It will the wofullest division prove,
That ever fell upon this cursed earth!
Prevent, resist it, let it not be so,
Lest children's children cry against you-woe!
IX.-MACBETH TO THE AIR-DRAWN DAGGER.-Shakspeare.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:-
I have thee not; and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind; a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest:-I see thee still!
And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not so before! There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business, which informs
Thus to mine eyes.-
-Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered Murder,
Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk; for fear
Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
And take the present horror from the time
Which now suits with it. While I threat, he lives,
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [A bell rings.]
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan! for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell!
X.-CATO, ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.-Addison.
Ir must be so!-Plato, thou reason'st well:
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing, after immortality?
Or, whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis Heaven itself that points out-an Hereafter,
And intimates-Eternity to man.
Eternity!-thou pleasing-dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass,
The wide, the unbounded prospect, lies before me,
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us—
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works-He must delight in virtue,
And that which He delights in, must be happy.
But when? or where? This world-was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures-this must end them.
[Laying his hand on his sword.]
Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment, brings me to an end;
But this-informs me, I shall never die!
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.-
The stars shall fade away,
the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years:
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt, amid the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds!
XI.—LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS, OVER THE BODY OF LUCRETIA.—
THUS, thus, my friends! fast as our breaking hearts
Permitted utterance, we have told our story:
And now, to say one word of the imposture—
The mask, necessity has made me wear.
When the ferocious malice of your king-
King, do I call him?-when the monster, Tarquin,
Slew, as most of you may well remember,
My father Marcus, and my elder brother,
Envying at once their virtues and their wealth,
How could I hope a shelter from his power,
But in the false face I have worn so long?
Would you know why I summoned you together?
Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger,
Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse!
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!
She was the mark and model of the time,
The mould in which each female face was formed,
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue!
The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallowed walk
And whispered in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her!-The young choir
Of vestal virgins bent to her! Oh, my countrymen!
You all can witness that when she went forth,
It was a holiday in Rome; old age
Forgot its crutch, labour its task,—all ran;
And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,
"There, there's Lucretia!"-Now look ye where she lies,
That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose,
Torn up by ruthless violence-gone! gone!
Say-would you seek instruction? would you seek
What ye should do?-Ask ye yon conscious walls
Which saw his poisoned brother, saw foul crimes
Committed there, and they will cry, Revenge!
Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry, Revenge!
Ask yonder Senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!
Go to the tomb where lie his murdered wife,
And the poor queen who loved him as her son-
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heaven-
The gods themselves-shall justify the cry,
And swell the general sound-Revenge! Revenge!
XII.-ROLLA TO THE PERUVIANS.-Sheridan.
My brave associates-partners of my toil, my feelings, and my fame!Can Rolla's words add vigour to the virtuous energies which inspire your hearts?--No! you have judged, as I have, the foulness of the crafty plea by which these bold invaders would delude you. Your generous spirit has compared, as mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can animate their minds and ours. They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, and extended rule;-we, for our country, our altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and obey a power which they hate; we serve a monarch whom we love, a God whom we adore. Whene'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress! where'er they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship! They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error: Yes; they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride! They offer us their protection :-yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs-covering and devouring them!-They call upon us to barter all the good we have inherited and proved, for the desperate chance of something better-which they promise. Be our plain answer this: the throne we honour is the people's choice-the laws we reverence are our brave fathers' legacy-the faith we follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, and tell them, too, we seek no change; and, least of all, such change as they would bring us.
XIII.-WILLIAM TELL TO HIS NATIVE MOUNTAINS.-J. S. Knowles.
YE crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,
And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again!-O sacred forms, how proud you look!
How high you lift your heads into the sky!
How huge you are, how mighty, and how free!
Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile
Makes glad-whose frown is terrible; whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty,
I'm with you once again!-I call to you
With all my voice!-I hold my hands to you
To show they still are free. I rush to you
As though I could embrace you!
Scaling yonder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow,
O'er the abyss: his broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively
I bent my bow: yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight
Of measuring the ample range beneath,
And round about; absorbed, he heeded not
The death that threatened him.-I could not shoot-
'Twas liberty!-I turned my bow aside,
Heavens! with what pride I used
To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
And think the land was free. Yes, it was free-
From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free-
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys without asking leave;
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun.
How happy was I then! I loved
Its very storms. Yes, I have often sat
In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake-
The stars went out, and down the mountain-gorge
The wind came roaring. 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.
-On the wild jutting cliff, o'ertaken oft
By the mountain blast, I have laid me flat along;
And while gust followed gust more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,
Then I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just
Have wished me there;-the thought that mine was free
Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head,
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,
This is the land of liberty!
XIV.-ION CONTEMPLATING THE DEATH OF KING ADRASTUS.
Afar is broken by a streak of fire
That shapes my name;-the fearful wind, that moans Before the storm, articulates its sound:
And as I passed but now the solemn range
Of Argive monarchs, that in sculptured mockery
Of present empire sit, their eyes of stone
Bent on me, instinct with a frightful life
That drew me into fellowship with them
As conscious marble; while their ponderous lips-
Fit organs of eternity!-unclosed,
And murmured-" HAIL! HAIL! ION THE DEVOTED!"
The gods have prompted me! for they have given
One dreadful voice to all things that should be.
Else dumb or musical; and I rejoice
To step from the grim round of waking thoughts
Into the fellowship which makes all clear.
Who in no statues of exactest form
Are palpable: who shun the azure heights
Of beautiful Olympus, and the sound
Of ever-young Apollo's minstrelsy,
Yet, mindful of the empire which he held
Over dim Chaos, keep revengeful watch
On falling nations, and on kingly lines
About to sink for ever; ye, who shed
Into the passions of earth's giant brood
And their fierce usages, the sense of justice;
Who clothe the faded battlements of tyranny
With blackness, as a funeral pall, and breathe,
Through the proud halls of time-emboldened guilt,
Portents of ruin,-hear me! In your presence,
For now I feel you nigh, I dedicate
This arm to the destruction of the King
And of his race! Oh, keep me pitiless;
Expel all human weakness from my frame,
That this keen weapon shake not, when his heart
Should feel its point; and if he has a child
Whose blood is needful to the sacrifice
My country asks, harden my soul to shed it!
XV.-LEONI'S NIGHT SOLILOQUY IN VENICE.-Byron.
I WILL to rest, right weary of this revel,
The gayest we have held, for many moons.
And yet, I know not why, it cheered me not;
There came a heaviness across my heart,
Which, in the lightest movement of the dance,,.
Oppressed me,
And through my spirit chilled my blood, until
A damp, like death, rose o'er my brow: I strove
To laugh the thought away, but 'twould not be ;
So that I left the festival before
It reached its zenith, and will woo my pillow
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness.-
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