For your existence. Had you touch'd a hair
Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd
Your ranks more than the enemy. Away!
Ye jackals! gnaw the bones the lion leaves,
But not even these till he permits.
A Sold. [murmuring]. Might conquer for himself then. Arn. [cuts him down]. Rebel in hell-you shall obey on earth! [The Soldiers assault ARNOLD. Arn. Come on! I'm glad on't! I will show you slaves,
How you should be commanded, and who led you
First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale,
Until I waved my banners from its height,
As you are bold within it.
[ÁRNOLD mows down the foremost; the rest throw down their arms.
No, thou know'st me not; I am not Of these men thoughOlimp. It is for God to judge thee as thou art. I see thee purple with the blood of Rome; Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er shalt have of me, And here, upon the marble of this temple, Where the baptismal font baptized me Gods, I offer him a blood less holy
I judge thee by thy mates:
But not less pure (pure as it left me then,
A redeem'd infant) than the holy water
The saints have sanctified!
[OLIMPIA waves her hand to ARNOLD disdain, and dashes herself on the pavement from the Altar.
Eternal God! I feel thee now! Help! help! She's gone. Cas. [approaches]
Arn. Thou! but oh, save her! Cæs. [assisting him to raise OLIMPIA). She The leap was serious.
[hath done it wed Oh! she is lifeless!
She be so, I have nought to do with that: The resurrection is beyond me.
Cas. Ay, slave or master, 'tis all one
thinks
Good words, however, are as well at times.
Arn. Words!—canst thou aid her?
Cæs.
I will try. A sprinkling
Of that same holy water may be useful.
[He brings some in his helmet from the fini.
Arn. 'Tis mix'd with blood.
Arn. How pale! how beautiful! how lifeless! Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty,
I should be so Penthesilea: with his form it seems
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft ce
Arn. She breathes! But no, 'twas nothing
Had I a knife even; but it matters not-
Death hath a thousand gates; and on the marble,
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down
Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd,
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man!
Arn. I wish to merit His forgiveness, and
Thine own, although I have not injured thee.
The devil speaks truth much oftener than he's
He hath an ignorant audience.
Arn. (without attending to him]. Yes! her SCENE I-A Castle in the Apennines, sur
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Bah! bah! You are so,
And do not know it. She will come to life-
Such as you think so, such as you now are;
But we must work by human means.
Arn.
Convey her unto the Colonna palace,
Where I have pitch'd my banner.
Cas.
Come then! raise her up!
Arn. Softly!
Cas.
As softly as they bear the dead,
Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting.
Arn. But doth she live indeed?
Cas.
Nay, never fear!
But, if you rue it after, blame not me.
Arn. Let her but live!
Cas.
The spirit of her life
Is yet within her breast, and may revive
Count! count! I am your servant in all things,
And this is a new office :-'tis not oft
I am employ'd in such ; but you perceive
How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend.
On earth you have often only fiends for friends;
Now I desert not mine. Soft! bear her hence,
The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit!
I am almost enamour'd of her, as
Of old the angels of her earliest sex.
Arn. Thou!
Cas. I! But fear not. I'll not be your rival.
Arn. Rival!
Cas.
I could be one right formidable;
But since I slew the seven husbands of
Tobias' future bride (and after all
Was suck'd out by some incense), I have laid
Aside intrigue: 'tis rarely worth the trouble
Of gaining, or-what is more difficult-
Getting rid of your prize again; for there's
The rub! at least to mortals.
Arn.
Prithee, peace! Softly methinks her lips move, her eyes open! Cas. Like stars, no doubt; for that's a metaphor
rounded by a wild but smiling Country. Chorus of PEASANTS singing before the gates.
The wars are over,
The spring is come;
The bride and her lover
Have sought their home:
They are happy, we rejoice;
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice!
The spring is come; the violet's gone,
The first-born child of the early sun :
With us she is but a winter's flower,
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower,
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.
And when the spring comes with her host Of flowers, that flower beloved the most Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse Her heavenly odour and virgin hues.
Pluck the others, but still remember
Their herald out of dim December-
The morning star of all the flowers,
The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours,
Nor, midst the roses, e'er forget
The virgin, virgin violet.
Cas. [singing]. The wars are all over,
Our swords are all idle,
The steed bites the bridle.
The casque's on the wall.
There's rest for the rover;
But his armour is rusty,
And the veteran grows crusty,
As he yawns in the hall.
He drinks-but what's drinking?
A mere pause from thinking!
No bugle awakes him with life-and-death call.
But the hound bayeth loudly,
The boar's in the wood,
And the falcon longs proudly
To spring from her hood:
On the wrist of the noble
She sits like a crest,
And the air is in trouble
With birds from their nest.
Cas. Oh! shadow of glory!
Dim image of war!
'Difficile est propriè communia dicere.'-HORACE,
'Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall le bat i' the mouth too!-SHAKSPEARE, Twelfth Night, or What You Will.
The field is universal, and allows
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow; Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try
'Gainst you the question with posterity.
For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
Contend not with you on the winged steed.
I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
The fame you envy, and the skill you need;
And recollect a poet nothing loses
In giving to his brethren their full meed
Of merit, and complaint of present days
Is not the certain path to future praise.
He that reserves his laurels for posterity
(Who does not often claim the bright rever-
sion)
Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
Being only injured by his own assertion;
And although here and there some glorious
rarity
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
The major part of such appellants go [know.
To-God knows where-for no one else can
If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time,
If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs,
And makes the word 'Miltonic' mean 'sub-
lime,
He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime;
He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son,
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.
Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin s
gore,
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,
Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore,
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want,
With just enough of talent, and no more,
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd,
And offer poison long already mix'd.
An orator of such set trash of phrase
Ineffably-legitimately vile,
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,
Nor foes-all nations-condescend to smile;
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can biare
From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,
That turns and turns to give the world a notice
Of endless torments and perpetual motion.
A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
And botching, patching, leaving still behind
Something of which its masters are afraid,
States to be curb'd and thoughts to be co-
Conspiracy or Congress to be made- fimed
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind-
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
With God and mad's abhorrence for its gairs.
If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Emasculated to the marrow It
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and Find.
Deeming the chain it wears even men may tit
Eutropius of its many masters,-blind
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
Fearless because no feeling dwells in ice,
Think'st thou, could he-the blind Old Man-Its very courage stagnates to a vice.
arise,
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once
Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds.
For I will never feel them :-Italy!
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed
o'er thee-
Wounds
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet grea
Have voices-tongues to cry aloud for me
Europe has slaves-allies-kings-armies sti
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.
Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate
In honest simple verse, this song to you
And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate.
"Tis that I still retain my 'buff and blue;'†
Jonson answered, 'I, Ben Jonson, by with your
Sylvester answered, That is not rhyme.No, sad. Exc
Josnon; but it is true."
For the character of Eutropius, the eunuch und NÁLU 7at the court of Arcadius, see Gibbon.
[The uniform of the Whig Club of Fox's time; bemor the buff and blue cover of the Edinburgh Review |
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