« ZurückWeiter »
I am ;
Is grudged me.
Chieftains ! ere the moon be down, My land will be the Senate's spoil; my life, The mark of the first villain that will stab For lucre. — But there is a time at hand! - Gaze on! If I had thought you cowards, I might have come And told you lies. But you have now the thing
- Rome's enemy, — and fixed as fate To you and yours
forever! The State is weak as dust. Rome 's broken, helpless, heart-sick. Vengeance sits Above her, like a vulture o'er a corpse, Soon to be tasted. Time, and dull decay, Have let the waters round her pillar's foot; And it must fall. Her boasted strength 's a ghost, Fearful to dastards; - yet, to trenchant swords, Thin as the passing air ! A single blow, In this discased and crumbling state of Rome, Would break your chains like stubble. But “ye 've no swords ”! Have you no ploughshares, scythes ? When men are brave, the sickle is a spear! Must Freedom pine till the slow armorer Gilds her caparison, and sends her out To glitter and play antics in the sun ? Let hearts be what they ought, - the naked earth Will be their magazine; the rocks the trees Nay, there 's no idle and unnoted thing, But, in the hand of Valor, will out-thrust The spear, and make the mail a mockery!
31. CATILINE'S LAST HARANGUE TO HIS ARMY. - Id.
BRAVE comrades ! all is ruined! I disdain
up his sword, and kneel for peace to Rome.
is better than o'erburthened life ;-
In poverty, dull pain, and base decay.-
- are ye resolved ?
THE BARD'S SUMMONS TO WAR. — Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton,
Alone with Thought, mused Caradoc the Bard,
A gaze, prophetic in its sad regard.
Sound Geraint's trump and Owaine's battle-cry;
The Council Chiefs stem maddening mutiny;
Fast into night the life of Freedom dies ;
Kindler, reviver, re-creator, rise!
“Some grateful tears may yet embalm my name;
And human love's divinest form is fame.
His harp of ivory sheen, from shoulders broad;
Light from the shattered wall, - and swiftly strode
Sad with the burthen of the Singer's soul;
Into the heart it coiled its lulling way;
Hushed to his feet forgetful Famine crept,
And Woe, reviving, veiled the eyes that wept.
Then stern, and harsh, clashed the ascending strain,
Then trembling hands instinctive griped the swords;
And the Dead spoke From cairns and kingly graves,
The Land of Freedom called upon the Free!
Woman and child — all caught the fire of men;
Life to the spectres had returned again;
33. CARADOC, THE BARD, TO THE CYMRIANS. — Sir E. Bulwer Lytton.
No Cymrian bard, by the primitive law, could bear weapons.
The sound earth quails beneath the hollow tread!
And climbed her war-ships, when the Caesar fled!
The Saxons come ! why wait within the wall ?
Mark, ye have swords, and shields, and armor, YE!
Unarmed he goes — his guard the shield of all,
—o34. ALFRED THE GREAT TO HIS MEN. — Original Adaptation from Knowles.
My friends, our country must be free! The land Is never lost that has a son to right her, — And here are troops of sons, and loyal ones' Strong in her children should a mother be: Shall ours be helpless, that has sons like us? God save our native land, whoever pays The ransom that redeems her | Now, what wait we ?— For Alfred's word to move upon the foe Upon him, then Now think ye on the things You most do love! Husbands and fathers, on Their wives and children; lovers, on their beloved; And all, upon their countRY | When you use Your weapons, think on the beseeching eyes, To whet them, could have lent you tears for water! 0, now be men, or never! From your hearths Thrust the unbidden feet, that from their nooks Drove forth your agéd sires — your wives and babes' The couches, your fair-handed daughters used To spread, let not the vaunting stranger press, Weary from spoiling you ! Your roofs, that hear The wanton riot of the intruding guest, That mocks their masters, – clear them for the sake Of the manhood to which all that's precious clings, Else perishes. The land that bore you — O ! Do honor to her | Let her glory in Your breeding ! Rescue her Revenge her, —or Ne'er call her mother more Come on, my friends ! And, where you take your stand upon the field, However you advance, resolve on this, –
That you will ne'er recede, while from the tongues
you to be strong! Come on! Come on!
35. RIENZI TO THE ROMANS. - Mary Russell Mitford.
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 fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cry out against them. But this very day, An honest man, my neighbor, — there he stands, – 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 The stain away in blood ? Such shames are common. I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to 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 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 ! Have ye brave sons ? Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die! Have ye fair daughters ? — Look