Ye stand here, now, like giants, as ye are. The strength of brass is in your toughened fibers. Listen! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted meat; but to-morrow, he shall break his fast upon your flesh. Ye will be a dainty meal for him. If ye are brutes, then stand like fat oxen waiting for the butcher's knife. But if ye are men, then FOLLOW ME! Strike down yon sentinel, and gain the mountain passes; and then do bloody work, as did your sires at old Thermopyla! Is Sparta dead? is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins? that you do crouch and cower, like a belabored hound, beneath his master's lash? O comrades! warriors! Thracians! If we must fight, let us fight for ourselves. If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors. If we must die, let us die under the free sky, by the bright waters, in NOBLE, HONORABLE BATTLE! FROM KELLOGG.

CIII. THE GLADIATOR.

GYVES; pro. jives, fetters for the legs.
ZAARA; an African desert, full of wild beasts.
THEY led a lion from his den,

The lord of Afric's sun-scorched plain;
And there he stood, stern foe of men,
And shook his flowing mane.

They brought a dark-haired man along,

Whose limbs with gyves of brass were bound;
Youthful he seemed, and bold, and strong,
And yet unscathed of wound.

Then shouted the plebeian crowd,

Rung the glad galleries with the sound;
And from the throne there spake aloud
A voice, "Be the bold man unbound!
And, by Rome's scepter, yet unbowed,

By Rome, earth's monarch crowned,
Who dares the bold, the unequal strife,
Though doomed to death, shall save his life."
Joy was upon that dark man's face,

And thus, with laughing eye, spake he:

"Loose ye the lord of Zaara's waste; And let my arms be free:

'He has a martial heart,' thou sayest, But oh! who will not be

A hero, when he fights for life,

And home, and country; babes and wife?
"And thus I for the strife prepare;
The Thracian falchion to me bring;
But ask the imperial leave to spare
The shield, a useless thing.
Were I a Samnite's rage to dare,
Then o'er me should I fling

The broad orb; but to lion's wrath
The shield were but a sword of lath."

And he has bared his shining blade,

And springs he on the shaggy foe; Dreadful the strife, but briefly played; The desert-king lies low.

"Kneel down, Rome's emperor beside!"

He knelt, that dark man; o'er his brow Was thrown a wreath in crimson died; And fair words gild it now:

"Thou'rt the bravest youth that ever tried To lay a lion low;

And from our presence forth thou go'st
To lead the Dacians of our host."

Then flushed his cheek, but not with pride,
And grieved and gloomily spoke he:
"My cabin stands where blithely glide
Proud Danube's waters to the sea:
I have a young and blooming bride,
And I have children three:
No Roman wealth or rank can give
Such joy, as in their arms to live.

"My wife sits at the cabin door,

With throbbing heart and swollen eyes; While tears her cheek are coursing o'er, She speaks of sundered ties. She bids my tender babes deplore The death their father dies; She tells these jewels of my home, I bleed to please the rout of Rome.

"I can not let those cherubs stray
Without their sire's protecting care;
And I would chase the griefs away
Which cloud my wedded fair."
The monarch spoke, the guards obey,
And gates unclo-sed are;

He's gone! no golden bribes divide
The Dacian from his babes and bride.

CIV.-DEATH OF MARMION.

WITH that, straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen drenched with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strained the broken band;
His arms were smeared with blood and sand,
Dragged from among the horses' feet,

With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone;

Can that be haughty Marmion?

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,

Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:

"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where ?

Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare?
Redeem my pennon! charge again!
Cry; 'Marmion to the rescue!' Vain!
Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again!
Yet my last thought is England's: fly!
Must I bid twice? hence, varlets! hie!
Leave Marmion here alone-to die."

They parted, and alone he lay.
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain rung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured, "Is there none,
Of all my halls have nursed,

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring,
Of bless-ed water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst?"

Q, woman! in our hours of ease,

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!

Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran:

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears:
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.

She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A monk supporting Marmion's head;
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,
To shrive the dying, bless the dead.
With fruitless labor, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound.
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,

And that the priest he could not hear;

For that she ever sung,

“In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung:

"Avoid thee, Fiend! with cruel hand,

Shake not the dying sinner's sand!

O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
O think on faith and bliss!
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."

The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And-STANLEY! was the cry;

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:

With dying hand, above his head,

He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted "Victory!

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.

FROM SCOTT.

CV.-OTHELLO AND IAGO.

IAGO, under pretense of friendship, is OTHELLO's enemy, and to be revenged on him, attempts, in the following scene, to excite his jealousy of his innocent wife. The cunning of Iago and the rising of jealousy in Othello, are admirably portrayed.

Iago. Did Michael Cassio, when you wooed my lady, Know of your love?

Oth.

He did, from first to last. Why dost thou ask? lago. But for the satisfaction of my thought;

No further harm.

Oth. What of thy thought, Iago?

Iago. I did not think he had been acquainted with her.
Oth. O yes; and went between us very oft.

Iago. Indeed!

Oth.

Indeed! indeed! Discern'st thou aught in that?

Is he not honest?

Iago. Honest, my lord?

Oth. Honest? ay, honest.

Iago. My lord, for aught I know.

Oth.

What dost thou think?

Iago. Think, my lord?

Oth. Think, my lord! Thou echo'st me,

As if there were some monster in thy thought,

Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something:
I heard thee say but now, "I like not that,"

When Cassio left my wife: What didst not like?
And, when I told thee he was of my counsel

In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, "Indeed!”
And didst contract and purse thy brow together,
As if thou hadst shut up in thy brain

Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me,
Show me thy thought.