Falling. Oh, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out, DIATONE. Hail, holy light! High on a throne of royal state. Rising. THIRD. Falling. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? What drugs, what charms, what conjuration, and what mighty magic. Rising. FIFTH. Look upon my son! What mean you? Look upon my boy as though I guessed it! Falling. "To arms! to arms!" cried Mortimer, And couched his quivering lance. Rising. OCTAVE. You come to teach the people? Falling. You pretend to teach a British general! "We!" what page in the last court grammar made you a plural? All this? ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break: Go show your slaves how choleric you are; And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? MISCELLANEOUS EXERCISES. He answered and said unto them, He that soweth the good seed is the Son of man; the field is the world; the good seed are the children of the kingdom; but the tares are the children of the wicked one; the enemy that sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the end of the world; and the reapers are the angels. The combat deepens! On! ye brave! And charge with all thy chivalry! Shall be a soldier's sepulchre! Pause a moment. I heard a footstep. Listen now. I heard it again; but it is going from us. It sounds fainter,— still fainter. It is gone. I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn; Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And, starting around me, the echoes replied; On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, One huge, nameless rock in the front was ascending, The quality of mercy is not strained: It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven, The throned monarch better than his crown: It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's, Alas! I am afraid they have awaked; And 'tis not done: the attempt, and not the deed, Go ring the bells, and fire the guns, Where the pillared props of heaven Where no darkling clouds are driven, Far above the rolling thunder, The children, too - dear things! - they'll be sopping wet; for they shan't stay at home; they shan't lose their learning: it's all their father will leave them, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't tell me they shouldn't! — you're so aggravating, Caudle, you'd spoil the temper of an angel, - they shall go to school, mark that; and if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault; I didn't lend the umbrella. Oh, soft falls the dew, in the twilight descending, Like the storm-spirit, dark, o'er the tremulous main. And a tear, unbefitting the warrior, is telling That Hope has abandoned the brave Cherokee ! Oh, Swedes! Swedes! Heavens are ye men, and will ye suffer this? His courage scarce had turned; himself had stood, Mix heaven with earth, and roll the ruin onward, Till I, or Denmark fall. He should have per Oh! but he paused upon the brink. ished on the brink, ere he had crossed it! Why did he pause? Why does a man's heart palpitate when he is on the point of committing an unlawful deed? Because of compassion, you say. What compassion? The compassion of an assassin, that feels a momentary shudder, as his weapon begins to cut! You can not, my lords, you can not conquer America! An hour passed on ; the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last; - He woke to hear his sentry's shriek, "To arms! They come! The Greek! the Greek!" He woke to die, midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and saber-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band; "Strike - till the last armed foe expires! for your altars and fires! Strike Strike -- your - for the green graves of your sires! God- and your native land!” Tick! tick! How wearily the time crawls on! Why should he leave me thus? He once was kind! Is never a sigh heard to come forth from these damp tombs ? a shout from some sleeping warrior? Might we not hear from some part of the Abbey a faint voice as if it came from spirit land? No! These dead do never waken or walk; the battle-ax has fallen from the strong hand of the Saxon and the Norman, and they rest in stillness together. Genius, which lived in sorrow and died in want, here sleeps as proudly as royalty. All is silence; but here silence is greater than speech. Away! away to the mountain's brow, Where the stream is gently laving! What! to attribute the sacred sanction of God and Nature to the massacres of the Indian scalping-knife! to the cannibal savage, torturing, murdering, devouring, and drinking the blood of his mangled victims! Such notions shock every precept of morality, every feeling of humanity, every sentiment of honor. Rouse, ye Romans! rouse, ye slaves! Oh, weep for the earth and the children of men! |