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But thou art perhaps like me-for a season: thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in the clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult, then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark, and unlovely: it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds; and the mist is on the hills, the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.



IS not enough the voice be sound and clear;
'Tis modulation that must charm the ear.
When desperate heroes grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone,
The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.
The voice all modes of passion can express,
That marks the proper word with proper stress.
But none emphatic can that actor call
Who lays an equal emphasis on all.

Some o'er the tongue the labored measures roll,
Slow and deliberate as the parting toll:
Point every step, mark every pause so strong,
Their words, like stage processions, stalk along.
All affectation but creates disgust,

And e'en in speaking we may seem too just.

In vain for them the pleasing measure flows,
Whose recitation runs it all to prose;
Repeating what the poet sets not down,
The verb disjoining from its favorite noun,
While pause, and break, and repetition, join
To make a discord in each tuneful line.

Some placid natures fill the allotted scene
With lifeless drone, insipid, and serene;
While others thunder every couplet o'er,
And almost crack your ears with rant and roar.
More nature oft and finer strokes are shown
In the low whisper, than tempestuous tone;


And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixed amaze
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he who, swollen with impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom of the stage.

He who in earnest studies o'er his part,
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all

In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A single look more marks the internal woe
Than all the windings of the lengthened O!
Up to the face the quick sensation flies,
And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes:
Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair,
And all the passions, all the soul, is there.




ON of Vespasian, I am at this hour a poor man, as I may in the next be an exile or a slave: I have ties to life as strong as ever were bound round the heart of man: I stand here a suppliant for the life of one whose loss would embitter mine! Yet, not for wealth unlimited, for the safety of my family, for the life of the noble victim that is now standing at the place of torture, dare I abandon, dare I think the impious thought of abandoning the cause of the City of Holiness.

Titus! in the name of that Being to whom the wisdom of the earth is folly, I adjure you to beware. Jerusalem is sacred. Her crimes have often wrought her misery-often has she been trampled by the armies of the stranger. But she is still the City of the Omnipotent; and never was blow inflicted on her by man that was not terribly repaid.

The Assyrian came, the mightiest power of the world: he plundered her temple, and led her people into captivity. How long was it before his empire was a dream, his dynasty extinguished in blood, and an enemy on his throne?-The Persian came: from her protector, he turned into her oppressor; and his empire was swept away like the dust of the desert!-The Syrian smote her:



the smiter died in agonies of remorse; and where is his kingdom now?-The Egyptian smote her: and who now sits on the throne of the Ptolemies?

Pompey came: the invincible, the conqueror of a thousand cities, the light of Rome, the lord of Asia, riding on the very wings of victory. But he profaned her temple; and from that hour he went down-down, like a millstone plunged into the ocean! Blind counsel, rash ambition, womanish fears, were upon the great statesman and warrior of Rome. Where does he sleep? What sands were colored with his blood? The universal conqueror died a slave, by the hand of a slave! Crassus came at the head of the legions: he plundered the sacred vessels of the sanctuary. Vengeance followed him, and he was cursed by the curse. of God. Where are the bones of the robber and his host? Go, tear them from the jaws of the lion and the wolf of Parthia,their fitting tomb!

You, too, son of Vespasian, may be commissioned for the punishment of a stiff-necked and rebellious people. You may scourge our naked vice by force of arms; and then you may return to your own land exulting in the conquest of the fiercest enemy of Rome. But shall you escape the common fate of the instrument of evil? Shall you see a peaceful old age? Shall a son of yours ever sit upon the throne? Shall not rather some monster of your blood efface the memory of your virtues, and make Rome, in bitterness of soul, curse the Flavian name?



NOW you me, Duke? Know you the peasant boy,
Whom, fifteen years ago, in evil hour,

You chanced to cross upon his native hills,-
In whose quick eye you saw the subtle spirit
Which suited you, and tempted it? He took
Your hint, and followed you to Mantua

Without his father's knowledge, his old father,
Who, thinking that he had a prop in him,

Man could not rob him of, and Heaven would spare,


Blessed him one night, ere he lay down to sleep,
And, waking in the morning, found him gone!


[Ferrardo tries to rise.

Move not, or I shall move! You know me.
O, yes! you trained me like a cavalier,-
You did, indeed! You gave me masters, Duke,
And their instructions quickly I took up,

As they did lay them down! I got the start

Of my contemporaries!-not a youth

Of whom could read, write, speak, command a weapon,

Or rule a horse, with me! You gave me all,-
All the equipments of a man of honor,-

But you did find a use for me, and made

A slave, a profligate, a pander of me!
I charge you, keep your seat!--

Ten thousand ducats?

[Ferrardo rising.

What, Duke! Is such your offer? Give me, Duke,

The eyes that looked upon my father's face,

The hands that helped my father to his wish,

The feet that flew to do my father's will,
The heart that bounded at my father's voice,-
And say that Mantua were built of ducats,
And I could be its Duke at cost of these,

I would not give them for it! Mark me, Duke!
I saw a new-made grave in Mantua,

And on the headstone read my father's name !---
To seek me, doubtless, hither he had come,—
To seek the child that had deserted him,—

And died here, ere he found me.

Heaven can tell how far he wandered else!

Upon that grave I knelt, an altered man,

And, rising thence, I fled from Mantua;-nor had returned,

But tyrant hunger drove me back again

To thee to thee!-my body to relieve,

At cost of my dear soul! I have done thy work,-

Do mine! and sign me that confession straight.

I'm in thy power, and I'll have thee in mine!

There is the dial, and the sun shines on it,—
The shadow on the very point of twelve ;—



My case is desperate! Your signature

Of vital moment is unto my peace!

My eye is on the dial! Pass the shadow
The point of noon, the breadth of but a hair,
As can my eye discern-and, that unsigned,
The steel is in thy heart!-I speak no more!

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THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay withered and strewn.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed, with his nostrils all wide,

But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted, like snow, in the glance of the Lord!

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