Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries?
His chain some furious madman breaks;
He comes!—I see his glaring eyes;
Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes—
Help! help!—He's gone!—Oh! fearful woe,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain, my brain,—I know, I know,
I am not mad, but soon shall be.
Yes, soon; for lo you!—while I speak—
Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare!
He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent high in air.
Horror!—the reptile strikes his tooth
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;—
Ay, laugh, ye fiends;—I feel the truth;
Your task is done—I'm mad! I'm mad!
Lewis.
CCXXVIII.
RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.
Friends!
I come 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 fraud
Or open rapine, or protected murder,
Cries 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 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!
Have ye brave sons?—Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die! Have ye fair daughters?—Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
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!
Miss Mitford.
CCXXIX.
THE BELL OF THE "ATLANTIC."
Toll, toll, toll!
Thou bell by billows swung,
And, night and day, thy warning words
Repeat with mournful tongue!
Toll for the queenly boat,
Wrecked on yon rocky shore!
Sea-weed is in her palace halls,—
She rides the surge no more.
Toll for the master bold,
The high-souled and the brave,
Who ruled her like a thing of life
Amid the crested wave!
Toll for the hardy crew,
Sons of the storm and blast,
Who long the tyrant ocean dared;
But it vanquished them at last.
Toll for the man of God,
Whose hallowed voice of prayer
Rose calm above the stifled groan
Of that intense despair!
How precious were those tones,
On that sad verge of life,
Amid the fierce and freezing storm,
And the mountain billows' strife!