To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

3. With many holiday and lady terms,

He questioned me; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in her majesty's behalf;

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

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answered negligently-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 spermaceti-for an inward bruise:

4. And that it was great pity-so it was—
That villanous 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.

5. 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.

LXII. THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.

1. DARK is the night! how dark-no light-no fire! Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire! Shivering she watches by the cradle side,

For him who pledged her love-last year a bride!

2. "Hark! 'tis his footstep! No-'tis past: 'tis gone:
Tick-Tick!-How wearily the time crawls on!
Why should he leave me thus? He once was kind!
And I believed 'twould last-how mad!--how blind!

3. Rest thee, my babe !-rest on !-'tis hunger's cry! Sleep!-for there is no food! the fount is dry!

COATES.

Famine and cold their wearying work have done,

My heart must break !-and thou!" The clock strikes one.

4. "Hush! 'tis the dice-box! Yes, he's there, he's there,

5.

For this! for this he leaves me to despair!

Leaves love! leaves truth! his wife! his child! for what?

The wanton's smile-the villain-and the sot!

"Yet I'll not curse him! No! 'tis all in vain!

'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again!

And I could starve and bless him, but for you,

My child!-his child !-O fiend!" The clock strikes two. 6. "Hark! how the sign-board creaks! The blast howls by! Moan! moan! A dirge swells through the cloudy sky! Ha! 'tis his knock! he comes !-he comes once more! 'Tis but the lattice flaps! Thy hope is o'er.

7. "Can he desert me thus?

He knows I stay

Night after night in loneliness to pray
For his return-and yet he sees no tear!
No! no! it cannot be. He will be here.

8. "Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart!

Thou'rt cold! thou'rt freezing! But we will not part.
Husband!-I die !-Father!-It is not he!

Oh God! protect my child!" The clock strikes three.

9. They're gone! they're gone! the glimmering spark hath fled.
The wife and child are numbered with the dead!
On the cold hearth, out-stretched in solemn rest,
The child lies frozen on its mother's breast!

The gambler came at last-but all was o'er

Dead silence reigned around-The clock struck four!

LXIII.-CASSIUS AGAINST CESAR.

SHAKSPEARE.

1. HONOR is the subject of my story,

I cannot tell what you, and other men,
Think of this life; but for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be

In awe of such a thing as I, myself.

I was born as free as Cæsar; so were you;
We have both fed as well; and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he.

2. For, once upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tiber chafing with its shores,
Cæsar says to me-"Darest thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me, into this angry flood,

And swim to yonder point?"-Upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,

And bade him follow; so, indeed he did.
The torrent roared, and we did buffet it;
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside,
And stemming it, with hearts of controversy.
But ere we could arrive the point proposed,
Cæsar cried-" Help me, Cassius, or I sink."

3. I, as Æneas, our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy, upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber
Did I the tired Cæsar; and this man

Is now become a god; and Cassius is

A wretched creature, and must bend his body,

If Cæsar carelessly but nod to him.

4. He had a fever when he was in Spain,

And when the fit was on him, I did mark

How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake;
His coward lips did from their color fly;
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose its luster; I did hear him groan,

Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
"Alas!" it cried-" Give me some drink, Titinius."

5. Ye gods! it doth amaze me,

A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world,

And bear the palm alone.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world,

Like a Colossus, and we, petty men,

Walk under his huge legs, and peep about,
To find ourselves dishonorable graves.

6. Men, at some time, are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Brutus and Cæsar! What should be in that Cæsar?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours?

Write them together: yours is as fair a name;
Sound them it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them: it is as heavy: conjure with 'em :
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar.

7. Now, in the name of all the gods at once,
Upon what meats doth this our Cæsar feed,

That he hath grown so great? Age, thou art ashamed;
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods.
When went there by an age, since the great flood,
But it was famed with more than with one man?
When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome,
That her wide walls encompassed but one man?
Oh! you and I have heard our fathers say,
There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked
The infernal devil, to keep his state in Rome,
As easily as a king.

1.

LXIV.-RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.

2.

MISS MITFORD.

I COME not here to talk. You know too well
The story of our thralldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beams
Fall on a slave; not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror led

To crimson glory and undying fame :

But base, ignoble slaves; slaves to a horde

Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords,

Rich in some dozen paltry villages;

Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great

In that strange spell-a name.

Each hour, dark fraud,

Or open rapine, or protected murder,

Cry out against them. But this very day

An honest man, my neighbor-there he stands---
Was struck-struck like a dog, by one who wore

The badge of Ursini; because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,

3.

And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not

The stain away in blood? Such shames are common:
I have known deeper wrongs; I, that speak to ye.
I had a brother once-a gracious boy,

Full of gentleness, of calmest hope,

Of sweet and quiet joy: there was the look
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give
To the beloved disciple.

How I loved
That gracious boy!

Younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once, and son! He left my side,
A summer bloom on his fair cheek, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
That pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried

For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! rouse, ye slaves!
Have ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters? Look

To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,

Dishonored; and if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash!

That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne

Of beauty, ruled the world! Yet we are Romans !

Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman,

Was greater than a king! and once again—
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread

Of either Brutus ! once again, I swear,
The eternal city shall be free.

LXV. THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.

1. In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay;

DIMOND.

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

2. He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory stood sidewise, half-covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.