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“Or injured Constance, bathes my head?”

I would the Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,

Would spare me but a day!
For, wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar-stone,
Might bribe him for delay.
It

may not be!—this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand.”-
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling Monk.
The

war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,

And-Stanley! was the cry;
A light on Marmion's visage spread,

And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted “Victory!
“ Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.

LOCAL ATTACHMENT.

GOLDSMITH.

As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bands o'er his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill; Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small; And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find Some spot to real happiness consigned, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rost, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.

But where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shivering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease;
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam;
His first, best country, ever is at home;
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind:
As different good, by art or nature given,
To different nations makes their blessings even.
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call;
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side;
And though the rocky crested summits frown,
Those rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.

STREET-SCENE BETWEEN BRUTUS AND

CASSIUS.

SHAKSPEARE. Cassius. Will you go see the order of the course? Brutus. Not I. Cas. I Bru. I am not gamesome; I do iack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony; Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires;

pray you do.

I'll leave you,

Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late;
I have not from your eyes that gentleness,
And shew of love, as I was wont to have:
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand

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Over your friend that loves you.

Bru. Cassius, Be not deceived; if I have veiled my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am, Of late, with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviours: But let not therefore my good friends be grieved; Among which number, Cassius, be you one; Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your

passion. By means whereof, this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

Bru. No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection by some other things.

Cas. 'Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard, Where many of the best respect in Rome, (Except immortal Cæsar,) speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age's yoke, Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes. Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cas

sius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?

Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear: And since

you
know

you cannot see yourself
So well as by reflection, I, your glass,
Will modestly discover to yourself
That of yourself which you yet know not of.
And be not jealous of me, gentle Brutus:
Were I a common laugher, or did use
To stale with ordinary oaths my love

To every new protestor; if you know
That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard,
And after scandal them; or if you know
That I profess myself in banqueting
To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.
Bru. What means this shouting? I do fear the

people
Choose Cæsar for their king.

Cas. Ay, do you fear it?
Then must I think you would not have it so.

Bru. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well:
But wherefore do you hold me here so long?
What is it that you would impart to me?
If it be aught toward the general good,
Set honour in one eye, and death in the other,
And I will look on both indifferently;
For, let the gods so speed me, as I love
The name of honour more than I fear death.

Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,
As well as I do know your outward favour.
Well, honour is the subject of my story.
I cannot tell what you and other men
Think of this life; but for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself.
I was born free as Cæsar; so were you:
We both have fed as well; and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he.
For once upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tyber chafing with his shores,
Cæsar says to me, Darest thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me into this angry flood,
And swim to yonder point?-Upon the word,
Accoutred as I v

was, I plunged in,
And bade him follow: so, indeed, he did.
The torrent roared, and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews; throwing it aside,
And stemming it with hearts of controversy.
But ere we could arrive the point proposed,
Cæsar cried, Help me, Cassius, or I sink.

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I, as Æneas, our great ancestor,
Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tyber
Did I the tired Cæsar: and this man
Is now become a god; and Cassius is
A wretched creature, and must bend his body,
If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.
He had a fever when he was in Spain,
And, when the fit was on him, I did mark
How he did shake. 'Tis true, this god did shake:
His coward lips did from their colour fly;
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose its lustre: I did hear him groan:
Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
Alas! it cried_Give me some drink, Titinius-
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestick world,
And bear the palm alone.

Bru. Another general shout!
I do believe that these applauses are
For some new honours that are heaped on Cæsar.

Cas. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus: and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Men at sometimes are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Brutus—and Cæsar-what should be in that Cæsar?
Why should that name be sounded, more than your's?
Write them together; your's is as tair a name:
Sound them; it doth become the mouth as well:
Weigh them; it is as heavy: conjure with them;
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar.
Now, in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meats doth this our Cæsar feed,
That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed:
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!
When went there by an age, since the great flood, .

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