"Vain—vain—give o'er! His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now— Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow! Gods! if he do not die But for one moment—one—till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!
"Shivering! Hark! he mutters Brokenly now—that was a difficult breath— Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death! Look! how his temple flutters! Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! He shudders—gasps—Jove help him!—so—he's dead."
How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules the unreigned ambition! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought And unthrones peace forever. Putting on The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns The heart to ashes, and with not a spring Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip, We look upon our splendor and forget The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life Many a falser idol. There are hopes Promising well; and love-touched dreams for some; And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemes For gold and pleasure—yet will only this Balk not the soul—Ambition, only, gives, Even of bitterness, a beaker full! Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, Troubled at best; Love is a lamp unseen, Burning to waste, or, if its light is found, Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken; Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires, And Quiet is a hunger never fed; And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose— From all but keen Ambition—will the soul Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness To wander like a restless child away. Oh, if there were not better hopes than these— Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame— If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart Must canker in its coffers—if the links Falsehood hath broken will unite no more— If the deep yearning love, that hath not found Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears— If truth and fervor and devotedness, Finding no worthy altar, must return And die of their own fulness—if beyond The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air The spirit may find room, and in the love Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart May spend itself—what thrice-mocked fools are we!
LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF LUCRETIA. FROM "BRUTUS."
Would you know why I summoned you together? Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger, Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse! See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death! She was the mark and model of the time, The mould in which each female face was formed, The very shrine and sacristy of virtue! Fairer than ever was a form created By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild, And never-resting thought is all on fire! The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks, And whispered in his ear her strains divine, Can I conceive beyond her;—the young choir Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'T is wonderful Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds, Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,— How from the shade of those ill-neighboring plants Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace, She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections Might have called back the torpid breast of age To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind Might have abashed the boldest libertine And turned desire to reverential love And holiest affection! O my countrymen! You all can witness when that she went forth It was a holiday in Rome; old age Forgot its crutch, labor its task,—all ran, And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried, "There, there's Lucretia!" Now look ye where she lies! That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose, Torn up by ruthless violence,—gone! gone! gone! Say, would you seek instruction? would ye ask What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls, Which saw his poisoned brother,— Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove O'er her dead father's corse, 't will cry, Revenge! Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge! Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife, And the poor queen, who loved him as her son, Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge! The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens, The gods themselves, shall justify the cry, And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge! And we will be revenged, my countrymen! Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him Than all the noblest titles earth can boast. Brutus your king!—No, fellow-citizens! If mad ambition in this guilty frame Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one,— By all the gods, this dagger which I hold Should rip it out, though it intwined my heart. Now take the body up. Bear it before us To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches, And in the blazing conflagration rear A pile, for these chaste relics, that shall send Her soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads you!
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.
THE ROMAN FATHER. FROM "VIRGINIA"
Straightway Virginius led the maid A little space aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, Piled up with horn and hide; Close to yon low dark archway, Where, in a crimson flood, Leaps down to the great sewer The gurgling stream of blood.
Hard by, a flesher on a block Had laid his whittle down: Virginius caught the whittle up, And hid it in his gown. And then his eyes grew very dim, And his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child! Farewell!