CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.

REV. GEORGE CROLY.

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

"Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this?

my head?
It breaks my
this hour;

chain!

Smile on, my lords;

Who'll prove it, at his peril on
Banished? I thank you for 't.
I held some slack allegiance till
But now my sword's my own.
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocation, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in 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!

"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 ax,
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!

REMORSE.

SHAKSPEARE.

O, my offense is rank, it smells to Heaven;
It hath the primal, eldest curse upon 't,
A brother's murder! Pray, can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will;
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And, both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens,
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy,
But to confront the visage of offense?

And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,—
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall,

Or pardoned, being down? Then I'll look up;
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder!
That can not be; since I am still possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder,-

My crown, my own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardoned, and retain the offense?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft 't is seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law. But 't is not so above;
There is no shuffling; there, the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compelled,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? What rests?
Try what repentance can. What can it not?
Yet what can it, when one can not repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O limed soul; that struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels, make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart, with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe;—

All may be well!

PART II.

TABLEAUX VIVANTS,

OR, LIVING PICTURES.

DESIGNED AND ARRANGED BY P. A. FITZGERALD.