knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died; the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told the prætor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the prætor drew back as I were pollution, and sternly said, 'Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans! And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs. 7. "O, Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given, to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd-lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flutenote, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe ;—to gaze into the glaring eye-balls of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled ! 8. "Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but tomorrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume. from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sestérces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? "Tis three days since he tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours, and a dainty meal for him ye will be! 9. "If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher's knife! If ye are men,-follow me! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and there do bloody work, as did your sires at Old Thermopyla! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master's lash. O, comrades! warriors! Thracians!-if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves. If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle!" XIV.-WOLSEY'S FALL. 1. SHAKSPEARE. FAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness! 3. Like little wafton boys, that swim on bladders, Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. XV. THE RUM MANIAC. "SAY, Doctor, may I not have rum, To quench this burning thirst within ? Here on this cursed bed I lie, And cannot get one drop of gin. I ask not health, nor even life— Life! what a curse it's been to me! I'd rather sink in deepest hell, Than drink again its misery. "But, Doctor, may I not have rum? One drop alone is all I crave: Grant this small boon-I ask no more- "A thousand curses on his head "Lost-lost-I know forever lost! "Say, don't you see this demon fierce? Docs no one hear? will no one come? Oh save me-save me-I will give But rum! I must have-will have rum! He-the boasting knave and liar— He said that he would take me off ALLISON. 6. 7. 8. "Fire! water! help! come, haste-I'll die; There stands his burning coach of fire; He smiles and beckons me to come- One sound, and one alone, came forth- "Why longer wait? I'm ripe for hell; There, in the regions of the lost, XVI.-WHAT MAKES A HERO? HENRY TAYLOR. 1. WHAT makes a hero ?-not success, not fame, Of glutted Avarice,-caps tossed up in air, Or true reward; for never yet did these 2. And if there be preeminence of right Derived through pain well suffered, to the height Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved, But worse-ingratitude and poisonous darts, Launched by the country he has served and loved; This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure, This, in the strength of silence to endure, A dignity to noble deeds imparts, Beyond the gauds and trappings of renown; One self-approval in his heart of hearts. XVII.—THE TRUE KING. Translated from Seneca. 1. 'Tis not wealth that makes a King, Nor a brow that's bound with gold, 2. Nor for all the treasure cares, That mine conceals, or harvest wears, Or that golden sands deliver, Bosomed in a glassy river. Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade, 3. Safe, with wisdom for his crown He looks on all things calmly down; May carve us out that royalty. LEIGH HUNT. |