The devil speaks truth much oftener than he's

deem'd:

He hath an ignorant audience.

PART III.

heart beats.

Alas! that the first beat of the only heart

I ever wish'd to beat with mine should vibrate

To an assassin's pulse.

Cas.

But somewhat late i' the day.

bear her?

I say she lives.

Arn.

Cæs.

As dust can.
Arn.
Cas.

A sage reflection,

Where shall we

And will she live?

As much

Then she is dead!

We will

Bah! bah! You are so, And do not know it. She will come to lifeSuch 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. Cæs. Come then! raise her up! Arn. Softly! Cæs. As softly as they bear the dead, Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. Arn. But doth she live indeed? Cæs. 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

For Lucifer and Venus.

rounded by a wild but smiling Country. Chorus of PEASANTS singing before the gates.

Chorus.

I.

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!

II.

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.

III.

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.

IV.

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.

Enter CÆSAR.

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.

Chorus.

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.

Ces. Oh! shadow of glory!
Dim image of war!

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 X.

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.

ΧΙ.

XII.

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.

XIII.

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 blaze

From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, That turns and turns to give the world a notion Of endless torments and perpetual motion.

XIV.

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 con-
Conspiracy or Congress to be made- [fined,

Cobbling at manacles for all mankind—
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
With God and mad's abhorrence for its gains.

XV.

If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Emasculated to the marrow It
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind,
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
Eutropius of its many masters,-blind *

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
Fearless-because no feeling dwells in ice,

more

XVI.

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 green
Have voices-tongues to cry aloud for me.
Europe has slaves-allies-kings--armies still,
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.

XVII.

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;'t

Jonson answered, 'I, Ben Jonson, lay with your wife.
Sylvester answered. That is not rhyme.-'No,' said Ben
Josnon; but it is true,"

For the character of Eutror ius, the eunuch and minister at the court of Arcadius, see Gibbon.

[The uniform of the Whig Club of Fox's time; hence the buff and blue cover of the Edinburgh Review.]