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'T is because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

When young and old in circle

Around the firebrands close ; When the girls are weaving baskets,

And the lads are shaping bows ; When the goodman mends his armor,

And trims his helmet's plume; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily

Goes flashing through the loom ;
With weeping and with laughter

Still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge

In the brave days of old.

“Rome shall perish — write that word

In the blood that she has spilt – Perish, hopeless and abhorred,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

“ Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states ; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates ! “Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame. “ Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

SEMPRONIUS'S SPEECH FOR WAR.

“Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway ; Where his eagles never flew,

None invincible as they."

My voice is still for war. Gods! can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to choose, slavery or death ? No; let us rise at once, gird on our swords, And at the head of our remaining troops Attack the foe, break through the thick array Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon

him. Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, May reach his heart, and free the world from bond

age. Rise! Fathers, rise ! 'tis Rome demands your help: Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens, Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senate Manures the fields of Thessaly, while we Sit here deliberating, in cold debates, If we should sacrifice our lives to honor, Or wear them out in servitude and chains. Rouse up, for shame! Our brothers of Pharsalia Point out their wounds, and cry aloud, — “ To

battle!" Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged among us.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow; Rushed to battle, fought, and died,

Dying, hurled them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due ; Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

WILLIAM COWPER.

BOADICEA.

HERMANN AND THUSNELDA.

When the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak

Sat the druid, hoary chief ; Every burning word he spoke

Full of rage and full of grief. “Princess ! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,

(Hermann, or, as the Roman historians call him, Arminius, was a chieftain of the Cheruscans, a tribe in Northern Germany. After serving in Illyria, and there learning the Roman arts of warfare, he came back to his native country, and fought successfully for its independence. He defeated beside a defile near Detmold, in Westphalia, the Roman legions under Varus, with a slaughter so mortify. ing that the Proconsul is said to have killed himself, and Augustus to have received the catastrophe with indecorous expressions of grief.]

HA! there comes he, with sweat, with blood of

Romans,
And with dust of the fight all stained ! 0, never

Saw I Hermann so lovely!
Never such fire in his eyes !

Come! I tremble for joy; hand me the Eagle,
And the red, dripping sword! come, breathe, and
rest thee;

Rest thee here in my bosom ;
Rest from the terrible fight!

Rest thee, while from thy brow I wipe the big The stain away in blood? such shames are common. I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak to

drops,

And the blood from thy cheek ! how glowing!

- that cheek,

ye

I had a brother once, a gracious boy,
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of Heaven upon his face which limners give
To the beloved disciple. How I loved
That gracious boy! younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once and son ! He left my side, -
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse,
ye slaves!

ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce
brawl

"Wherefore curl'st thou my hair? Lies not our To see them die! Have ye fair daughters?— Look
father
To see them live, torn from your arms, disdained,
Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash! Yet this is Rome,
That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne
Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are Romans.
Why, in that elder day to be a Roman
Was greater than a king! And once again—
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus ! -once again I swear
The eternal city shall be free!

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

Hermann Hermann! Thusnelda
Never so loved thee before !

No, not then when thou first, in old oak-shadows,
With that manly brown arm didst wildly grasp me!
Spell-bound I read in thy look
That immortality, then,

Which thou now hast won. Tell to the forests,
Great Augustus, with trembling, amidst his gods

now,

Drinks his nectar; for Hermann,
Hermann immortal is found !

Cold and silent in death? O, had Augustus
Only headed his army,

He should lie bloodier there!"

Let me lift up thy hair; 't is sinking, Hermann; Proudly thy locks should curl above the crown now!

Sigmar is with the immortals!
Follow, and mourn him no more!

KLOPSTOCK. Translation of
CHARLES T. BROOKS.

RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.

Was struck-struck like a dog- by one who wore
The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not

FRIENDS!

I came not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! he sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave! Not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame,
But base, ignoble slaves! - slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords
Rich in some dozen paltry villages,
Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great
In that strange spell, a name! Each hour, dark

Have

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fraud,

Or open rapine, or protected murder,
Cries out against them. But this very day
An honest man, my neighbor, there he stands,

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood!

A wall, where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown;
A rampart all assaults to bear,

Till time to dust their frames should wear;
A wood, like that enchanted grove
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possessed
A spirit prisoned in its breast,
Which the first stroke of coming strife
Would startle into hideous life;

So dense, so still, the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood !
Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears,
Whose polished points before them shine,
From flank to flank, one brilliant line,
Bright as the breakers' splendors run
Along the billows to the sun.

Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till
you might

see,

with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face, And by the motion of his form Anticipate the bursting storm, And by the uplifting of his brow Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 't was no sooner thought than done, The field was in a moment won :

“Make way for Liberty !” he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp ; Ten spears he swept within his grasp.

Opposed to these, a hovering band Contended for their native land : Prasants, whose new-found strength had broke From manly necks the ignoble yoke, And forged their fetters into swords, On equal terms to fight their lords, And what insurgent rage had gained In many a mortal fray maintained ; Marshalled once more at Freedom's call, They came to conquer or to fall, Where he who conquered, he who fell, Was deemed a dead, or living Tell ! Surh virtue had that patriot breathed, So to the soil his soul bequeathed, That wheresoe'er his arrows flew Heroes in his own likeness grew, And warriors sprang from every sod Which his awakening footstep trod.

“Make way for Liberty !” he cried ; Their keen points met from side to side ; He bowed amongst them like a tree, And thus made way for Liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly; “Make way for Liberty !” they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; While, instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all : An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free ; Thus death made way for Liberty !

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

And now the work of life and death Hung on the passing of a breath ; The fire of conflict burnt within, The battle trembled to begin ; Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, Point for attack was nowhere found, Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, The unbroken line of lances blazed ; That line 't were suicide to meet, And perish at their tyrants' feet, How could they rest within their graves, And leave their homes the homes of slaves ? Would they not feel their children tread With clanging chains above their head ?

SWITZERLAND.

WILLIAM TELL.

It must not be : this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power ; All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yield, She must not fall ; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the nunber she could boast; But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he On whose sole arm hung victory:

It did depend on one indeed ; Behold him, — Arnold Winkelried ! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name.

ONCE Switzerland was free! With what a pride
I used to walk these hills, – look up to heaven,
And bless God that it was so ! It was free
From end to end, from cliff to lake 't was free!
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys, without asking leave ;
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun !
How happy was I in it, then ! I loved
Its very storms. Ay, often have I sat
In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain

gorge
The wind came roaring, I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

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MONCONTOUR.

O, WEEP for Moncontour! O, weep for the hour
When the children of darkness and evil had
power;
When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod
On the bosoms that bled for their rights and
their God.

vain!

O, weep for the living, who linger to bear
The renegade's shame or the exile's despair!

towers,

To the rows of our vines and the beds of our

O, weep for Moncontour! O, weep for the slain
Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of

the Rhine.

flowers;

To the church where the bones of our fathers

decayed,

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,

Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,

One look, one last look, to the cots and the The General rode along us to form us for the fight; When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine,

And the man of blood was there, with his long essenced hair,

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Where we fondly had deemed that our own should And hark! like the roar of the billows on the be laid.

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

shore,

The cry of battle rises along their charging line:
For God for the cause! for the Church! for the
laws!

Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome;
To the serpent of Florence, the sultan of Spain; For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the
Rhine!
To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.

Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades, The furious German comes, with his clarions and To the song of thy youths, the dance of thy maids;

his drums,

To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy
bees,
And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees!

His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your pikes! Close your ranks !

Farewell and forever! The priest and the slave
May rule in the halls of the free and the brave; They are here,
Our hearths we abandon, our lands we resign,
But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

For Rupert never comes but to conquer, or to

fall.

- we are broken,

they rush on, we are gone, Our left is borne before them like stubble on the

blast.

O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend
the right!
Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight
it to the last!

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NASEBY.

O, WHEREFORE come ye forth in triumph from Stout Skippen hath a wound, — the centre hath the north,

given ground. Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?

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With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here! ye tread?

Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank
God! 't is he, boys!

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in

a row,

O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on we trod; the dikes,

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And she of the seven hills shall mourn her chil.

dren's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of

England's sword ; And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder

when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the

One effort more, his seventh and last !

The hero hailed the sign ! And on the wished-for beam hung fast

That slender, silken line ; Slight as it was, his spirit caught The more than omen, for his thought

The lesson well could trace, Which even “he who runs may read," That Perseverance gains its meed,

And Patience wins the race.

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houses and the word !

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

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