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Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword

Had from its scabbard sprung; but toward the seat

Of the arch-fiend, all turned with one accord,

As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde. - WHITE

THE SAME, CONTINUED.

"YE powers of hell, I am no coward. I proved this of old. Who led your forces against the armies of Jehovah? Who coped with Ithuriel, and the thunders of the Almighty? Who, when stunned and confused ye lay on the burning lake, who first awoke and collected your scattered powers? Lastly, who led you across the unfathomable abyss to this delightful world, and established that reign here which now totters to its base? How, therefore, dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on Satan's bravery? He, who preys only on the defenseless -who sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in acts of igno. ble cruelty and unequal contention! Away with the boaste who never joins in action; but, like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed upon the wounded and overwhelm the dying. True bravery is as remote from rashness as from hesitation. Let us counsel coolly, but let us execute our counseled purposes determinately. In power, we have learned by that experiment which lost us heaven, that we are inferior to the thunder-bearer : in subtilty-in subtilty alone, we are his equals. Open war is Apossible.

Thus shall we pierce our conqueror through the race
Which, as himself, he loves; thus, if we fall,
We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace
Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call
Of vengeance rings within me! Warriors all,
The word is vengeance, and the spur despair.
Away with coward wiles! Death's coal-black pall
Be now our standard! Be our torch, the glare

Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air!"

MARULLUS TO THE MOB.

WHEREFORE rejoice that Cæsar comes in triumph?
What conquest brings he home?

WHITE

What tributaries follow him to Rome,

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To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome!
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers, and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome :
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made a universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath his bands,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave shores?

And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now call out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Begone-

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

SHAKSPEARE

SPEECH OF RAAB KIUPRILI.

HEAR me,

Assembled lords and warriors of Illyria,
Hear, and avenge me! Twice ten years have I
Stood in your presence, honored by the king,
Beloved and trusted. Is there one among you,
Accuses Raab Kiuprili of a bribe?

Or one false whisper in his sovereign's ear?
Who here dares charge me with an orphan's rights
Outfaced, or widow's plea left undefended?
And shall I now be branded by a traitor,

A bought-bribed wretch, who, being called my son,
Doth libel a chaste matron's name, and plant
Hensbane aud aconite on a mother's grave?
Th' underling accomplice of a robber,
That from a widow and a widow's offspring
Would steal their heritage? To God a rebel,
And to the common father of his country

A recreant ingrate!

What means this clamor? Are these madmen's voices?
Or is some knot of riotous slanderers leagued
To infamize the name of the king's brother
With a black falsehood? Unmanly cruelty,
Ingratitude, and most unnatural treason?
What mean these murmurs? Dare then
Proclaim Prince Emerick a spotted traitor?
One that has taken from you your sworn faith,
And given you in return a Judas' bribe,
Infamy now, oppression in reversion,

any

And Heaven's inevitable curse hereafter?
Yet bear with me awhile? Have I for this

here

Bled for your safety, conquered for your honor?
Was it for this, Illyrians! that I forded

Your thaw-swollen torrents, when the shouldering ice
Fought with the foe, and stained its jagged points
With gore from wounds I felt not?

Did the blast

Beat on this body, frost and famine-numbed,
Till my hard flesh distinguish'd not itself
From the insensate mail, its fellow-warrior?
And have I brought home with me Victory,
And with her, hand in hand, firm-footed Peace,
Her countenance twice lighted up with glory,
As if I had charmed a goddess down from heaven!
But these will flee abhorrent from the throne
Of usurpation! Have you then thrown off shame,
And shall not a dear friend, a loyal subject,
Throw off all fear? I tell ye, the fair trophies
Valiantly wrested from a valiant foe,
Love's natural offerings to a rightful king,
Will hang as ill on this usurping traitor,
This brother-blight, this Emerick, as robes
Of gold plucked from the images of gods
Upon a sacrilegious robber's back.

COLERIDGE

THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.

BLAZE, with your serried columns !
I will not bend the knee!
The shackles ne'er again shall bind
The arm which now is free.

I've mailed it with the thunder,
When the tempests muttered low,

And where it falls, ye well may dread
The lightning of its blow!

I've scared ye in the city,

I've scalped ye on the plain;
Go, count your chosen, where they fell
Beneath my leaden rain!

I scorn your proffered treaty!
The pale-face I defy!

Revenge is stamped upon my spear,
And Blood! my battle-cry!

Some strike for hope of booty,
Some to defend their all,
I battle for the joy I have

To see the white man fall:
I love, among the wounded,
To hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side,
The music of his groan.

Ye've trailed me through the forest,

Ye've tracked me o'er the stream,
And struggling through the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam;
But I stand as should the warrior,
With his rifle and his spear;
The scalp of vengeance still is red,
And warns ye - Come not here

I loathe ye in my bosom,

I scorn ye with mine eye,

And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath,
And fight ye till I die!

I ne'er will ask ye quarter,

And I ne'er will be your slave,
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter,
Till I sink beneath its wave!

G. W. PATTEN

EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH OF MR. BURKE.

SINCE I had the honor, I should say, the dishonor, of sitting in this house, I have been witness to many strange, many infamous transactions. What can be your intention in attacking all

honor and virtue ? Do you mean to bring an men to a level with yourselves, and to extirpate all honor and independence? Perhaps you imagine a vote will settle the whole controversy. Alas! you are not aware that the manner in which your vote is procured is a secret to no man. Listen:- for if you are not totally callous, if your consciences are not seared, I will speak daggers to your souls, and wake you to all the hell of guilty recollection. I will follow you with whips and stings, through every maze of your unexampled turpitude, and plant thorns under the rose of ministerial approbation. You have flagrantly vio ated justice and the law of the land, and opened a door for anarchy and confusion. After assuming an arbitrary dominion over law and justice, you issue orders, warrants, and proclamations, against every opponent, and send prisoners to your Basile all those who have the courage and virtue to defend the reedom of their country. But it is in vain that you hope by ear and terror to extinguish the native British fire. The more sacrifices, the more martyrs you make, the more numerous the sons of liberty will become. They will multiply like the hydra, and hurl vengeance on your heads. Let others act as they will; while I have a tongue, or an arm, they shall be free. And that I may not be a witness of these monstrous proceedings, I will leave the house; nor do I doubt but every independent, every honest man, every friend to England, will follow me. walls are unholy, baleful, deadly, while a prostitute majority holds the bolt of parliamentary power, and hurls its vengeance only upon the virtuous. To yourselves, therefore, I consign Enjoy your pandemonium!

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These

THE INDIGNATION OF CONSTANCE.

A WICKED day, and not a holy-day!

What hath this day deserved? what hath it done.
That it in golden letters should be set
Among the high tides, in the calendar?
Nay, neither, turn this day out of the week;

This day of shame, oppression, perjury;
This day, all things begun come to ill end;
Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!

You have beguiled me with a counterfeit

Resembling majesty; which, being touched, and tried,
Proves valueless. You are forsworn, forswoin;

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