knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died; the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told the prætor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the prætor drew back as I were pollution, and sternly said, 'Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans! And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs.

7. "O, Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given, to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd-lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flutenote, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe ;—to gaze into the glaring eye-balls of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled !

8. "Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but tomorrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume. from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sestérces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? "Tis three days since he tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours, and a dainty meal for him ye will be!

9. "If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher's knife! If ye are men,-follow me!

Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and there 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 it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle!"

XIV.-WOLSEY'S FALL.

1.

SHAKSPEARE.

FAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost-a killing frost;
And when he thinks, good easy man! full surely
His greatness is a ripening-nips the root,
And then he falls, as I do.

3.

Like little wafton boys, that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new opened; oh! how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

XV. THE RUM MANIAC.

"SAY, Doctor, may I not have rum, To quench this burning thirst within ? Here on this cursed bed I lie,

And cannot get one drop of gin.

I ask not health, nor even life—

Life! what a curse it's been to me!

I'd rather sink in deepest hell,

Than drink again its misery.

"But, Doctor, may I not have rum? One drop alone is all I crave:

Grant this small boon-I ask no more-
Then I'll defy-yes, e'en the grave;
Then, without fear, I'll fold my arms,
And bid the monster strike his dart,
To haste me from this world of woe,
And claim his own-this ruined heart.

"A thousand curses on his head
Who gave me first the poisoned bowl,
Who taught me first this bane to drink—
Drink-death and ruin to my soul.
My soul! oh cruel, horrid thought!
Full well I know thy certain fate;
With what instinctive horror shrinks
The spirit from that awful state!

"Lost-lost-I know forever lost!
To me no ray of hope can come :
My fate is sealed; my doom is-
But give me rum; I will have rum.
But, Doctor, don't you see him there?
In that dark corner low he sits;
See! how he sports his fiery tongue,
And at me burning brimstone spits!

"Say, don't you see this demon fierce? Docs no one hear? will no one come?

Oh save me-save me-I will give

But rum! I must have-will have rum!
Ah! now he's gone; once more I'm free;

He-the boasting knave and liar—

He said that he would take me off

ALLISON.

6.

7.

8.

"Fire! water! help! come, haste-I'll die;
Come, take me from this burning bed:
The smoke-I'm choking-cannot cry;
There now-it's catching at my head!
But see! again that demon's come;
Look! there he peeps through yonder crack;
Mark how his burning eyeballs flash!
How fierce he grins! what brought him back?

There stands his burning coach of fire;

He smiles and beckons me to come-
What are those words he's written there?
'In hell, we never want for rum!'"
One loud, one piercing shriek was heard;
One yell rang out upon the air;

One sound, and one alone, came forth-
The victim's cry of wild despair.

"Why longer wait? I'm ripe for hell;
A spirit's sent to bear me down:

There, in the regions of the lost,
I sure will wear a fiery crown.
Damned, I know, without a hope!—
One moment more, and then I'll come !-
And there I'll quench my awful thirst
With boiling, burning, fiery rum!"

XVI.-WHAT MAKES A HERO?

HENRY TAYLOR.

1. WHAT makes a hero ?-not success, not fame,
Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim

Of glutted Avarice,-caps tossed up in air,
Or pen of journalist with flourish fair;
Bell pealed, stars, ribbons, and a titular name-
These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare;
His rightful tribute, not his end or aim,

Or true reward; for never yet did these
Refresh the soul, or set the heart at ease.
What makes a hero?—An heroic mind,
Expressed in action, in endurance proved.

2. And if there be preeminence of right

Derived through pain well suffered, to the height

Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved,
Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind,
Not the brute fury of barbarians blind,

But worse-ingratitude and poisonous darts,

Launched by the country he has served and loved;

This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure,

This, in the strength of silence to endure,

A dignity to noble deeds imparts,

Beyond the gauds and trappings of renown;
This is the hero's complement and crown;
This missed, one struggle had been wanting still,-
One glorious triumph of the heroic will,

One self-approval in his heart of hearts.

XVII.—THE TRUE KING. Translated from Seneca.

1. 'Tis not wealth that makes a King,
Nor the purple coloring;

Nor a brow that's bound with gold,
Nor gate on mighty hinges rolled.
The King is he, who, void of fear,
Looks abroad with bosom clear;
Who can tread ambition down,
Nor be swayed by smile or frown;

2. Nor for all the treasure cares,

That mine conceals, or harvest wears,

Or that golden sands deliver,

Bosomed in a glassy river.
What shall move his placid might?
Not the headlong thunder-light,

Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade,
With onward lance, or fiery blade.

3. Safe, with wisdom for his crown

He looks on all things calmly down;
He welcomes Fate, when Fate is near
Nor taints his dying breath with fear.
No-to fear not earthly thing,
This it is that makes the King;
And all of us, whoe'er we be

May carve us out that royalty.

LEIGH HUNT.