The brand is here, burned in the living flesh, That bears its mark to the grave; that dagger's plunged The act is the mind's suicide, for which 11. CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.-Rev. George Croly. The scene, in Croly's tragedy of "Catiline," from which the following is taken, represents The Roman Senate in session, Lictors present, a Consul in the chair, and Cicero on the floor as the prosecutor of Catiline and his fellow-conspirators. Catiline enters, and takes his seat on the Senatorial bench, whereupon the Senators go over to the other side. Cicero repeats his charges in Catiline's presence; and the latter rises and replies, "Conscript Fathers, I do not rise," &c. Cicero, in his rejoinder, produces proofs, and exclaims: "Tried and convicted traitor! Go from Rome!" Catiline haughtily tells the Senate to make the murder as they make the law. Cicero directs an officer to give up the record of Catiline's banishment. Catiline then utters those words: "Banished from Rome," &c.; but when he tells the Consul, "He dares not touch a hair of Catiline," the Consul reads the decree of his banishment, and orders the Lictors to drive the "traitor" from the temple. Catiline, furious at being thus baffled, catches at the word "traitor," and terminates the scene with his audacious denunciation,-"Here I devote your Senate," &c. At the close, he rushes through the portal, as the Lictors and Senators crowd upon him. CONSCRIPT FATHERS! I do not rise to waste the night in words; But here I stand for right, let him show proofs, But this I will avow, that I have scorned, To fling your offices to every slave! [Looking round him. Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb, Come, consecrated Lictors, from your thrones; [To the Senate. Fling down your sceptres; take the rod and axe, Banished from Rome! What 's banished, but set free "Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this? It breaks my chain! I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, But here I stand and scoff you! here, I fling Lords! Your Consul 's merciful. — For this, all thanks. Traitor!" I go; but, I return. This trial! Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel. This day 's the birth of sorrow! This hour's work Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe, Till Anarchy comes down on you like Night, I go; but, when I come, 't will be the burst Of ocean in the earthquake, rolling back In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well! You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood Shall quench its flame! Back, slaves! [To the Lictors.] 1 will return! 12. PRIDE OF ANCESTRY.- Adaptation from Rev. George Croly. My lack of noble blood! Then that's the bar Disqualifies my suit! - makes Of slight account against me! I'm untitled! Parchments and money-bags have precedence In Cupid's Court, as elsewhere! Sir, your daughter- Henceforth, let venerable oaths of men, And women's vows, though all the stars of Heaven True, true, I should have learnt humility: No motley coat is daubed upon my shield; With shrivelled parchments plucked from mouldy shelves; I had an ancestor, as old and noble As all their quarterings reckon, mine was Adam! The man who gave me being, though no Lord Was nature's nobleman, an honest man! And prouder am I, at this hour, to stand, 13. LOCHIEL'S WARNING. - Thomas Campbell Locatel, a Highland chieftain, while on his march to join the Pretender, is met by one of the Highland seers, or prophets, who warns him to return, and not incur the certain ruin which awaits the unfortunate prince and his followers, on the field of Culloden. Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! Lochiel. Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer. Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright! Seer. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the North ? But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan: Their swords are a thousand, — their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, Seer. Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day! But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? Ah! no; for a darker departure is near; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims! Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale! For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame! 14 'HILIP VAN ARTEVELDE'S DEFENCE OF HIS REBELLION. - Henry Taylor Ordered the common weal; where great men grew Saving the wise, just, eloquent, were great. Whom may we now call free? whom great? whom wise? Whom power makes free to execute all ills Whose passions nurse them from their cradles up Poor Innocency lies where four roads meet, A stone upon her head, a stake driven through her,- The hand of power doth press the very life Of Innocency out! What, then, remains, But in the cause of nature to stand forth, And turn this frame of things the right side up? |