Were kept in h'ostage; a full fie'ld pres'enting
For Scipio's gen'erosity/ to shine. A n'oble-virgin,
(Conspicuous fa'r/ o'er all the captive da'mes)
Was marked the genîeral’s-prize. She w'ept, and blus'hed;
Young, fres'h, and bloo'ming, like the mor'n. An e'ye,
As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud
Of purest white. A secret charm combined
Her fea'tures, and infused encha'ntment through-them.
Her shap'e was ha'rmony. But/ eloquence
Beneath her bea’uty fai'ls; which seem'ed! on purpose/
By na'ture la'vished-on-her, that mankind
Might see the vir'tue of a hero tr'ied
Almo'st beyond the stre'tch-of hu'man-force.
Soft as she passed alon'g/ with downcast ey’es,
(Where gentle sorrow swell'ed, and, no'w and the’n,
Dropped

o'er her modest cheeks/ a trickling te'ar)
The Roman l'egions lan'guished, and hard wa'r
Felt more than p°ity ; even their chief himself,
(As on his high tribu'nal raised he s'at)
Turned from the dangerous sig ht, a’nd (ch'iding) asked
His o'fficers, i'f/ by this gi'ft/ they meant
To clou'd-his-glory/ in its very daown.

She (questioned of her bi’rth) in trembling a'ccents
(With tears and blus'hes br'oken) told her tale.
But, when he found her ro‘yally-descended ;
Of her old captive parents/ the so'le-joy ;
And that a h’apless/ Celtibe'rian prin'ce,
(Her lo'ver, and beloved) forgot his chai'ns,
His lost domin'ions, and for her alon'e
Wept out his tender s'oul; sudden the hea'rt
Of this you'ng, co'nquering, lov'ing, godloike-Roman,
Felt all the great divi’nity of vir'tue.
His wishing yoʻuth stood che'cked, his tempting pow'er/,
Restr’ained/ by kind huma'nity:--At once
He for her pa'rents, and her lo'ver ca'lled.
The various sc'ene imagine.

How his troops it either ends a sentence, or occurs before a personal pronoun in the accusative case, when it assumes the broad sound ov.—Example : “We never know the true value uv time till we are deprived ov it.” By, also, has been considered as subject to a double sound, as if written be, but this pronunciation is only admissible in the lighter species of composition, or in familiar conversation ; as, be the by (" by the by.")

Looked dubious o'n, and wondered what he me'ant; While stretched below, the trembling suppliants lay', Racked by a thousand mingling pas'sions—fea'r, Hope, jealousy, disdai'n, subm'ission, grief, Anxi'ety, and lo've/ in every shap'e. To thes'e, as different sentiments succee'ded, As mixed emo'tions, when the man divi'ne Thu's the dread si'lence/ to the lo’ver bro'ke : “We both are yo’ung ; both char'med. The right of w'ar/ “ Has put thy beauteous mi'stress/ in my power; “ With whom I co’uld (in the most sa cred ti’es) “ Live out a happy li'fe. But know, that Roomans, “ Their hea‘rts, as well as eụnemies, can coʻnquer. “ Then take her to thy so'ul ; and, with-her, take “Thy li'berty and kingdom. In retu'rn/ “I ask but thi's—when you behold these ey'es, “ These charms/ with tra'nsport, be a frie'nd/ to Rom'e."Ecstatic wo'nder held the lovers mu'te ; While the loud cam'p, and all the clust'ering cro'wd/ That hung aro'und, rang with repeated sho'uts. Fam'e took the alar'm, and, through resounding Spai'n/ Blew fast the fair repoʻrt; whi'ch, mo're than armos, Admi'ring na'tions/ to the R'omans gain'ed.

SPEECH OF ROLLA.

KOTZEBUE.-SHERIDAN. My brave assoc'iates-par’tners of my to'il, my feel'ings, and my fa'me! Can Rolla's words/ add vigour to the virtuous en'ergies, which inspire your he’arts ? No';— yo'u have judgʻed (as I have the foulness of the crafty pl'ea/ by which these bold inv'aders/ would delude-you.

Your generous spi'rit has comp'ared (as mine h'as) the mot'ives/ wh'ich (in a war like th'is) can animate their minds and ours. They (by a strange frenzy dr'iven) fight for po'wer, for plun'der, and exte'nded-rule ; — w'el for our coʻuntry, our a'ltars, and our hom'es. They/ follow an adve'nturer/ whom they fear, and ob'ey a po'wer which they hʼate ;-w'el serve a mo'narch/ whom we love',

',-a Good whom we adoʻre. When'e'er they move in anʼger/ desolation/ tracks their pro'gress! Wher'e'er they pause in a'mity, afl'iction/ mourns their friendship. They boa'st, they com'e but to impr'ove our sta'te, enla’rge our thoughts, and fr'ee-us/ from the yok'e of er’ror! Ye's they will give enlightened freedom to our min'ds, who are themsel^ves the slaves of pa’ssion, a'varice, and pri'de. They offer us their protection—Ye's, su`ch protection, as vu^ltures give to lam°bs — co'vering and devou`ring-them. They call on us to baʼrter all of goo'd/ we have inherited and pr'oved, for the desperate cha'nce of something better/ which they pro'mise. Be our plain a'nswer thi's : The throne/ we ho'nour) is the people's choi'ce; the law's, we re'verence/ are our brave fa'thers' le gacy ;-the faith / we folʻlow/ teach'es-us/ to live in bon'ds of cha'rity/ with al'l manki'nd, and di'e/ with hop'e of bl’iss/ beyoʻnd the grav'e. Te'll your invaders th'is, and tell them too, we see'k no cha'nge ; a'nd/ leas't of a'll/, such cha'nge, as they would bri'ng-us.

WOLSEY AND CROMWELL.

SHAKSPEARE.
Wol. Farewe'll, a lonog-farewell/ to all my greatness !
Th'is/ is the state of ma'n ; to-da'y/ he puts forth
The tender leaves of ho'pe; to-moorrow/ blossoms,
And bears his blushing hoʻnours/ thick upo'n him ;
The thirod-day comes a fros't~(a kil·ling-frost),
And/ when he thi’nks (good easy msan) full surely
His greatness is a ri'pening, nip's his sh'oot ;
And the'n/ hoe falls, as I'-do. I have veľntured,
(Like little wanton boy's, that swim on bladders)
These

many sum'mers/ in a sea of glory;
But fa'r/ beyond my d'epth : my high-blown pr'ide/
At lenʼgth/ broke un'der me; and now has le’ft-me
(Weary and old with service) to the mercy
Of a rude str'eam, that must for e’ver hide'-me.
Vain po'mp and glo'ry of the world, I hat'e ye !
I feel my hea'rt new op'ened. Oh, how wretched
Is tha't-poor-man/ that hangs on prinoces’-favours !
There is', (betwixt that smile he would aspir'e to,
That sweet aspect of prin'ces, and his r’uin,)
More pan'gs and fear's/ than wa'r or woʻmen-have ;

At

And/ when he f'alls, he falls like Luocifer,
Nev'er to h'ope agai'n.
Wh'y, how n'ow, Cro'mwell ?

Crom. I have no power to speak, Sir.
Wol. Wh'at! amaz'ed

my misfoʻrtunes ? Can thy* spirit wonder
A great ma'n/ should decʻline 2-Na'y, if you weep,
I'm falʻlen indeed.

Crom. How do'es your Grace ?

Wol. W'hy, we'll ;
Never so tru'ly happy (my good Cro'mwell.)
I know myself noow, and I feel with’in me
(A pe'ace/ above all eart'hly di'gnities) ;
A st’ill, and qui'et-conscience. The kin'g/ has cur'ed me ;
I humbly tha’nk his Gra'ce; and, from these shoʻulders,
These ruined pil'lars/, out of pity taken
(A load would sink a n°avy) too much hon`our.
O, 'tis a b'urden, (Cro'mwell) 'tis a bu'rden
Too heavy for a man/ that hopes for hea'ven !
Crom. I'm glad

your Gra'ce/ has made that right-u'se o'f-it. Wol. I hope I ha've ; I'm able no'w, meth'inks, (Out of a fortitude of soul I fe'el) To endure mor'e-miseries, and grea°ter-far, Than my weak-hearted e'nemies/ dare o'ffer.

What ne'ws abro'ad ?

Crom. The heaviest and the wor'st I's/ your disple'asure with the king.

Wol. Gʻod ble'ss-him !

Crom. The n'ext is, that Sir Thomas Moʻre/ is chosen L'ord Ch’ancellor/ in you'r-place.

Wol. Th'at's somewhat su'ddenB'ut/ he's a lea'rned-man. May he continue Long in his Highness' fav'our, and do ju'stice (For truth's sa'ke and his co'nscience ;) that his b'ones When he has run his cou'rse, and sleeps in ble'ssings) May have a tomb of or'phans' tears/ wep't-on-them ! What mor'e ?

Crom. That Cr'anmer/ is returned with we'lcome ; Installed/ Lor'd Arch'bishop of Can'terbury.

Wol. Tha’t’s news/ inde^ed !

Crom. La'st, that the Lady A'nne,
(Whom the King hath in secrecy long m'arried,)
This day was vi'ewed in o'pen/ as his Qu'een,
Go'ing to ch'apel; and the voic'e is n'ow
Only aboʻut her corona'tion.
Wol. There was the we'ight/ that pulled me dow'n :

O Crom'well !
The kin'g/ has gone beyo'nd me; all my gloʻries
(In th`at/ onoe-woman) I have lo'st for e'ver!
No sun shall ever usher fo‘rth my ho'nours,
Or gild aga'in/ the no'ble-troops/ that waited

s'miles. Go', get thee fr'om me, Cro'mwell; I am a poor/ fa'llen-man, unworthy now' To be thy lo‘rd and m'aster. Seek the ki'ng, (Thoat-sun/ I pra'y may ne'ver-set,) I've toʻld him Wh'at, and how true thou art ; h'e will advan'ce-thee; Some little memory of me will stir-him, (I know his noble n'ature), not to let Th`y-hopeful-service/ perish to'o. Good Cr'omwell, Negle'ct him not; make use n'ow, and provi'de For thine o'wn/ future sa fety.

Crom. O
Must I then lea've-you ? Must I needs foʻrego
So go'od, so no'ble, and so tru`e a maʼster ?
Bear wi’tness (all that have not hearts of iroon)
With what a so'rrow/ Crom'well leaves his Loʻrd.

Upon my

my Lor'd !