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CXXXII.-CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON IMMORTALITY.

Ir must be so.-Plato, thou reasonest well,
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into naught? 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 'em.

Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to my end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secure 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.

ADDISON.

CXXXIII.-CATILINE TO HIS FRIENDS, AFTER FAILING IN HIS

1.

ELECTION TO THE CONSULSHIP.

REV. GEORGE Croly.

ARE there not times, Patricians, when great States
Rush to their ruin? Rome is no more like Rome,
Than a foul dungeon's like the glorious sky.

2.

3.

What is she now? Degenerate, gross, defiled,
The tainted haunt, the gorged receptacle,
Of every slave and vagabond of earth:

A mighty grave that Luxury has dug,
To rid the other realms of pestilence!

Ye wait to hail me Consul?

Consul! Look on me,-on this brow,-these hands,
Look on this bosom, black with early wounds:
Have I not served the State from boyhood up,
Scattered my blood for her, labored for, loved her?
I had no chance: wherefore should I be Consul?
No. Cicero still is master of the crowd.

Why not? He's made for them, and they for him,
They want a sycophant, and he wants slaves.
Well, let him have them!

Patricians! They have pushed me to the gulf,
I have worn down my heart, wasted my means,
Humbled my birth, bartered my ancient name,
For the rank favor of the senseless mass,

That frets and festers in your Commonwealth,-
And now-

The very men with whom I walked through life,
Nay, till within this hour, in all the bonds
Of courtesy and high companionship,

This day, as if the Heavens had stamped me black,
Turned on their heel, just at the point of fate,
Left me a mockery in the rabble's midst,
And followed their Plebeian Consul, Cicero !
This was the day to which I looked through life,
And it has failed me-vanished from my grasp,
Like air!

Roman no more!

The rabble of the streets

Have seen me humbled: slaves may gibe at me,

For all the ills

That chance or nature lays upon our heads,

In chance or nature there is found a cure!

But self-abasement is beyond all cure!

The brand is here, burned in the living flesh,

That bears its mark to the grave; that dagger's plunged

Into the central pulses of the heart:

The act is the mind's suicide, for which

There is no after health, no hope, no pardon!

1.

2.

3.

CXXXIV. CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.

CONSCRIPT FATHERS!

REV. GEORGE CROLY.

I do not rise to waste the night in words:
Let that Plebeian talk: 'tis not my trade;
But here I stand for right,―let him show proofs,—
For Roman right; though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there!
Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves!
His charge is false;—I dare him to his proofs.
You have my answer. Let my actions speak!

But this I will avow, that I have scorned,
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong!
Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword,
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back,
Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts
The gates of honor on me,-turning out

The Roman from his birthright; and, for what?

To fling your offices to every slave!

[Looking round him.

Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb,

And, having wound their loathsome track to the top,
Of this huge, mouldering monument of Rome,
Hang hissing at the nobler men below!

Come, consecrated Lictors, from your thrones;

[To the Senate.

Fling down your sceptres: take the rod and axe,
And make the murder as you make the law!

"Banished from Rome!" What's banished, but set free From daily contact of the things I loathe ?

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"Tried and convicted traitor! Who says this?

Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?

"Banished!" I thank you for't. It breaks my chain !

I held some slack allegiance till this hour;

But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my Lords!

I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,

Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,

I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,

To leave you to your lazy dignities.

But here I stand and scoff you! here, I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face!
Your Consul's merciful.-For this, all thanks.
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline!

4.

5.

"Traitor!" I go; but, I return. This-trial! Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs

To stir a fever in the blood of age,

Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.

This day's the birth of sorrow! This hour's work

Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my Lords!
For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus !—all shames and crimes
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn:
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup:
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing Thrones;
Till Anarchy comes down on you like Night,
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.

I go; but not to leap the gulf alone.
I go; but, when I come, 't will be the burst
Of ocean in the earthquake,-rolling back
In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well:
You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood
Shall quench its flame! Back, slaves!
I will return.

[To the Lictors.]

CXXXV.-ADDRESS OF BLACK HAWK TO GENERAL STREET.

1. You have taken me prisoner, with all my warriors. I am much grieved; for I expected, if I did not defeat you, to hold out much longer, and give you more trouble, before I surrendered. I tried hard to bring you into ambush, but your last General understood Indian fighting. I deter

The

mined to rush on you, and fight you face to face. I fought hard. But your guns were well aimed. The bullets flew like birds in the air, and whizzed by our ears like the wind through the trees in winter. My warriors fell around me: it began to look dismal. I saw my evil day at hand. sun rose dim on us in the morning, and at night it sank in a dark cloud, and looked like a ball of fire. That was the last sun that shone on Black Hawk. His heart is dead, and no longer beats quick in his bosom. He is now a prisoner to the white men: they will do with him as they

wish. But he can stand torture, and is not afraid of death. He is no coward. Black Hawk is an Indian.

2. He has done nothing for which an Indian ought to be ashamed. He has fought for his countrymen, against white men, who came, year after year, to cheat them, and take away their lands. You know the cause of our making war. It is known to all white men. They ought to be ashamed of it. The white men despise the Indians, and drive them from their homes. They smile in the face of the poor Indian, to cheat him: they shake him by the hand, to gain his confidence, to make him drunk, and to deceive him. We told them to let us alone, and keep away from us; but they followed on and beset our paths, and they coiled themselves among us like the snake. They poisoned us by their touch. We were not safe. We lived in danger. We looked up to the Great Spirit. We went to our father. We were encouraged. His great council gave us fair words and big promises; but we got no satisfaction: things were growing worse. There were no deer in the forest. The opossum and beaver were fled. The springs were drying up, and our squaws and papooses without victuals to keep them from starving.

3. We called a great council, and built a large fire. The spirit of our fathers arose, and spoke to us to avenge our wrongs or die. We set up the war-whoop, and dug up the tomahawk: our knives were ready, and the heart of Black Hawk swelled high in his bosom, when he led his warriors to battle. He is satisfied. He will go to the world of spirits contented. He has done his duty. His father will meet him there, and commend him. Black Hawk is a true Indian, and disdains to cry like a woman. He feels for his wife, his children, and his friends. But he does not care for himself. He cares for the Nation and the Indians. They will suffer. He laments their fate. Farewell, my Nation! Black Hawk tried to save you, and avenge your wrongs. He drank the blood of some of the whites. He has been taken prisoner, and his plans are

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