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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 ;
Still is the story told,
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.
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.
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
Saw I Hermann so lovely!
Come! I tremble for joy; hand me the Eagle,
Rest thee here in my bosom ;
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
And the blood from thy cheek ! how glowing!
- that cheek,
I had a brother once, a gracious boy,
ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce
"Wherefore curl'st thou my hair? Lies not our To see them die! Have ye fair daughters?— Look
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.
Hermann Hermann! Thusnelda
No, not then when thou first, in old oak-shadows,
Which thou now hast won. Tell to the forests,
Drinks his nectar; for Hermann,
Cold and silent in death? O, had Augustus
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!
KLOPSTOCK. Translation of
RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.
Was struck-struck like a dog- by one who wore
I came not here to talk. Ye know too well
Or open rapine, or protected murder,
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A wall, where every conscious stone
Till time to dust their frames should wear;
So dense, so still, the Austrians stood,
Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
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 !
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 ?
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
JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
O, WEEP for Moncontour! O, weep for the hour
O, weep for the living, who linger to bear
To the rows of our vines and the beds of our
O, weep for Moncontour! O, weep for the slain
To the church where the bones of our fathers
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,
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.
The cry of battle rises along their charging line:
Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
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;
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy
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
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.
For Rupert never comes but to conquer, or to
- we are broken,
they rush on, we are gone, Our left is borne before them like stubble on the
O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend
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?
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
Their heads all stooping low, their points all in
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,
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.
houses and the word !
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.