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In his deep dream he had not felt
Their agonies and fears;

But now he saw them as they knelt,
To plead with prayers and tears.

But the foul fiend her hateful spell
Threw o'er his wildered mind;
He saw in every hope a hell,
He was to reason blind.

He grasped the bowl, to seek relief;
No more his conscience said:
His bosom friend was sunk in grief,
His children begged for bread.

Through haunts of horror and of strife,
He passed down life's dark tide;
He cursed his beggared babes and wife-
He cursed his God-and died!

134.-REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE.

EPES SARGENT.

Ill does it become me, O Senators of Rome !-ill does it become Regulus,-after having so often stood in this venerable assembly, clothed with the supreme dignity of the Republic, to stand before you a captive, the captive of Carthage! Though outwardly I am free,-though no fetters encumber the limbs, or gall the flesh,—yet the heaviest of chains, the pledge of a Roman Consul,-makes me the bondsman of the Carthaginians. They have my promise to return to them in the event of the failure of this their embassy. My life is at their mercy. My honor is my own ;-a possession which no reverse of fortune can jeopard; a flame which imprisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, death cannot extinguish.

Of the train of disasters which followed close on the unexampled successes of our arms,—of the bitter fate which swept off the flower of our soldiery, and consigned me, your General, wounded and senseless, to Carthaginian keeping,—I will not speak. For five years, a rigorous captivity has been my portion. For five years, the society of family and friends, the dear amenities of home, the sense of freedom, and the sight of country, have been to me a recollection and a dream,—no more ! But during that period Rome has retrieved her defeats. She has recovered under Metellus what under Regulus she lost. She has routed armies. She has taken unnumbered prisoners.

She has struck terror to the hearts of the Carthaginians; who have now sent me hither, with their ambassadors, to sue for peace, and to propose that, in exchange for me, your former Consul, a thousand common prisoners of war shall be given up. You have heard the ambassadors. Their intimations of some unimaginable horror-I know not what-impending over myself, should I fail to induce you to accept their terms, have strongly moved your sympathies in my behalf. Another appeal, which I would you might have been spared, has lent force to their suit. A wife and children, threatened with widowhood and orphanage, weeping and despairing, have knelt at your feet on the very threshold of the Senate chamber.Conscript Fathers! Shall not Regulus be saved? Must he return to Carthage to meet the cruelties which the ambassadors brandish before our eyes?-With one voice you answer, No! -Countrymen! Friends! For all that I have suffered-for all that I may have to suffer-I am repaid in the compensation of this moment! Unfortunate you may deem me; but, oh, not undeserving! Your confidence in my honor survives all the ruin that adverse fortune could inflict. You have not forgotten the past. Republics are not ungrateful! May the thanks I cannot utter bring down blessings from the gods on you and Rome!

Conscript Fathers, there is but one course to be pursued. Abandon all thought of peace. Reject the overtures of Carthage! Reject them wholly and unconditionally! What! Give back to her a thousand able-bodied men, and receive in return this one attenuated, war-worn, fever-wasted frame,— this weed, whitened in a dungeon's darkness, pale and sapless, which no kindness of the sun, no softness of the summer breeze, can ever restore to health and vigor? It must not-it shall not be! Oh! were Regulus what he once was, before captivity had unstrung his sinews and enervated his limbs, he might pause, he might proudly think he were well worth a thousand of the foe;-he might say, "Make the exchange! Rome shall not lose by it !” But now-alas! now' tis gone,—that impetuosity of strength, which could once make him a leader indeed, to penetrate a phalanx or guide a pursuit. His very armor would be a burthen now. His battle-cry would be drowned in the din of the onset. His sword would fall harmless on his opponent's shield. But, if he cannot live, he can at least die, for his country! Do not deny him this supreme consolation. Consider: Every indignity, every torture, which Carthage shall heap on his dying hours, will be better than a

trumpet's call to your armies. They will remember only Regulus, their fellow-soldier and their leader. They will forget his defeats. They will regard only his services to the Republic. Tunis, Sardinia, Sicily,-every well-fought field, won by his blood and theirs,—will flash on their remembrance, and kindle their avenging wrath. And so shall Regulus, though dead, fight as he never fought before against the foe.

Conscript Fathers, there is another theme. My familyforgive the thought! To you, and to Rome, I confide them. I leave them no legacy but my name,—no testament but my example.

Ambassadors of Carthage, I have spoken; though not as you expected. I am your captive. Lead me back to whatever fate may await me. Doubt not that you shall find, to Roman hearts, country is dearer than life, and integrity more precious than freedom. Sargent's Standard Speaker.

135.-HAMLET TO THE PLAYERS.

SHAKSPEARE.

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb show, and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o'er-doing termagant; it out-Herods Herod. Pray you, avoid it.

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action : with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing,-whose end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now, this overdone or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot

but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one must, ir your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh, there be players, that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly,—not to speak it profanely, that neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, Pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.

And let those that play your clowns, speak no more than is set down for them: for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too; though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the play be then to be considered: that's villainous; and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make ready.

136. THE TEACHER'S DREAM.

W. H. VENABLE.

The weary teacher sat alone
While twilight gathered on:
And not a sound was heard around,—
The boys and girls were gone.

The weary teacher sat alone,
Unnerved and pale was he:

Bowed 'neath a yoke of care, he spoke
In sad soliloquy:

"Another round, another round

Of labor thrown away,
Another chain of toil and pain,
Dragged through a tedious day.

"Of no avail is constant zeal,
Love's sacrifice is lost,
The hopes of morn, so golden, turn,
Each evening, into dross.

"I squander on a barren field

My strength, my life, my all:
The seeds I sow will never grow,
They perish where they fall."

He sighed, and low upon his hands
His aching brow he pressed;
And o'er his frame ere long there came
A soothing sense of rest.

And then he lifted up his face,
But started back aghast,-

The room, by strange and sudden change,
Assumed proportions vast.

It seemed a Senate-hall, and one
Addressed a listening throng;
Each burning word all bosoms stirred,
Applause rose loud and long.

The 'wildered teacher thought he knew
The speaker's voice and look,
"And for his name," said he, "the same
Is in my record-book."

The stately Senate-hall dissolved,
A church rose in its place,
Wherein there stood a man of God,
Dispensing words of grace.

And though he spoke in solemn tone,
And though his hair was gray,

The teacher's thought was strangely wrought: "I whipped that boy to-day."

The church, a phantasm, vanished soon.
What saw the teacher then?

In classic gloom of alcoved room
An author plied his pen.

“My idlest lad!" the teacher said,
Filled with a new surprise-
"Shall I behold his name enrolled
Among the great and wise?"

The vision of a cottage home
The teacher now descried;
A mother's face illumed the place
Her influence sanctified.

"A miracle! a miracle!

This matron, well I know,

Was but a wild and careless child,

Not half an hour ago.

"And when she to her children speaks
Of duty's golden rule,

Her lips repeat, in accents sweet,
My words to her at school."

The scene was changed again, and lo,

The school-house, rude and old;

Upon the wall did darkness fall,

The evening air was cold.

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