XXXIX.-APOSTROPHE TO LIBERTY.

WILLIAM TELL, the Washington of Switzerland, after having escaped from the dungeon of the tyrant who had invaded his country, utters the following.

ONCE more I breathe the mountain air; once more

I tread my own free hills! My lofty soul
Throws all its fetters off; in its proud flight,
"T is like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing
Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon
With eye undazzled. O! ye mighty race
That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guard
My own proud land; why did ye not hurl down
The thundering avalanche, when at your feet
The base usurper stood? A touch, a breath,
Nay, even the breath of prayer, ere now, has brought
Destruction on the hunter's head; and yet
The tyrant passed in safety. God of Heaven!
Where slept thy thunderbolts?

Oh! with what pride I used

To walk these hills, and look up to my God!
This land was free,

From end to end, from cliff to lake 't was free,
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks,
And plow our valleys;

Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow,
In very presence of the regal sun!

How happy was I in it then! I loved

Its very storms! Yes, I have sat and eyed

The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own!

Pollute this glorious scene? It can not be.

Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths
Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom
In spots where man has never dared to tread;

So thy sweet influence still is seen amid

These beetling cliffs. Some hearts still beat for thee,

And bow alone to Heaven. Thy spirit lives,
Ay, and shall live, when even the very name
Of tyrant is forgot.

Lo! while I gaze

Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow,
The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes

A crown of glory on his hoary head.

O is not this a presage of the dawn

Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, bright
And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus, I vow
To live for freedom, or with her to die!

FROM KNOWLES.

XL.-GERTRUDE.

THE husband of Gertrude was condemned by a tyrant to die upon the wheel, and was attended in his last moments, with heroic fidelity, by his wife.

HER hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised,

The breeze threw back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed,

All that she loved was there.

The night was round her clear and cold,

The holy heaven above;

Its pale stars watching to behold

The might of earthly love.

"And bid me not depart," she cried,

"My Rudolph! say not so!

This is no time to quit thy side,

Peace, peace! I can not go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear

When death is on thy brow?

The world! what means it? mine is here;
I will not leave thee now!

"I have been with thee in thine hour

Of glory and of bliss,

Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honored love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!

We have the bless-ed Heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these, high words to flow
From Woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of titterest woe,
She bore her lofty part:

But oh! with such a freezing eye
With such a curdling cheek!
Love, love! of mortal agony,

Thou, only thou, shouldst speak!

The wind rose high, but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear;
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near;

While she sat striving with despair
Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch, upon the lute chords low,
Had stilled his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses pressed,
As Joy and Hope ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,

Enduring to the last!

She had her meed; one smile in death;
And his worn spirit passed.

While even as o'er a martyr's grave,

She knelt on that sad spot,

And weeping, blessed the God who gave Strength to forsake it not!

FROM MRS. HEMANS.

XLI.-DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.

THIS is the apology of Hotspur for not delivering his prisoners to King Henry, and is followed, in Shakspeare, by the dialogue which forms the succeeding exercise. It may be spoken independently, or in connection with that.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners.

But, I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom: and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest home.

He was perfu'-med like a milliner.
Betwixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which, ever and anon,

He

gave his nose, and took't away again. And still he smiled, and talked;

And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them, untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse,
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms,
He questioned me; among the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answered, neglectingly, I know not what;
He should, or should not.

For he made me mad,

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds: (Heaven save the mark!)

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth

Was parmacity, for an inward bruise;

And that it was great pity, so it was,

That villainous saltpeter should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good, tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,

I answered indirectly, as I said;

And, I beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation,

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

FROM SHAKSPEARE.

XLII.-HOTSPUR AND KING HENRY IV.

King Henry. You still deny your prisoners,
But with proviso and exception,

That we, at our own charge, shall ransom straight
Your brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer!
No; on the barren mountains let him starve !
For I shall never hold that man my friend,
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost
To ransom home revolted Mortimer.

Hotspur. Revolted Mortimer!

He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,

But by the chance of war.

K. Hen. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him. Art thou not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth

Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer.

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,

Or you shall hear in such a kind from me

As will displease you. (Exit King Henry.)

Hot. And if the devil come and roar for them,

I will not send them. I will after straight,
And tell him so; for I will ease my heart,

Although it be with hazard of my head.

(Enter Worcester.)

Worcester. What! drunk with choler? Stay and pause awhile. Hot. Speak of Mortimer?

Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul

Want mercy, if I do not join with him!

In his behalf, I'll empty all these veins,

And shed my dear blood, drop by drop, in the dust,

But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer

As high in the air as this unthankful king,

As this ingrate and cankered Bolingbroke!
Wor. Who struck this heat up?

Hot. He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;