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Endur'd, but triumph'd-suffer'd, but obtain'd.-
Now boldly I advance to meet the foe!
And you, whose hearts shrink with the coward's fear,
Turn not to me! haste to your safe retreat,

And joy, if joy you can, when far away,

To think of those who suffer'd from your flight,
To think for what your brethren fought and died.*

12.-Leonidas, King of Sparta, on offering himself to
defend the Pass of Thermopyla against the Persians.
WHY this astonishment on every face,

Ye men of Sparta? Does the name of death
Create this fear and wonder? O my friends,
Why do we labour through the arduous paths
Which lead to virtue? Fruitless were the toil,
Above the reach of human feet were plac'd
The distant summit, if the fear of death
Could intercept our passage. But a frown
Of unavailing terror he assumes,

To shake the firmness of a mind, which knows
That, wanting virtue, life is pain and woe;
That, wanting liberty, even virtue mourns,
And looks around for happiness in vain.-
Then speak, O Sparta, and demand my life.
My heart, exulting, answers to thy call,
And smiles on glorious fate. To live with fame
The gods allow to many; but to die

With equal lustre, is a blessing Jove

Among the choicest of his boons reserves,

Which but on few his sparing hand bestows.

Glover's Leonidas.

13.-Leonidas's Speech to his Queen.

OH! thou dear mourner! wherefore swells so high
That tide of woe? Leonidas must fall.

Alas! far heavier misery impends

* Alfred, his sword unsheath'd, the scabbard cast
Far into the air, and singly march'd along.-
All follow'd shouting "Death or victory!"

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O'er thee and these, if, soften'd by thy tears,
I shamefully refuse to yield that breath
Which justice, glory, liberty, and Heaven,
Claim for my country, for my sons, and thee.
Think on my long unalter'd love. Reflect
On my paternal fondness. Hath my heart
E'er known a pause in love, or pious care?
Now shall that care, that tenderness, be shewn
Most warm, most faithful. When thy husband dies
For Lacedæmon's safety, thou wilt share,
Thou and thy children, the diffusive good.
I am selected by th' immortal gods

To save a people. Should my timid heart
That sacred charge abandon, I should plunge
Thee too in shame, in sorrow. Thou would'st mourn
With Lacedæmon; would'st, with her, sustain
Thy painful portion of oppression's weight.
Behold thy sons now worthy of their birth :
On their own merit, on their father's fame,
When he the Spartan freedom hath confirm'd,
Before the world illustrious will they rise,
Their country's bulwark, and their mother's joy.
Glover's Leonidas.

14.-Oration in Praise of Coriolanus.

I SHALL lack voice: the deeds of Coriolanus
Should not be utter'd feebly.-At sixteen years,
When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought
Beyond the mark of others. Our then dictator,
Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight;
When, with his Amazonian chin, he drove
The bristled lips before him. He bestrid
An o'erprest Roman, and, in the consul's view,
Slew three opposers. Tarquin's self he met,
And struck him on his knee. In that day's feats,
When he might act the woman in the scene,
He prov'd the best man in the field; and, for his meed,
Was brow-bound with the oak.-His pupil age,
Man-enter'd thus, he waxed like a sea;
And, in the brunt of seventeen battles since,

He lurch'd all swords o' the garland. For this last,
Before and in Corioli, let me say,

I cannot speak him home: he stopp'd the fliers;
And, by his rare example, made the coward
Turn terror into sport. As waves before
A vessel under sail, so men obey'd,

And fell below his stern. Alone, he enter'd
The mortal gate of the city; aidless came off,
And, with a sudden reinforcement, struck
Corioli like a planet: and, till we call'd
Both field and city ours, he never stood
To ease his breast with panting.

15.-The Old English Lion.

Shakespeare,

THE Old Lion of England grows youthful again;
He rouses he rises-he bristles his mane;
His eye-balls flash fire; his terrible roar,
Like thunder, bursts awfully over our shore!
We Sons of the Lion, inspir'd by the sound,
Devoted to Liberty, gather around,

And indignantly hurl the false olive away,
Vain symbol of peace, only meant to betray;
Our high-temper'd spirits, fresh touch'd with those fires,
Which glow'd in the hearts of our free-bosom'd sires,
To conquer or perish-an emulous band,
The natural rampart of Albion we stand:
Our banners unfurl'd,
O'ershadow the world,

Waving wide from those cliffs whence our rights are proclaim'd.

The arms which they bear

Still proudly declare,

The Old English Lion will never be tam'd.

We fight for the Altar, and Throne we revere,
And the hearths that our home-born affections endear;
On Heaven's high favour then fearlessly trust,
For God arms with nations whose quarrel is just!
The oak, that was planted by Druids of yore,
Its mystical branches still flings round our shore,

Great parent of navies! it spreads o'er the waves, Strikes deeper its roots, and Time's enmity braves! Our life-streams unsullied flow down from those veins, Which fed Fame on Cressy's and Agincourt's plains. Our Edwards and Henrys, 'tis true, are no more, But George lives their glory and worth to restore; On him we depend,

Our Father-our Friend,

The King whom we honour!-the Man whom we love! By him now renew'd,

Its nerves fresh endu❜d,

The Old English Lion immortal shall prove.

From the sail-crowded bays and throng'd havens of France,

Let the boastful invader his legions advance,

Ah! vainly with numbers he threatens our coast,
One heart, brac'd by Freedom, will combat an host.
The Lion disdainfully pants for the fray;

The greater his foes, the more noble his prey.
Too late shall France learn, on the blood-floated field,
That Britons will perish, but never can yield.

We'll grant her rash crew, should they 'scape from the

waves,

No more English earth than will cover their graves; Then let them embark-let the winds waft them o'er, For Fate tolls their knell when they land on our shore: In front, sure defeat,

Behind, no retreat;

Denied to advance, yet forbidden to fly:
While dreadfully round,

Our thunders resound,

"The Old English Lion will conquer or die." Dimond.

16. The Passions.-An Ode.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,

The passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting.

By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for madness rul'd the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid:
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.
Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire;
In lightnings own'd his secret stings.
In one rude clash he struck the lyre-
And swept with hurried hands the strings.
With woeful measures, wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air:
'Twas sad, by fits-by starts, 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all her song:
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope,enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair: And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose.

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down; And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast, so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe:

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