 Where crowded nations bow'd before their idol's 
 throne. 
 
 am
 
 172 
 
 THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE 
 STRANGER. 
 
 In Broad-street Buildings, on a winter night, 
 Snug by his parlour fire a gouty wight 
 Sate all alone, with one hand rubbing 
 His leg rolled up in fleecy hose, 
 While t'other held beneath his nose 
 The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing, 
 He noted all the sales of hops, 
 
 Ships, shops, and slops, 
 Gum, galls and groceries, ginger, gin, 
 Tar, tallow, turmerick, turpentine, and tin* - 
 
 When lo ! a decent personage in black 
 
 Enter'd, and most politely said, 
 " Your footman, Sir, has gone his nightly track, 
 
 To the King's Head, 
 And left your door ajar, which I 
 Observed in passing by, 
 And thought it neighbourly to give you notice." 
 
 " Ten thonsand thanks how very few get 
 
 In time of danger 
 
 Such kind attentions from a stranger ! 
 Assuredly that fellow's throat is 
 Doom'd to a final drop at Newgate.
 
 173 
 
 He knows, too, the unconscionable elf, 
 That there's no soul at home except myself." 
 
 " Indeed !" replied the stranger, looking grave; 
 
 " Then he is a double knave, 
 
 He knows that rogues and thieves by scores 
 
 Nightly beset unguarded doors ; 
 
 And see how easily might one 
 
 Of these domestic foes, 
 
 Even beneath your very nose, 
 Perform his knavish tricks, 
 Enter your room as I have done, 
 Blow out your candles thus and thuy t 
 Pocket your silver candlesticks, 
 
 And walk off thus." 
 
 So said so done he made no more remark, 
 
 Nor waited for replies, 
 
 But march'd off with his prize, 
 Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. 
 
 TITHING DINNER. 
 
 COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, 
 To laugh it would be wrong, 
 
 The troubles of a worthy priest 
 The burden of my song.
 
 174 
 
 This priest he merry is and blithe 
 
 Three quarters of a year, 
 But oh! it cuts him like a scythe, 
 
 When tithing time draws near. 
 
 He then is full of fright and fears, 
 
 As one at point to die, 
 And long before the day appears 
 
 lie heaves up many a sigh. 
 
 For then the farmers come jog, jog, 
 
 Along the miry road, 
 Each heart as heavy as a log, 
 
 To make their payments good 1 . 
 
 In sooth, the sorrow of such days 
 
 Is not to be expressed, 
 When he that takes and he that pays 
 
 Are both alike distressed. 
 
 Now all, unwelcome, at his gates 
 The clumsy swains alight, 
 
 With rueful faces and bald pates 
 He trembles at the sight. 
 
 And well he may, for well he knows 
 Each bumpkin of the clan, 
 
 Instead of paying what he owes. 
 Will cheat him if he can.
 
 175 
 
 So in they come each makes his leg, 
 
 And flings his head before, 
 And looks as if he came to beg, 
 
 And not to quit a score. 
 
 'And how does miss and madam do, 
 
 'The little boy and all?' 
 'All tight and \rell. And how do you, 
 
 ' Good Mr. Wbat-d'ye-call ? ' 
 
 The dinner comes, and down they sit : 
 
 Were e'er such hungry folk' 
 There's little talking and no wit. 
 
 It is no lime to joke. 
 
 One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, 
 
 One spits upon the floor, 
 Yet not to give offence or grieve, 
 
 Holds up the cloth before. 
 
 The punch goes round, and they are dull 
 
 And lumpish still as ever; 
 Like barrels with their bellies full, 
 
 They only weigh the heavier. 
 
 At length the busy time begins, 
 
 'Come, neighbours, we must wag ' 
 
 The money chinks, down drop their chins, 
 Each lugging out his bag.
 
 176 
 
 One talks of mildew and of frost, 
 
 And one of storms of hail, 
 And one of pigs, that he has lost 
 
 By maggots at the tail. 
 
 Quolh one, ' A rarer man than you 
 
 ' In pulpit none shall hear: 
 ' But yet, metliinks, to tell you true, 
 
 ' You sell it plaguy dear.' 
 
 Oh, why are farmers made so coarse, 
 
 Or clergy made so fine ! 
 A kick, that scarce would move a horse, 
 
 May kill a sound divine. 
 
 Then let the boobies stay at home ; 
 
 'Twould cost him, I dare say, 
 Less trouble taking twice the sum, 
 
 Without the clowns that pay. 
 
 THE DEFENCE OF SOCRATES BEFORE 
 HIS JUDGES. 
 
 SOCRATES, in his defence, employed neither artifice 
 nor the glitter of eloquence. He had not recourse 
 either to solicitation or entreaty. He brought neither 
 his wife nor children to incline the judges in his favour
 
 177 
 
 by their sighs and tears. But though he firmly re- 
 fused to make use of any other voice then his own, 
 and to appear before his judges in the submissive 
 posture of a suppliant, he did not behave in that 
 manner from pride, or contempt of the tribunal: it 
 was from a noble and intrepid assurance, resulting 
 from greatness of soul and the consciousness of his 
 truth and innocence. His defence had nothing timo- 
 rous or weak in it. His discourse was bold, manly, 
 generous, without passion, without emotion, full of 
 the noble liberty of a philosopher, with no other 
 ornament than that of truth, and brightened uniter- 
 sally with the character and language of innocence. 
 Plato, who was present, transcribed it afterwards, and 
 without any additions, composed from it the work 
 vhich be calls the Apology of Socrates, one of the 
 most consummate master-pieces of antiquity. The 
 following is an extract from it. 
 
 " I am accused of corrupting the youth, and of 
 instilling dangerous maxims into their minds, as well 
 in regard to Divine worship, as to the rules of go- 
 vernment. You know, Athenians, that I never made 
 it my profession to teach: nor can envy, however 
 violent, reproach me with having ever sold my in- 
 structions. I have an undeniable evidence for me in 
 this respect, which is m> poverty. I am always 
 equally ready to communicate my thoughts both to
 
 178 
 
 the rich and the poor, and to give them opportunity 
 to question or answer me. I lend myself to every 
 one who is desirous of becoming virtuous; and if, 
 amongst those who hear me, there are any that prove 
 either good or bad, neither the virtues of the one, 
 nor the vices of the other, to which 1 have not con- 
 tributed, are to be ascribed to me. My whole em- 
 ployment is, to counsel the young and the old against 
 too much love for the body, for riches, and all other 
 precarious things, of whatever nature they be; and 
 against too little regard tor the soul, which ought to 
 be the object of their affection. For I incessantly 
 urge to them, that virtue does not proceed from 
 riches; but, on the contrary, riches from virtue; 
 and that all the other goods of human life, as well 
 public as private, have their source in the same 
 principle. 
 
 " If to speak in this manner be to corrupt youth, 
 I confess, Athenians, that I am guilty, and deserve 
 to be punished. If what I say be not true, it is most 
 easy to convict me of falsehood. I see here a great 
 number of my disciples: they have only to come for- 
 ward. It will perhaps be said, that the regard and 
 veneration due to a master who has instructed them, 
 will prevent them from declaring against me: but 
 their fathers, brothers, uncles, cannot, as good re- 
 lations and good citizens, excuse themselves for not
 
 179 
 
 .standing forth to demand vengeance agaiitst the cor- 
 I'upter of their sons, brothers, and nephews. These 
 are, however, the persons who take upon them my 
 defence, and interest themselves in the success of my 
 cause. 
 
 "Pass on me what sentence you please, Athenians : 
 I can neither repent, nor alter rny conduct. 1 must 
 not abandon or suspend a function which God himself 
 lias imposed on me. Now he has charged me with 
 the care of instructing my fellow-citizens. If after 
 having faithfully kept all the posts wherein I was placed 
 by our generals at Potidcea, Amphipolis, and Dclium, 
 Hie fear of death should at this time make me abandon 
 that in which the divine Providence has placed me, 
 by commanding me to pass my life in the study of 
 philosophy, for the instruction of myself and others; 
 this would be a most criminal desertion indeed, and 
 make me highly worthy of being cited before this tri- 
 bunal, as an impious man who does not believe in the 
 Gods. Should you resolve to aquit me, I should not, 
 Athenians, hesitate to say, I honour and love you; 
 but 1 shall choose rather to obey God than you ; and to 
 my latest breath shall never renounce ray philosophy 
 nor cease to exhort and reprove you according to my 
 custom, by saying to each of you as occasion offers 
 ' My good friend and citizen of the most famous city 
 in the v.-orld for wisdom and valour, are you not 
 lib
 
 180 
 
 ashamed to have no other thoughts than those of 
 amassing wealth, and of acquiring glory, credit, and 
 dignities ; neglecting the treasures of prudence, truth, 
 and wisdom, and taking no pains to render your soul 
 as good and perfect as it is capable of being." 
 
 " I am reproached with abject fear, and meanness 
 of spirit, for being so busy in imparting my advice to 
 every one in private, and for having always avoided 
 to be present in your assemblies, to give my counsels 
 to my country. I think 1 have sufficiently proved 
 my courage and fortitude, both in the field, where I 
 have borne arms with you, and in the senate, where 
 I alone opposed the unjust sentence you pronounced 
 against the ten captains, who had not taken up and 
 interred the bodies of those, who were killed and 
 drowned in the sea-6ght near the island Arginusje; 
 and when,, upon more than one occasion, I opposed 
 the violent and cruel orders of the thirty tyrants. 
 What is it then lhat has prevented me from appearing 
 in your assemblies? Do not take it ill, I beseech 
 you, if I speak my thoughts without disguise, and 
 with truth and freedom. Every man who would ge- 
 nerously oppose a whole people, either amongst us 
 or tlsewhere, and who inflexibly applies himself to 
 prevent the violation of the laws, aud the practice of 
 iniquity in a government, will never do so long with 
 impunity. It is absolutely necessary for a man of
 
 181 
 
 this disposition, if lie has any thoughts of living, to 
 remain in a private station, and never to have any 
 share in public affairs. 
 
 " For the rest, Athenians, if, in my present ex- 
 treme danger, I do not imitate the behaviour of those, 
 who, upon less emergences, have implored and sup- 
 plicated their judges with tears, and have brought 
 forth their children, relations, and friends; it is not 
 through pride and obstinacy, or any contempt for 
 you, but solely for your honour, and fur that of the 
 whole city. You should know, that there, are amongst 
 our citizens those who do not regard death as an evil, 
 and who give that name only to injustice and infamy. 
 At my age, and with the reputation, true or false, 
 which I have, would it be consistent for me, after all 
 the lessons I have given upon the contempt of death, 
 to be afraid of it myself, and to belie, in my last ac- 
 tion, all the principles and sentiments of my past 
 life? 
 
 " But without speaking of my fame, which I 
 should extremely injure by such a conduct, I do not 
 think it allowable to entreat a judge, nor to be ab- 
 solved by supplications. He ought to be influenced 
 only by reason and evidence. The judge does not 
 sit upon the bench to show favour, by violating the 
 laws, but to do justice in conforming to them. He 
 docs not swear to discharge with impunity whom he
 
 182 
 
 pleases, but to do justice where it is due. We ought 
 not, therefore, to accustom you to perjury, nor you 
 to suffer yourselves to be accustomed to it; for, in so 
 doing, both the one and the other of us equally injure 
 justice and religion, and both are criminals. 
 
 " Do not, therefore, expect from me, Athenians, 
 that I should have recourse amongst you to means 
 which I believe neither honest nor lawful, especially 
 upon this occasion, wherein I am accused of impiety 
 by Melitus : for, if I should influence you by my 
 prayers, and thereby induce you to violate your oaths, 
 it would be undeniably evident, that I teach you not 
 to believe in the gods; and even in defending and 
 uglifying myself, should furnish my adversaries with 
 arms against me, and prove that 1 believe no divin- 
 ity. But I am very far from such bad thoughts; I 
 am more convinced of the existence of God than my 
 accusers are ; and so convinced, that I abandon my- 
 self to God and you, that you may judge of me as 
 you shall deem best for yourselves and me." 
 
 Socrates pronounced this discourse with a firm 
 and intrepid tone. His air, his action, his visage, 
 expressed nothing of the accused. He seemed to be 
 the master of his judges, front the greatuess of soul 
 with which he spoke, without however losing any of 
 liie modesty natural to him. But how slight soever 
 the proofs were against him, the factiou was powerful
 
 183 
 
 enough to find him guilty. There was the form of a 
 process against him, and his irreligion was the pre- 
 tence upon which it was grounded ; but his death was 
 certainly a concerted thing. His steady uninUr- 
 rupted course of obstinate virtue, which had made 
 him in many cases appear singular, and oppose what- 
 ever he thought illegal or unjust, without any regard 
 to times or persons, had procured him a great deal 
 of envy and ill-will. After his sentence, he continued 
 with the same serene and intrepid aspect with which 
 lie had long enforced virtue, and held tyrants in awe. 
 When he entered his prison, which then became the 
 residence of virtue and probity, his friends followed 
 him, and continued to visit him during the interval 
 between his condemnation and his death. 
 
 THE COLLEGIAN AND THE PORTER. 
 
 AT Trin. Coll. Cam. which means, in proper spelling, 
 Trinity College, Cambridge, there resided 
 
 One Harry Dashington a youth excelling 
 In all the learning commonly provided 
 
 For those who choose that classic station 
 
 For finishing their education: 
 
 That is he understood computing 
 The odds at any race or match ;
 
 184 
 
 Wa a dead hand at pigeon- shooting; 
 
 Could kick up rows knock down the watch 
 Tlay truant and the rake at random 
 
 Drink tie cravats and drive a tandem. 
 
 Remonstrance, fine, and rustication, 
 So far from working reformation, 
 
 Seem'd but to make his lapses greater, 
 Till he was warn'd that next offence 
 Would have this certain consequence 
 
 Expulsion from his Alma Mater. 
 
 One need not he a necromancer 
 
 To guess that, with so wild a wight, 
 The next offence occurred next night; 
 When our Incurahle came rolling 
 Home as the midnight chimes were tolling, 
 
 And rang the College bell. No answer., 
 
 The second peal was vain the third " 
 
 Made the street echo its alarum; 
 When to his great delight he heard 
 The sordid Janitor, old Ben, 
 Rousing and growling in his den. 
 
 " Who's there ? I s'pose young Harum-scarum. 
 ">Tis I, my worthy Ben 'tis Harry." 
 " Ay, so I thought and there you'll tarry.
 
 'Tis past the hour the gates are closed, 
 
 You know my orders I shall lose 
 
 My place if I undo the door." 
 "And I" (young Hopeful interposed) 
 
 " Shall he expell'd if you refuse, 
 So prythee" Ben began to snore. 
 
 " I'm wet," cried Harry, "to the skin, 
 Hip ! hallo ! Ben ! don't be a ninny ; 
 Beneath the gate I've thrust a guinea, 
 
 So tumble out and let me in." 
 
 " Humph \" growl'd the greedy old curmudgeon. 
 
 Half overjoy'd and half in dudgeon, 
 
 " Now you may pass ; but make no fuss, 
 
 On tiptoe walk, and hold your prate." 
 " Look on the stones, old Cerberus," 
 
 Cried Harry as he pass'd the gate, 
 " I've dropp'd a shillint; take the light, 
 You'll find it just outside good night." 
 
 Behold the porter in his shirt, 
 
 Cursing the rain which never stopp'd, 
 
 Groping and raking in the dirt, 
 
 And all without success ; but that 
 
 Is hardly to be wonder'd at, 
 
 Because no shilling had been dropp'd ;
 
 186 
 
 So lie gave o'er the search at last, 
 Uegain'd the door, and found it fast! 
 
 With sundry oaths and growls and groans, 
 He ran" onee twice and thrice; and then, 
 
 Mingled with giggling heard the tones 
 Of Harry mimicking old Ben. 
 
 " Who's there? 'Tis really a disgrace 
 To ring so loud I've lock'd the gate 
 I know my duty 'Tis too late 
 
 You wouldn't have me lose my place." 
 
 "Psha! Mr.' Dashington: remember, 
 This is the middle of NOF^ jr. 
 
 I'm stripp'd ; 'tis raining cats and dogs. " 
 Hush, hush!" quoth Hal; "I'm fast asleep;" 
 And then he snored as loud and deep 
 
 As a whole company of hogs. 
 " But, haikye, Ben, I'll grant admittance 
 
 At the same rate I paid myself." 
 " Nay, master, leave me half the pittance," 
 
 Replied the avaricious elf. 
 
 " No: all, or none a full acquittance; 
 The terms, I know, are somewhat high; 
 But you have fix'd the price, not I 
 
 I won't take less ; I can't afford it." 
 
 So, finding all his haggling vaio,
 
 Ben with an oath and groan of pain 
 
 Drew out the guinea, and restored it. 
 
 " Surely you'll give me," growl'd th' outwitted 
 
 Porter, when again admitted, 
 
 " Something, now you've done your joking, 
 
 For all this trouble, time, and soaking." 
 
 Oh, surely surely," Harry said; 
 
 " Since, us you urge, 1 broke your rest, 
 And you're half drown'd, and quite undress'd, 
 
 I'll give you Itave to go to bed." 
 
 Till: M\K'- % : K'S DREAM. 
 
 IN slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay, 
 
 His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wiud : 
 
 But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, 
 And visions of happiness danc'd o'er his mind. 
 
 He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bow'rs, 
 And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 
 
 While mem'ry each scene gaily cover'd with flow'rs, 
 And restor'd ev'ry rose, but secreted its thorn. 
 
 Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
 And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise; 
 
 Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
 And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 
 
 cc
 
 188 
 
 The jessamine clambers in flow'ro'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 lov'd ones reply to his call. 
 
 A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; 
 
 His cheek is bedew'd 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 pulses,,, his hardships seem o'er; 
 
 And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest 
 " O God ! thou hast bless' d me, I 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 hell on the 
 
 sky ! 
 
 *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.
 
 189 
 
 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 
 wave ! 
 
 Oh ! Sailor Boy, woe to thy dream of delight! 
 
 In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss 
 Where now is the picture that fancy touch'd bright, 
 
 Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss? 
 
 Oh, Sailor Boy, Sailor Boy ! never again 
 
 Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; 
 
 Unbless'd, and unhonour'd, down in the main 
 Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 
 
 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 winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge! 
 
 On a bed of sea-green flower thy limbs shall be laid ; 
 
 Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow; 
 Of thy fair yellow locks, threads of amber be made, 
 
 And every part suit to thy mansion below. 
 
 Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, 
 And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 
 
 Frail short-sighted mortals their doom must obey 
 Oh, Sailor Boy ! Sailor Boy ! peace to thy soul I
 
 190 
 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM; 
 
 OUR bogles sung truce; for the night-cloud had 
 lower'd, 
 
 And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
 And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, 
 
 The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 
 
 When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
 By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, 
 
 At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw; 
 And twice ere the cock-crow I dreamt it again : 
 
 Methonght, from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
 Far, far 1 had roam'd on a desolate track, 
 
 Till autumn and sunshine arose on the way 
 
 To the house of my fathers, that welcom'd me back. 
 
 I flew to the pleasant fields, travers'd so oft 
 
 In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; 
 
 I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft, 
 And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 
 sung. 
 
 Then pledg'd we the wine-cup, and fondly 1 swore 
 From my home and my weeping friends never to 
 part; 
 
 My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, 
 And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
 
 191 
 
 "Stay stay with us! rest, thou art weary and 
 worn !" 
 
 (And fain was their war-broken soldier to slay;) 
 But sorrow retuni'd with the dawning of morn, 
 
 And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away ! 
 
 THE DYING SOLDIER. 
 
 THE tumult of battle had ceas'd high in air 
 The standard of Britain triumphantly wav'd; 
 Arid the remnant of foes had all fled in despair, 
 Whom night, intervening, from slaughter had sav'd; 
 
 When a veteran was seen, by the light of his lamp, 
 Slow-pacing the bounds of the carcass-strewn plain; 
 Not base his intent, for he quitted his camp 
 To comfort the dying not plunder the slain. 
 
 Though dauntless in war, at a story of woe 
 
 Down his age-furrow'd cheeks the warm tears often 
 
 ran ; 
 
 Alike proud to conquer, or spare a brave foe, 
 He fought like a hero! " but fell like a man !" 
 
 As he connted the slain, " Oh, Conquest!" he cried, 
 " Thou art glorious indeed, but how dearly thou'rt 
 
 won !
 
 192 
 
 Too dearly, alas !" a voice faintly replied 
 It IhrillM through his heart! 'twas the voice of his 
 Sou ! 
 
 He listen'd aghast ! all was silent again ; 
 He search'd by the beams which his lamp feebly shed, 
 And found his brave Son, amid hundreds of slain, 
 The corse of a comrade supporting his head i 
 
 " My Heury !" the sorrowful parent exclaim'd, 
 " Has fate rudely withered thy laurels so soon ?" 
 The youth op'd his eyes, as he heard himself natn'd, 
 And awoke for a while, from his death-boding swoon. 
 
 He gaz'd on his Father, who knelt by his side, 
 And seizing his hand, press'd it close to his heart; 
 "Thank heav'n, thou art here, my dear Father!" 
 
 he cried ; 
 " For soon ! ah, too soon we for ever must part! 
 
 " Though death early calls me from all that 1 love ! 
 From glory, from thee, yet perhaps 'twill be given 
 To meet thee again in yon regions above !" 
 His eyes beam'd with hope, as he fix'd them oil 
 heav'u. 
 
 " Then let not thy bosom with vaiu sorrow swell ; 
 Ah ! chock, ere it rises, the heart-rending sigh ! 
 1 fought for my King! for iny Country ! I fell 
 In defence of their rights ! and 1 glory to die!"
 
 19-3 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 
 
 Nor a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 
 As his corse to the rampart we hurried : 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, 
 O'er the grave where our hero was buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
 The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 
 Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him; 
 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
 
 But we stedfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead, 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 
 And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
 
 head, 
 And we far away on the billow. 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
 
 But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on, 
 In the grave where a Briton has hid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done, 
 
 When the clock tolPd the hour for retiring, 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun, 
 That the foe was suddenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 
 
 We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone, 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 ON DEATH. 
 
 AH, that funereal toll ! loud tongue of time ! 
 What woes are center'd in that frightful sound ! 
 It calls, it calls me, with a voice sublime, 
 To the lone chambers of the burial ground. 
 My life's first footsteps are 'mid yawning graves; 
 A pale, teeth-clatt'ring spectre passes nigh 
 A scythe of lightning that pale spectre waves, 
 Mows down man's days like grass, and hurries by. 
 
 Nought his untir'd rapacity can cloy : 
 Monarch's and slaves are all the earth-worm's food; 
 And the wild-raging elements destroy 
 Ev*n the recording tomb. Vicissitude
 
 Devours the pride of glory ; as the sea 
 Insatiate drinks the waters, so our days 
 And years are lost in deep eternity, 
 Cities and empires vandal death decays. 
 
 We tremble on th>e borders of th' abyss, 
 And giddy totter headlong from on high; 
 For death with life our common portion is, 
 And man is only born that he may die. 
 Death knows no sympathy; he tramples un 
 All tenderness extinguishes the stars 
 Tears from the firmament the glowing sun, 
 And blots out worlds in his gigantic wars. 
 
 But mortal man forgets mortality ! 
 His dreams crowd ages into life's short day; 
 While, like a midnight robber stealing by, 
 Death plunders time by hour and hour away. 
 When least we fear, then is the traitor nigh ; 
 When Hio^t secure we seem, he loves to come: 
 Less swift than he, the bolts of thunder fly, 
 Less sure than lie, the lightning strikes the dome. 
 
 He rules o*cr all and Him must kings obey, 
 Whose will no counsel knows, and no control; 
 The proud and gilded great ones are his prey, 
 Who stand like pillars in a tyrant's hall!
 
 196 
 ON LEAVING ENGLAND. 
 
 THY chalky cliffs are fading from my view ; 
 Our bark is dancing- gaily o'er the sea ; 
 I sigh, while yet I may, and say adieu, 
 Albion, thou jewel of the earth, to thee, 
 Whose fields first fed my childish fantasy ; 
 Whose mountains were my boyhood's wild delight; 
 Whose rock, and wood,^md torrent, were to me 
 The food of my soul's youthful appetite, 
 Were music to my ear, a blessing to my sight. 
 
 I never dreamt of Beauty, but behold ! 
 Straightway tby daughters flashed upon my eye; 
 I never mus'd on Valour, but the old 
 Memorials of thy haughty chivalry 
 Fill'd my expanding breast with extacy : 
 And when I thought on Wisdom, and the crown 
 The Muses give, with exultation high 
 J turn'd to those whom thou hast call'd thine own, 
 Who fill the spacious earth with their and thy renown. 
 
 When my young heart, in life's gay morning hour, 
 At Beauty's summons beat a wild alarm, 
 Her voice came to me from an English bower, 
 And English smiles they were that wrought the 
 
 charm. 
 And if, when lull'd asleep on Fancy's arm,
 
 197 
 
 Visions of bliss my riper age have cheer'd 
 Of home, and Love's fireside, and greetings warm 
 For one by absence and long toil endear'd, 
 The fabric of n, y hope on thee hath still been rear'd. 
 
 Peace to thy smiling hearths *hen T am gone! 
 And may'st thoti still thy ancient dowry keep, 
 To be a mark to guide the nations on, 
 Like a tall watch-tow'r^kishing o'er tho deep ! 
 Long may'st thou bid the sorrowers cease to weep, 
 And shoot the beams of truth athwart the night 
 That wraps a slumb'ring world; till from their sleep 
 Starting, remotest nations see the light, 
 And earth be blest beneath the buckler of thy might! 
 
 Strong in thy strength, I go; and wheresoe'er 
 My steps may wander, may I ne'er forget 
 All that I owe to thee; and oh ! may ne'er 
 My frailties tempt me to abjure the debt! 
 And what if far from thee my star must set, 
 Hast thou not hearts that shall with sadness hear 
 The tnle, and some fair cheek that shall be wet; 
 And some bright eye, in which the swelling tear 
 Shall start from him who sleeps in Afric's desarts 
 drear? 
 
 Yet will I not profane a charge like mine 
 With melancholy bodings, nor believe
 
 198 
 
 That a voice, whispering ever in tlie shrine 
 OF my own heart, spike only to deceive. 
 1 trust its promise, that I go to weave 
 A wreath of palms, enlwin'd with many a sweet 
 Perennial flower, which time shall not hereave 
 Of all its fragrance : that T yet shall greet 
 Once more the Ocean Queen, and throw it at her feet. 
 
 THE BITER BIT. 
 
 JACK Dobson, honest son of tillage, 
 The Toby Philpot of his village, 
 
 LaughM and grew fat, Time's gorgon visage 
 
 braving; 
 
 To hear him cackle at a hoax, 
 Or new edition of old jokes, 
 
 You'd think a Roman Capitol was saving. 
 
 Not Boniface, when at a mug 
 Of ale he gave a hearty tug, 
 
 Was fuller of his subject-matter; 
 And Dobson had a better plea 
 For boasting of its pedigree, 
 For his was brew'd at home, and he 
 
 Himself was infinitely fatter.
 
 One cask he had, better and stronger 
 
 Than all the rest brew'd at a christening 
 To pass it set his eyes a glistening; 
 In short he couldn't tarry longer, 
 But seizing spiggot and a faucet, 
 He tapp'd it quaff d a luscious posset 
 Then, like a hospitable fellow, 
 Sent for his friends to make them mellow. 
 
 Among them he invited one 
 
 CalPd Tibbs, a simple-wilted wight, 
 Whom Mister Dobson took delight 
 
 To make the subject of his fun : 
 
 For nature such few brains had put 
 
 In neighbour Tibbs's occiput, 
 That all the rustic wags and wits 
 
 Found him a most convenient butt 
 For their good hits; 
 
 Though sometimes, as both great and small aver, 
 
 He gave them Rowland for their Oliver. 
 
 The guests all met, and dinner spread, 
 Dobson first tipp'd the wink, then said, 
 
 " Well, now, my lads, we'll all draw lots, 
 To settle which of us shall go 
 Into the cellarage below, 
 
 To Oil the pots j"
 
 200 
 
 So saying, lie adroitly wriggled 
 The shortest into Tibbs's paw, 
 
 Whereat the others hugely giggled, 
 And Tibbs, obedient to the law, 
 Went down, the beverage to draw. 
 
 Now, Farmer Dobson, wicked wag ! 
 
 Over the cellar-door had slung 
 
 A water-bowl, so slyly hung, 
 That whoso gave the door a drag 
 Was sure to tumble down at once 
 A quart of liquid on his sconce. 
 
 Our host and all his brother wits, 
 
 Soon as they heard their victim's tramp, 
 Who look'd half-drown'd, burst into fits, 
 Which in fresh peals of laughter flamed, 
 When Tibbs, in drawling tone exclaim'*] : 
 " Isn't your cellar rather damp?" 
 
 Grace being said, quick havoc follow'd; 
 
 Many good things were said and swallow'dj 
 
 Joking, laughing, stuffing, and quaffing, 
 
 For a, full hour they pus'h'd about 
 
 The canns, and when there came a pause, 
 From mere exhaustion of their jaws, 
 
 Tibbs, with his nasal tweng, drawl'd out
 
 201 
 
 " Suppose we now draw lots again, 
 
 Which of us shall go down to put 
 
 The spiggol back into the butt." 
 " Why, zounds ?' the farmer roar'd amain, 
 " The spiggot back! come, come, you're funning 
 You hav'n't left the liquor running ?" 
 
 "I did as I was order'd, Jack." 
 
 Quoth Tibbs, " and it was intention'd 
 
 That I should put the spiggot back, 
 It's a great pity 'twasn't mention'd : 
 
 You've lost a cask of precious stuff, 
 
 But I, for one, have drunk enough." 
 
 *' Ass ! numscull ! fool !" the farmer cried, 
 " What can one get, confound their souls ! 
 " By asking such half-wilted lubbers?" 
 " This lesson, neighbour," Tibbs replied, 
 " That those who choose to play at bowls, 
 Should look to meet with rubbers!" 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 WHEN marshall'd on the nightly plain. 
 
 The glitt'ring host bestudsthe sky ; 
 One star alone, of all the train, 
 
 Can fix the sinner's wand'ring eye.
 
 202 
 
 Hark! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
 From ev'ry host, from ev'ry gem ; 
 
 But one alone the saviour speaks 
 It is the star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Once at the raging seas I rode, 
 
 The storm was loud, the night was dark, 
 The ocean yawu'd, and rudely blowM 
 
 The wind that toss'd my found'ring bark. 
 
 Deep horror then my vitals froze, 
 
 Death-struck, I ceas'd the tide to stemj 
 
 When suddenly a star arose, 
 Jt was the star of Bethlehem. 
 
 It was my guide, my light, my all. 
 
 It bade my dark forebodings cease; 
 And through the storm, and danger's thrall, 
 
 It led me to the port of peace. 
 
 Now safely inoor'd my perils o'er, 
 I'll sing first in night's diadem, 
 
 For ever and for evermore, 
 
 The star ! the star of Bethlehem ! 
 
 T. KEMP, PRINTER, H U ODhKSFI ELD.
 
 INDEX, 
 
 * 
 PART I. 
 
 Phgdi 
 
 THE Perfect Speaker 
 
 Dr. Dodd's Speech 
 
 The Newcastle Apothecary 
 
 Fare thee veil 
 
 Lady Byron's Answer to her Lord's Farewell.... 11 
 
 Eulogiura on Scotland 
 
 Description of a Country exposed to the Insults 
 
 of cruel Soldiery 
 
 Description of an Informer 
 
 Origin of Eloquence 
 
 Roman Eloquence 
 
 Conduct of a discourse in all its parts 
 
 The Country Bumpkin and the Ra/or Seller ... 43 
 The Dissolution and Renovation of Nature .. . 46 
 
 Satire on Law 
 
 Prospect of Immortality 
 
 Lord Chatham's Speech against the American 
 
 War, and against employing the Indians 
 
 Mary, the Maid of the Inn 
 
 The Downfall of Poland <&
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Destruction of Senacherib... 69 
 
 The Captive 70 
 
 The Pilgrim and the Peas 74 
 
 Verses by A. Selkirk 76 
 
 Brutus's Speech ou the Death of Caesar 79 
 
 Mark Anthony's Funeral Oration 80 
 
 Character of William Pitt, late Earl of Chatham 85 
 
 John Gilpin's Journey 87 
 
 Norval's Accountof the Hermit 98 
 
 Walpole in Reproof of Pitt 100 
 
 Pitt's Reply ..,. 102 
 
 Satire on Law-suits (part second) ,, 104 
 
 Man was made to mourn 108 
 
 Junius Brutus over the dead Body of Lucretia III 
 
 PART III. 
 
 St. Paul's Defence before Agrippa 115 
 
 Parting of Hector and Andromache 118 
 
 Three Black Crows 122 
 
 Alexander's Feast 124 
 
 Cant of Criticism 129 
 
 Exile of Erin 131 
 
 On visiting a Scene in Argyleshire ........ ....... 133
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Cato on the Immortality of the Soul 134 
 
 Extract of a Speech against Williams 136 
 
 To Mary in Heaven 139 
 
 Extract from Curran's Speech in behalf of A* 
 
 H. Rowan 140 
 
 The Battle of Busaco 149 
 
 Beans and Bacon 1H) 
 
 Eliza I" 
 
 The Three Warnings 154 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 Othello's Address to the Senate ...: v 169 
 
 Episode on Conrad and Ellenore 161 
 
 The Auctioneer and Lawyer 162 
 
 Hope 166 
 
 Delphi 169 
 
 The Gouty Merchant and the Stranger 172 
 
 Tithing Dinner 1 
 
 The Defence of Socrates I 7ti 
 
 The Collegian and the Porter 183 
 
 The Mariner's Dream 181 
 
 The Soldier's Dream I9fl 
 
 The Dying Soldier ' 9 ' 
 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore 19 
 
 Ou Death .. 194
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Page. 
 
 On leaving England 196 
 
 The Biter bit 198 
 
 The Star of Bethlehem 201
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below 
 
 
 
 m-ll.'50(2555)47 
 

 
 UC SOUTHERN RE 
 
 PN 
 1201