when they dare to pave their way with human hearts-to what?-a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? or call, with truth, one span of earth their own-save that, wherein, at last, they crumble bone by bone?

XCVI.-THE POLISH CHILDREN.-Miss Pardoe.

FORTH went they from their fatherland, a fallen and fettered race, to find, upon a distant strand, their dark abiding place. Forth went they-not as freemen go with firm and fearless eye; but with the bowed mien of woe, as men go forth to die. The aged in their silver hair, the young in manhood's might, the mother with her infant care, the child in wild affright;-Forth went they all-a pallid band-with many an anguished start: the chains lay heavy on their hand, but heavier on their heart! No sounds disturbed the desert air, but those of bitter woe; save when, at times, re-echoed there, the curses of the foe-When hark! another cry pealed out-a cry of idiot glee; answered, and heightened, by the shout of the fierce soldiery! 'Twas childhood's voice! but, ah!-how wild, how demon-like its swell!-the mother shrieked, to hear her child give forth that soul-fraught yell! And fathers wrung their fettered hands beneath their maddening woe, while shouted out their infant bands shrill chorus to the foe! And curses deep and low were said, whose murmurs reached to Heaven; thick sighs were heaved-hot tears were shed, and woman-hearts were riven; as, heedless of their present woes, the children onward trod, and sang-and their young voices rose a vengeance-cry to God!

XCVII.-LUCY.- -Wordsworth.

THREE years she grew, in sun and shower: then Nature said, "A lovelier flower on earth was never sown; this Child I to myself will take; she shall be mine, and I will make a Lady of my own. Myself will to my darling be both law and impulse: and with me the girl, in rock and plain, in earth and heaven, in glade and bower, shall feel an overseeing power to kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the Fawn, that wild with glee across the lawn or up the mountain springs; and hers shall be the breathing balm, and hers the silence and the calm of mute insensate things. The floating Clouds their state shall lend to her; for her the willows bend; nor shall she fail to see, even in the motions of the Storm, grace that shall mould the Maiden's form by silent sympathy. The stars of midnight shall be dear to her; and she shall lean her ear in many a secret place where rivulets dance their wayward round; and Beauty, born of murmuring sound, shall pass into her face. And vital feelings of delight shall rear her form to stately height, her virgin bosom swell; such thoughts to Lucy I will give, while she and I together live here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake― the work was done-How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me this heath, this calm and quiet scene-the memory of what has been, and never more will be ! She dwelt among untrodden ways beside the springs of Dove; a maid whom there were none to praise, and very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye! fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know when Lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave-and, oh, the difference

to me!

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66

XCVIII.-SAUL.-Byron.

THOU whose spell can raise the dead, bid the Prophet's form appear.Samuel, raise thy buried head! King, behold the phantom seer!" Earth yawned; he stood, the centre of a cloud; light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye; his hand was withered, and his veins were dry; his foot, in bony whiteness glittered there, shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare. From lips that moved not, and unbreathing frame, like caverned winds the hollow accents came.-Saul saw, and fell to earth,-as falls the oak at once, when blasted by the thunder-stroke!

"Why is my sleep disquieted? Who is he that calls the dead? Is it thou, O king? Behold, bloodless are these limbs, and cold: such are mine; and such shall be thine to-morrow, when with me: ere the coming day be done, such shalt thou be, such thy son! Fare thee well, but for a day!-then we mix our mouldering clay; then thy race lie pale and low, pierced by shafts of many a bow; and the falchion by thy side to thy heart thy hand shall guide: crownless, breathless, headless, fall son and sire,—the house of Saul!"

XCIX. THE NORMAN BARON.-Longfellow.

IN his chamber, weak and dying was the Norman baron lying; loud without, the tempest thundered, and the castle-turret shook. In this fight was death the gainer,-spite of vassal and retainer, and the lands his sires had plundered, written in the Doomsday Book. By his bed a Monk was seated, who in humble voice repeated many a prayer and Pater-noster, from the missal on his knee; and, amid the tempest pealing, sounds of bells came faintly stealing-bells, that from the neighbouring kloster rang for the Nativity. In the hall, the serf and vassal held that night their Christmas wassail; many a carol, old and saintly, sang the minstrels and the waits., And so loud these Saxon gleemen sang to slaves the songs of freemen, that the storm was heard but faintly knocking at the castle-gates. Till at length the lays they chanted reached the chamber terror-haunted, where the Monk, with accents holy, whispered at the Baron's ear. Tears upon his eyelids glistened, as he paused awhile and listened; and the dying Baron slowly turned his weary head to hear. "Wassail for the kingly Stranger born and cradled in a manger! king, like David, priest like Aaron-Christ is born to set us free!" And the lightning showed the sainted figures on the casement painted; and exclaimed the shuddering Baron, "Miserere, Domine!"

In that hour of deep contrition, he beheld, with clearer vision, through all outward show and fashion, Justice, the Avenger, rise. All the pomp of earth had vanished, falsehood and deceit were banished, reason spake more loud than passion, and the truth wore no disguise.Every vassal of his banner, every serf born to his manor, all those wronged and wretched creatures, by his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal he recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features, and the Monk replied, "Amen."-Many centuries have been numbered since in death the Baron slumbered by the convent's sculptured portal, mingling with the common dust. But the good deed, through the ages living in historic pages, brighter grows and gleams immortal, unconsumed by moth or rust.

C.-VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.-Byron.

THE king was on his throne, the Satraps thronged the hall; a thousand bright lamps shone o'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold, in Judah deemed divine-Jehovah's vessels hold the godless Heathen's wine! In that same hour and hall, the fingers of a hand came forth against the hall, and wrote as if on sand: the fingers of a man ;—a solitary hand along the letters ran, and traced them like a wand. The monarch saw, and shook, and bade no more rejoice; all bloodless waxed his look, and tremulous his voice. "Let the men of lore appear, the wisest of the earth; and expound the words of fear, which mar our royal mirth." Chaldæa's seers are good, but here they have no skill; and the unknown letters stood untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age are wise and deep in lore; but now they were not sage, they saw-but knew no more. A Captive in the land, a stranger and a youth, he heard the king's command, he saw that writing's truth. The lamps around were bright, the prophecy in view; he read it on that night, the morrow proved it true. Belshazzar's grave is made-his kingdom passed away-he, in the balance weighed, is light and worthless clay. The shroud, his robe of state-his canopy, the stone; the Mede is at his gate-the Persian on his throne!"

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CI. THE MEN OF OLD.--R. M. Milnes.

I KNOW not that the men of old were better men than now, of heart more kind, of hand more bold, of more ingenuous brow: I heed not those who pine for force a ghost of Time to raise, as if they thus could check the course of these appointed days. Still it is true, and ever true, that I delight to close this book of life self-wise and new, and let my thoughts repose on all that humble happiness the world has since foregone, the daylight of contentedness that on those faces shone! With rights, though not too closely scanned-enjoyed, as far as known,with will by no reverse unmanned,-with pulse of even tone; they from to-day and from to-night expected nothing more than yesterday and yesternight had proffered them before. To them was life a simple art of duties to be done; a game where each man took his part; a race that all must run; a battle whose great scheme and scope they little cared to know-content, as men at arms, to cope each with his fronting foe. Man now his virtue's diadem puts on and proudly wears; great thoughts, great feelings came to them like instincts, unawares: blending their souls' sublimest needs with tasks of every day, they went about their gravest deeds as noble boys at play.

And what if Nature's fearful wound they did not probe and bare, for that their spirits never swooned to watch the misery there,-for that their love but flowed more fast, their charities more free? not conscious what mere drops they cast into the evil sea. A man's best things are nearest him, lie close about his feet; it is the distant and the dim that we are sick to greet: for flowers that grow our hands beneath we struggle and aspire; our hearts must die, except they breathe the air of fresh desire. Yet, Brothers, who up reason's hill advance with hopeful cheer, -Oh! loiter not, those heights are chill, as chill as they are clear; and still restrain your haughty gaze the loftier that ye go, remembering distance leaves a haze on all that lies below.

394

DRAMATIC EXTRACTS.

SPEECHES AND SOLILOQUIES.

I.-BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CÆSAR.-Shakspeare. 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 Cæsar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Cæsar was no less than his. If, then, that friend demand, why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer; not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves; than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved 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 valour, and death for his ambition! Who's here so base, that would be a bondman? if any, speak! for him have I offended. Who's here so rude, that would not be a Roman? if any, speak! for him have I offended. Who's here so vile, that will not love his country? if any, speak! for him have I offended.- -I pause for a reply.

None? then none have I offended! I have done no more to Cæsar, than you should do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying,—a place in the commonwealth;-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.

II.-MARK ANTONY ON THE DEATH OF CESAR.-Shakspeare.
FRIENDS, Romans, Countrymen! lend me your ears:
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do, lives after them;
The good is oft interrèd with their bones.
So let it be with Cæsar!-Noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cæsar was ambitious-
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;

And grievously hath Cæsar answered it!
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest-
For Brutus is an honourable man,

So are they all, all honourable men—
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me-
But Brutus says, he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar 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 ambitious;

And sure he is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke;
But here I 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 Cæsar;
And I must pause till it come back to me!—
But yesterday, the word of Cæsar might
Have stood against the world—now lies he there,
And none so poor as do him reverence!
O masters! if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I 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 Cæsar-
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 will go and kiss dead Cæsar'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!

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle?

I remember

The first time ever Cæsar put it on:

'Twas 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!—