Still follow to the field the Chieftain's banner,
And die in the defense on't.

Gordon. And if I live and see my halls again,
They shall have portion in the good they fight for.
Each hardy follower shall have his field,

His household hearth and sad-built home, as free
As ever Southern had. They shall be happy!
And my Elizabeth shall smile to see it!-
I have betrayed myself.

Swinton.

Do not believe it.

Vipont, do thou look out from yonder height,
And see what motion in the Scottish host,

And in King Edward's.

(Exit Vipont.)

Now will I counsel thee;

The Templar's ear is for no tale of love,
Being wedded to his order. But I tell thee,
The brave young Knight that hath no lady-love,
Is like a lamp unlighted; his brave deeds,
And its rich painting, do seem then most glorious,
When the pure ray gleams through them.-
Hath thy Elizabeth no other name?

Gordon. Must I then speak of her to you, Sir Alan?
The thought of thee and of thy matchless strength,
Hath conjured phantoms up amongst her dreams.
The name of Swinton hath been spell sufficient
To chase the rich blood from her lovely cheek,
And wouldst thou now know her's?

Swinton.
I would, nay, must.
Thy father in the paths of chivalry,

Should know the load-star thou dost rule thy course by.
Gordon. Nay, then, her name is-hark- (Whispers.)
Swinton. I know it well, that ancient northern house.
Gordon. O, thou shalt see its fairest grace and honor
In my Elizabeth. And if music touch thee→→→

Swinton.

Gordon.

It did, before disasters had untuned me.
O, her notes

Shall hush each sad remembrance to oblivion,
Or melt them to such gentleness of feeling,
That grief shall have its sweetness. Who, but she,
Knows the wild, harpings of our native land?
Whether they lull the shepherd on his hill,

Or wake the knight to battle; rouse to merriment,
Or soothe to sadness; she can touch each mood.

Princes and statesmen, chiefs renowned in arms,
And gray-haired bards, contend which shall the first
And choicest homage render to the enchantress.
Swinton. You speak her talent bravely.

Gordon.

Though you smile,

I do not speak it half. Her gift creative,
New measures adds to every air she wakes;
Varying and gracing it with liquid sweetness,
Like the wild modulation of the lark,
Now leaving, now returning to the strain!
To listen to her, is to seem to wander
In some enchanted labyrinth of romance,
Whence nothing but the lovely fairy's will,
Who wove the spell, can extricate the wanderer.
Methinks, I hear her now!—

Swinton.

Blessed privilege

Of youth! There's scarce three minutes to decide
"Twixt death and life, 'twixt triumph and defeat,
Yet all his thoughts are in his lady's bower,
Listening to her harp!

XIII.-FROM CORIOLANUS.-Shakspeare.

CORIOLANUS-AUFIDIUS.

Coriolanus. I plainly, Tullus, by your looks perceive You disapprove my conduct.

Aufidius. I mean not to assail thee with the clamor Of loud reproaches and the war of words;

But, pride apart, and all that can pervert

The light of steady reason, here to make
A candid, fair proposal.

Cor. Speak, I hear thee.

Auf. I need not tell thee, that I have performed
My utmost promise. Thou hast been protected;
Hast had thy amplest, most ambitious wish;
Thy wounded pride is healed, thy dear revenge
Completely sated; and to crown thy fortune,
At the same time, thy peace with Rome restored.
Thou art no more a Volscian, but a Roman ;
Return, return; thy duty calls upon thee
Still to protect the city thou hast saved;

It still may be in danger from our arms:
Retire I will take care thou mayest with safety.
Cor. With

safety?-Heayens!-and thinkest thou Coriolanus Will stoop to thee for safety ?-No: my safeguard Is in myself, a bosom void of fear.—

O, 'tis an act of cowardice and baseness,
To seize the very time my hands are fettered
By the strong chain of former obligation,
The safe, sure moment, to insult me.-Gods!
Were I now free, as on that day I was
When at Corioli I tamed thy pride,
This had not been.

Auf. Thou speakest the truth: it had not.
O, for that time again! Propitious gods,

If

you will bless me, grant it! Know, for that, For that dear purpose, I have now proposed

Thou shouldst return; I pray thee, Marcius, do it ;
And we shall meet again on nobler terms.

Cor. Till I have cleared my honor in your council,
And proved before them all, to thy confusion,
The falsehood of thy charge; as soon in battle
I would before thee fly, and howl for mercy,
As quit the station they've assigned me here.

Auf. Thou canst not hope acquittal from the Volscians.
Cor. I do Nay, more, expect their approbation,
Their thanks. I will obtain them such a peace

As thou durst never ask; a perfect union

Of their whole nation with imperial Rome,

In all her privileges, all her rights;

By the just gods, I will.-What wouldest thou more?

Auf. What would I more, proud Roman? This I would

Fire the cursed forest, where these Roman wolves

Haunt and infest their nobler neighbors round them;

Extirpate from the bosom of this land

A false, perfidious people, who, beneath
The mask of freedom, are a combination
Against the liberty of human kind;-

The genuine seed of outlaws and of robbers.

Cor. The seed of gods.-'Tis not for thee, vain boaster,'Tis not for such as thou,-so often spared

By her victorious sword, to speak of Rome,
But with respect, and awful veneration.-
Whate'er her blots, whate'er her giddy factions,

There is more virtue in one single year

Of Roman story, than your Volscian annals.
Can boast through all their creeping, dark duration.
Auf. I thank thy rage:-This full displays the traitor.
Cor. Traitor !-How now?

Auf. Ay, traitor, Marcius.

Cor.

Marcius!

Auf. Ay, Marcius, Carius Marcius: Dost thou think I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stolen name, Coriolanus, in Corioli?

You lords, and heads of the state, perfidiously
He has betrayed your business, and given up,
For certain drops of salt, your city Rome,-
I say, your city,-to his wife and mother;
Breaking his oath and resolution like
A twist of rotten silk; never admitting
Counsel of the war: but at his nurse's tears
He whined and roared away your victory;
That pages blushed at him, and men of heart
Looked wondering at each other.

Cor. Hearest thou, Mars?

Auf Name not the god, thou boy of tears.
Cor. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart

Too great for what contains it.-Boy!

Cut me to pieces, Volscians, men and lads,

Stain all your edges on me.-Boy!

If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there,
That, like an eagle in a dovecot, I
Fluttered your Volscians in Corioli;
Alone I did it :-Boy!-But let us part;
Lest my rash hand should do a hasty deed
My cooler thought forbids.

Auf.

I court

The worst thy sword can do; while thou from me
Hast nothing to expect but sore destruction;

Quit then this hostile camp: once more I tell thee,
Thou art not here one single hour in safety.
Cor. O, that I had thee in the field,

With six Aufidiuses, or more-thy tribe,
To use my lawful sword!-

XIV.-FROM THE MUTINY AT THE NORE.-Jerrold.

Mary. He comes-at every succeeding interview I fancy I perceive a deeper gloom upon his brow; a more settled sorrow at his heart. Let me not complain, a brighter day may yet arrive. (Enter Parker.)

Parker. Mary! my own loved Mary!

Mary. Oh, Richard, this meeting repays me for all the anxious hours passed in silence and in solitude.-Why, why is this? Why do you turn your eyes from mine?

Par. I-I cannot look upon you.

Mary. Not!

Par. When I remember that you were nursed by fortune, and every comfort strewed about your footsteps-were the idol of your household-sought by wealth and rank-when I remember this, and see you torn by my hands from every hope of life, thrown a poor outcast upon the unfeeling world, humiliated, broken-hearted, beggared-can you wonder if I blush to meet your eye? can you marvel if, like a felon, I shrink beneath your gaze, ashamed to meet the victim I have made? Mary. Oh, Richard! talk not so: do you think reproach