Chapter XVII: Section III: On Reading and Speaking, (15)

Father of all, in ev'ry age,
In ev'ry clime ador'd;
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.
Thou great First Cause, least understood;
Who all my sense confin'd,
To know but this, that thou art good,
And that myself am blind:
Yet gave me in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill;
And binding Nature fast in fate,
Left free the human Will.
What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do,
This, teach me more than hell to shun,
That, more than heav'n pursue.
What blessings thy free bounty gives;
Let me not cast away;
For God is paid when man receives,
T' enjoy is to obey.
Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think thee Lord alone of Man,
When thousand worlds are round:
Let not this weak unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,
And deal damnation round the land,
On each I judge thy foe.
If I am right, thy grace impart,
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, O teach my heart
To find that better way.
Save me alike from foolish pride,
Or impious discontent,
At aught thy wisdom has deny'd,
Or aught thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others shew,
That mercy show to me.
Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quicken'd by thy breath;
Oh lead me wheresoe'er I go,
Through this day's life or death.
This day be bread and peace my lot:
All else beneath the sun,
Thou knowst if best bestow'd or not,
And let thy will be done.
To thee, whose temple is all space,
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!
One chorus let all being raise!
All nature's incense rise!

CHARACTER OF MAN.

Know then thyself; presume not God to scan
The proper study of mankind, is man.
Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise, and rudely great;
With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;
In doubt, to deem himself a God, or beast;
In doubt, his mind or body to prefer;
Born, but to die; and reas'ning, but to err:
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little or too much:
Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd;
Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd:
Created, half to rise, and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all:
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd;
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

WINTER.

See! Winter comes, to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train,
Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme;
These, that exalt the soul to solemn thought,
And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms!
Congenial horrors, hail! With frequent foot,
Pleas'd, have I, in my cheerful morn of life,
When, nurs'd by careless solitude, I liv'd,
And sung of nature with unceasing joy.
Pleas'd, have I wand'red through your rough domain;
Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure;
Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst;
Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brew'd
In the grim evening sky. Thus pass the time,
Till, through the lucid chambers of the south,
Look'd out the joyous spring, look'd out, and smil'd.

DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

My name is Norval. On the Grampian Hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord:
And heav'n soon granted what my sire deny'd.
This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills
Rush'd, like a torrent, down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety and for succour. I alone,
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd
The road he took; then hasted to my friends;
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil encumber'd foe.
We fought--and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow, from my bow, had pierc'd their chief,
Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd
The shepherd's slothful life: and having heard
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers,
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps--
Yon trembling coward who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers;
And, heaven directed, came this day, to do
The happy deed, that gilds my humble name.

DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF THE MANNER IN WHICH HE LEARNED THE ART OF WAR.

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote
And inaccessible by shepherds trod,
In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man,
Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains,
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,
Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms.
I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd
With rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake,
And, entering on discourse, such stories told,
As made me oft revisit his sad cell.
For he had been a soldier in his youth,
And fought in famous battles, when the peers
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,
Against th' usurping infidel display'd
The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land.
Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire
His speech struck from me; the old man would shake
His years away, and act his young encounters.
Then having shewn his wounds; he'd sit him down.
And all the live long day, discourse of war.
To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf
He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts:
Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use
Of the deep column and lengthen'd line,
The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm;
For, all that Saracen or Christian knew
Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known.
Unhappy man!
Returning homeward by Messina's port,
Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won,
A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea
Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought;
The stranger fell, and with his dying breath,
Declar'd his name and lineage! Mighty God!
The soldier cry'd, my brother! Oh! my brother!
They exchanged forgiveness:
And happy, in my mind, was he that died;
For many deaths has the survivor suffer'd,
In the wild desart on a rock he sits,
Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks,
And ruminates all day his dreadful fate.
At times, alas! not in his perfect mind!
Hold's dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost;
And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch,
To make sad orisons for him he slew.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

In ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about; but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

It happened, on a winter night,
As authors on the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade;
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguis'd in tattered habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the stroller's canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door, in-vain;
Tri'd every tone might pity win,
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village pass'd,
To a small cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good old honest yoeman,
Call'd in the neighbourhood, Philemon;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And, then, the hospitable sire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he, from out the chimney, took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And, freely from the fattest side,
Cut out large slices to be fry'd:
Then stept aside, to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink;
Then saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found,
'Twas still replenish'd to the top,
As if they had not touch'd a drop.

The good old couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry--What art!
Then softly turn'd aside to view,
Whether the lights were turning blue,
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling and their errand;
"Good folks you need not be afraid;
"We are but saints," the hermit said;
"No hurt shall come to you or yours;
"But for that pack of churlish boors,
"Not fit to live on Christian ground,
"They, and their houses shall be drown'd;
"While you see your cottage rise,
"And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,
The roof began to move aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.
The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist;
With upside down, doom'd there to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost, by disuse, the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increas'd by new intestine wheels;
And strait against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adher'd;
And, now, in love to household cares,
By a shrill voice the hour declares,
Warning the housemaid not to burn
The roast-meat which it cannot turn.
The easy chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail along the wall;
There, stuck aloft in public view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
A bed-stead of the antique mode,
Made up of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphos'd into pews:
Which still their ancient nature keep,
By lodging folks dispos'd to sleep.

The cottage by such feats as these,
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desir'd their host
Old goodman Dobson of the green,
Remembers, he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from morn to night,
And goes with folks to shew the sight.
On Sundays, after ev'ning prayer,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew:
"Here Baucis, there Philemon grew;
"Till, once, a parson of our town,
"To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
"At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd;
"How much the other tree was griev'd;
"Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted;
"So the next parson stubb'd, and burnt it."

ON HAPPINESS.

Oh happiness! our being's end and aim;
Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er they name,
That something still which prompts the eternal sigh,
For which we bear to live, or dare to die:
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool, and wise:
Plant of celestial seed! if drop'd below,
Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow:
Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shrine;
Or deep with di'monds in the flaming mine?
Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,
Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field?
Where grows? where grows it not? If vain our toil,
We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.
Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere?
'Tis no where to be found, or every where.

Order is heaven's first law: and this confest,
Some are, and must be, greater than the rest;
More rich, more wise. But, who infers from hence
That such are happier, shocks all common sense;
Heaven to mankind impartial we confess,
If all are equal in their happiness.
But mutual wants this happiness increase;
All natures difference keeps all natures peace.
Condition, circumstance, is not the thing;
Bliss is the same, in subject, or in king;
In who obtain defence, or who defend;
In him who is, or him who finds a friend.

Fortune her gifts may variously dispose,
And these be happy call'd, unhappy those;
But heaven's just balance equal will appear,
While those are plac'd in hope, and these in fear;
Nor present good or ill, the joy or curse,
But future views of better, or of worse.

Oh sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise,
By mountains pil'd on, mountains, to the skies?
Heaven still, with laughter, the vain toil surveys,
And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.

Know, all the good that individuals find,
Or God and nature meant to mere mankind,
Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,
Lie in three words--Health, Peace, and Competence.

SPEECH OF ADAM TO EVE.

Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime
Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl,
When Adam wak'd; so custom'd; for his sleep
Was airy light, from pure digestion bred,
And temperate vapours bland, which the only found
Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan,
Lightly dispers'd, and the thrill matin song
Of birds on ev'ry bough. So much the more
His wonder was to find unwaken'd Eve
With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek.
As through unquiet rest. He, on his side
Leaning half rais'd, with looks of cordial love,
Hung over her enamour'd; and beheld
Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces. Then, with voice
Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
Her hand soft touching, whispered thus; "Awake,
"My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found:
"Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight,
"Awake!--The morning shines, and the fresh field
"Calls us. We lose the prime; to mark how spring
"Our tended plants; how blows the citron grove:
"What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed;
"How nature paints her colours; how the bee
"Sits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweet."

SOLILOQUY AND PRAYER OF EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF POICTIERS.

The hour advances, the decisive hour,
That lifts me to the summit of renown,
Or leaves me on the earth a breathless corse,
The buzz and bustle of the field before me;
The twang of bow-strings, and the clash of spears:
With every circumstance of preparation;
Strike with an awful horror!--Shouts are echo'd,
To drown dismay, and blow up resolution
Even to its utmost swell.--From hearts so firm,
Whom dangers fortify, and toils inspire,
What has a leader not to hope! And, yet,
The weight of apprehension sinks me down--
"O, soul of Nature! great eternal cause,
"Who gave, and govern's all that's here below!
"'Tis by the aid of thy almighty arm
"The weak exist, the virtuous are secure.
"If, to your sacred laws obedient ever
"My sword, my soul, have own'd no other guide,
"Oh! if your honour, if the rights of men,
"My country's happiness, my king's renown,
"Were motives worthy of a warrior's zeal,
"Crown your poor servant with success this day:
"And be the praise and glory all thy own."

INVOCATION TO PARADISE LOST.

Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing heav'nly muse! that on the sacred top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, did'st inspire
That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed,
In the beginning, how the heav'ns and earth
Rose out of chaos: or, if Sion hill
Delight thee more, and Silo's book that flow'd.
Fast by the oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my advent'rous song,
That, with no middle flight, intends to soar
Above th' Aonian mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme
And chiefly thou, O Spirit! that dost prefer
Before all temples, th' upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for thou know'st; thou, from the first,
Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread,
Dove-like sat'st brooding o'er the vast abyss,
And mad'st it pregnant; what in me is dark,
Illumine: what is low, raise and support;
That, to the height of this great argument,
I may assert eternal providence,
And justify the ways of God to men.

MORNING HYMN.

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty! thine this universal frame,
Thus wond'rous fair: thyself, how wond'rous, then,
Unspeakable! who fit'st above these heav'ns,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine--
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels!--for ye behold him, and, with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye in heav'n!--
On earth, join all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end,
Fairest of stars! last in the train of night,
If better then, belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou fun! of this great world both eye and foul,
Acknowledge him thy greater: found his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon has gain'd, and when thou fall'st,
Moon! that now meet'st the orient fun, now fly'st
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wand'ring fires! that move
In mystic dance, not without song; resound
His praise, who out of darkness, call'd up light.
Air, and ye elements! the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that, in quaternion, run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary, to our great Maker, still new praise,
Ye mists and exhalations! that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or grey,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author, rise;
Whether to deck with clouds, th' uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs,
Rising, or falling, still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud! and wave your tops, ye pines!
With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship, wave,
Fountains! and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise.---
Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye birds,
That, singing, up to heaven-gate ascend,
Bear, on your wings, and in your notes, his praise.--
Ye, that in waters glide! and ye, that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep!
Witness, if I be silent, morn or ev'n,
To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.--
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still,
To give us only good: and, if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd--
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

THE HERMIT.--_BY DR. BEATIE_.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove;
When nought, but the torrent, is heard on the hill;
And nought, but the, nightingale's song, in the grove;
'Twas then, by the cave of the fountain afar;
A hermit his song of the night thus began;
No more with himself, or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man.

'Ah! why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe?
'Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?
'For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
'And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.
'Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay;
'Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
'Oh! soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away,
'Full quickly they pass--but they never return.

'Now, gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
'The moon, half extinguish'd, her crescent displays;
'But lately I mark'd; when majestic: on high
'She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
'Roll on, thou fair orb! and with; gladness pursue
'The path that conducts thee to splendor again--
'But man's faded glory no change shall renew:
'Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain.

''Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
'I mourn; but ye woodlands! I mourn not for you:
'For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
'Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew.
'Nor, yet, for the ravage of winter I mourn;
'Kind nature the embryo blossom will save--
'But, when shall spring visit the mould'ring urn?
'O! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!'

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd,
That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;
My thoughts want to roam, from shade onward to shade,
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
'O! pity, great father of light!' then I cry'd,
'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee;
Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt, and from darkness, thou only canst free.'

And darkness, and doubt, are now flying away,
No longer I roam, in conjecture forlorn,
So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are blending,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb,

COMPASSION.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whole trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whole days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief and heav'n will bless your store,
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
Those hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
You house erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect, drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.
Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold:
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.
Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be represt.
Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
'Tis heav'n has brought me to the state you see;
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.
A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn:
But, ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and heav'n will bless your store.

ADVANTAGES OF PEACE.

Oh, first of human blessings and supreme,
Fair Peace! how lovely, how delightful, thou!
By whose wide tie, the kindred sons of men,
brothers live, in amity combin'd,
And unsuspicious faith: while honest toil
Gives ev'ry joy; and, to those joys, a right,
Which idle barbarous rapine but usurps.
Pure is thy reign; when, unaccurs'd by blood,
Nought, save the sweetness of indulgent show'rs,
Trickling, distils into the vernant glebe;
Instead of mangled carcases, sad scene!
When the blythe sheaves lie scatter'd o'er the field;
When only shining shares, the crooked knife,
And hooks imprint the vegetable wound;
When the land blushes with the rose alone,
The falling fruitage, and the bleeding vine.
Oh! peace! then source and soul of social life!
Beneath whose calm inspiring influence,
Science his views enlarges, art refines,
And swelling commerce opens all her ports--
Bless'd be the man divine, who gives us thee!
Who bids the trumpet hush its horrid clang,
Nor blow the giddy nations into rage;
Who sheathes the murd'rous blade; the deadly gun
Into the well-pil'd armory returns;
And, ev'ry vigour from the work of death
To grateful industry converting, makes
The country flourish, and the city smile!
Unviolated, him the virgin sings;
And him, the smiling mother, to her train.
Of him, the Shepherd, in the peaceful dale,
Chaunts; and the treasures of his labour sure,
The husbandman, of him, as at the plough,
Or team, he toils. With him, the Tailor soothes,
Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave;
And the full city, warm, from street to street,
And shop to shop, responsive rings of him.
Nor joys one land alone: his praise extends,
Far as the sun rolls the diffusive day;
Far as the breeze can bear the gifts of peace;
Till all the happy nations catch the song.

PROGRESS OF LIFE.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts;
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation,
Ev'n in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd;
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age foists
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side.
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes.
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

_SPEECHES IN THE ROMAN SENATE_.

CATO.--Fathers! we once again are met in council.
Cæsar's approach, has summon'd us together,
And Rome attends her fate from our resolves.
How shall we treat this bold aspiring man?
Success still follows him, and backs his crimes,
Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has since
Receiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Cæsar's.
Why should I mention Juba's overthrow,
And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands
Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree
What course to take. Our foe advances on us,
And envies us ev'n Lybia's sultry deserts.
Fathers, pronounce your thoughts. Are they still fix'd
To hold it out and fight it to the last?
Or, are your hearts subdu'd, at length, and wrought;
By time and ill success, to a submission?--
Sempronius, speak.

SEMPRONIUS.--My voice is still for war.
Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
Which of the two to chuse, slav'ry or death?
No--let us rise at once; gird on our swords;
And, at the head of our remaining troops,
Attack the foe; break through the thick array
Of his throng'd legions; and charge home upon him.
Perhaps, some arm, more lucky than the rest,
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.
Rise, Fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands your help;
Rise, and revenge her slaughter'd citizens,
Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senate
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we
Sit here, delib'rating' hi told debates,
If we should sacrifice our lives to honour,
Or wear them out in servitude and chains.
Rouse up, for shame: Our brothers of Pharsalia
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud--to battle!
Great Pompey's shade complains that we are flow;
And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd amongst us!

CATO.--Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal
Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason.
True fortitude is seen in great exploits,
That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides;
All else is tow'ring frenzy and distraction.
Are not the lives of those who draw the sword
In Rome's defence, entrusted to our care?
Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter,
Might not th' impartial world, with reason, say
We lavish'd, at our deaths, the blood of thousands;
To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious?
Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.

LUCIUS.--My thoughts, I must confess, are turn'd on peace,
Already have our quarrels fill'd the world
With widows and with orphans. Scythia mourns
Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions
Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome.
'Tis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind,
It is not Cæsar, but the gods, my fathers!
The gods declare against us, and repel
Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle,
(Prompted by a blind revenge and wild despair)
Were, to refuse th' awards of providence,
And not to rest in heav'n's determination.
Already have we shewn our love to Rome;
Now, let us shew submission to the gods.
We took up arms not to revenge ourselves,
But free the commonwealth. When this end fails,
Arms have no further use. Our country's cause,
That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands,
And bids us not delight in Roman blood
Unprofitably shed. What men could do
Is done already. Heav'n and earth will witness,
If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.

CATO--Let us appear, not rash, nor diffident,
Immoderate valour swells into a fault;
And fear, admitted into public councils,
Betray like treason. Let us shun 'em both.--
Father's, I cannot see that our affairs
Are grown thus desp'rate. We have bulwarks round us;
Within our walls, are troops inur'd to toil
In Afric heats, and season'd to the sun.
Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us,
Ready to rise at its young prince's call.
While there is hope, do not distrust the gods:
But wait, at least, till Cæsar's near approach
Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late
To sue for chains, and own a conqueror.
Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time?
No--let us draw our term of freedom out
In its full length, and spin it to the last:
So shall we gain still one day's liberty.
And, let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment,
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty,
Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.

CATO, solus, _sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand Plato's book on the immortality of the soul. A drawn sword on the table by him_.

It must be so--Plato, thou reason'st well!--
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis heav'n itself, that points out--an hereafter,
And intimates--eternity to man.
Eternity!--thou pleasing--dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untry'd beings,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me--
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.--
Here will I hold. If there's a pow'r above us,
(And that there is all nature cries aloud
Through all her works) he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But, when! or where! this world--was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures--this must end 'em.
[_Laying his hand on his sword_.

Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and life,
My bane and antidote are both before me:
This, in a moment, brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amid the war of elements,
The wrecks of matter; and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?
Nature oppress'd, and harrass'd out with care;
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her;
That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,
Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life;
An offering fit for Heav'n. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest; Cato knows neither of 'em;
Indiff'rent in his choice, to sleep or die.

HAMLET'S MEDITATION ON DEATH.

To be--or not to be!--that is the question.--
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune;
Or to take arms against a siege of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them?--To die--to sleep--
No more;--and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to--'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die--to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream--aye, there's the rub.--
For, in that sleep of death what dreams may come;
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil;
Must give us pause.--There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long a life
For, who would bear the whips and scorns o' th' time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes;
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death
(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns) puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of;
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn away,
And lose the name of action.

SELECT PASSAGES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS, EXPRESSIVE OF THE _PRINCIPAL EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS_.

JOY.

Then is Orestes blest! My griefs are fled!
Fled like a dream! Methinks I tread in air!--
Surprising happiness! unlook'd for joy!
Never let love despair! The prize is mine!--
Be smooth, ye seas! and, ye propitious winds,
Blow from Epirus to the Spartan coast!

GRIEF.

I'll go; and in the anguish of my heart---
Weep o'er my child--If he must die, my life
Is wrapt in his; I shall not long survive.
'Tis for his sake that I have suffer'd life;
Groan'd in captivity; and outliv'd Hector.--
Yes, my Astyanax! we'll go together;
Together--to the realms of night we'll go.

PITY.

Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how, at last,
Thy beauties, Belvidera, like a wretch
That's doom'd to banishment, came weeping forth,
Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she lean'd,
Kindly look'd up, and at her grief grew sad!
E'en the lewd rabble, that were gather'd round
To see the sight, stood mute when they beheld her,
Govern'd their roaring throats--and grumbled pity.

FEAR.

Come on, Sir,--here's the place--stand still,--
How fearful 'tis to cast one's eyes so low!
The crows and coughs, that whig the midway air,
Shew scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down,
Hangs one that gathers samphire--dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than one's head,
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark
Seems lesson'd to a cock; her cock, a buoy
Almost too small for fight. The murmuring surge;
That on th' unnumbered idle pebbles chases,
Cannot be heard so high.--I'll look no more,
Lest my brain turn and the disorder make me
Tumble down headlong.

AWE AND FEAR.

Now, all is hush'd and still as death--
How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof,
By its own weight made stedfast and immoveable,
Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe
And terror on my aking sight. The tombs,
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice--
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice--my own affrights me with its echoes.

HORROR.

Hark!--the death-denouncing trumpet founds
The fatal charge, and shouts proclaim the onset.
Destruction rushes dreadful to the field,
And bathes itself in blood. Havock, let loose.
Now, undistinguish'd, rages all around;
While Ruin, seated on her dreary throne,
Sees the plain strew'd, with subjects truly her's,
Breathless and cold.

ANGER.

Hear me, rash man; on thy allegiance hear me,
Since thou hast striven to make us break our vow,
Which, nor our nature, nor our place can bear,
We banish thee forever from our sight
And kingdom. If, when three days are expir'd,
Thy hated trunk be found in our dominions,
That moment is thy death---Away!

REVENGE.

If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath
disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million; laughed at my
losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains,
cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's his reason--I am
a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is he not fed with the
same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases,
healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and
summer, as a Christian is? if you prick us do we not bleed? If you
tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And, if
you wrong us--shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest,
we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is
his humility?--Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his
sufferance be by Christian example?---Why, revenge. The villainy you
teach me, I will execute; and it shall go hard, but I will better
the instruction.

ADMIRATION.

What find I here?
Fair Portia's counterfeit?--What demi-god
Hath come so near creation! Move these eyes!
Or, whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion?--Here are sever'd lips,
Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends.--Here, in her hair,
The painter plays the spider, and hath woven
A golden mesh, t' entrap the hearts of men
Falter than gnats in cobwebs.--But her eyes--
How could he see to do them! having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfinish'd!

HAUGHTINESS.

Make thy demands to those that own thy power!
Know, I am still beyond thee. And tho' fortune
Has strip'd me of this train, this pomp of greatness;
This outside of a king, yet still my soul,
Fix'd high, and on herself alone dependant,
Is ever free and royal: and, even now,
As at the head of battle--does defy thee!

CONTEMPT.

Away! no woman could descend so low,
A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are;
Fit only for yourselves. You herd together;
And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts,
You talk of beauties that you never saw,
And fancy raptures that you never knew.

RESIGNATION.

Yet, yet endure--nor murmur, O my foul!
For, are not thy transgressions great and numberless?
Do they not cover thee, like rising floods?
And press then, like a weight of waters, down?
Does not the hand of righteousness afflict thee?
And who shall plead against it? who shall say
To Pow'r Almighty, Thou hast done enough;
Or bid his dreadful rod of vengeance it stay?--
Wait, then, with patience, till the circling hours
Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest
And lay thee down in death.

IMPATIENCE.

Oh! rid me of this torture, quickly there,
My Madam, with the everlasting voice.
The bells, in time of pestilence, ne'er made
Like noise, or were in that perpetual motion.
---------------------------------All my house,
But now, steam'd like a bath, with her thick breath,
A lawyer could not have been heard, nor scarce
Another woman, such a hail of words
She has let fall.

REMORSE AND DESPAIR.

Henceforth, let no man trust the first false step
Of guilt. It hangs upon a precipice,
Whose deep descent in last perdition ends.
How far am I plung'd down, beyond all thought
Which I this evening fram'd--
Consummate horror! guilt beyond, a name!--
Dare not, my soul, repent. In thee, repentance
Were second guilt; and 'twere blaspheming Heav'n
To hope for mercy. My pain can only cease
When gods want power to punish.--Ha!--the dawn--
Rise never more, O fun!--let night prevail:
Eternal darkness close the world's wide scene--
And hide me from myself.

DISTRACTION.

Mercy!--I know it not--for I am miserable.
I'll give thee misery--for here she dwells,
This is her house--where the sun never dawns:
The bird of night sits screaming o'er the roof;
Grim spectres sweep along the horrid gloom;
And nought in heard, but wailings and lamenting.
Hark!--something cracks above;--it shakes--it totters!
And see--the nodding ruin falls to crush me!--
'Tis fallen--'Tis here!--I feel it on my brain!
A waving flood of bluish fire swells o'er me!
And now 'tis out--and I am drown'd in blood.--
Ha! what art thou? thou horrid headless trunk!--
It is my Hastings--See, he wafts me on!
Away I go!--I fly!--I follow thee!

GRATITUDE.

My Father! Oh! let me unlade my breast;
Pour out the fullness of my soul before you;
Shew ev'ry tender, ev'ry grateful thought,
This wond'rous goodness stirs. But 'tis impossible,
And utt'rance all is vile; since I can only
Swear you reign here, but never tell how much.

INTREATY.

Reward him for the noble deed, just Heavens!
For this one action, guard him, and distinguish him
With signal mercies, and with great deliverance,
Save him from wrong, adversity, and shame,
Let never-fading honours flourish round him;
And consecrate his name; ev'n to time's end.
Let him know nothing else, but good on earth
And everlasting blessedness hereafter.

COMMANDING.

Silence, ye winds!
That make outrageous war upon the ocean:
And then, old ocean? lull thy boist'rous waves.
Ye warring elements! be hush'd as death,
While I impose my dread commands on hell.
And thou, profoundest hell! whose dreary sway,
Is given to me by fate and demogorgon--
Hear, hear my powerful voice, through all thy regions
And from thy gloomy caverns thunder the reply.

COURAGE.

A generous few, the vet'ran hardy gleanings
Of many a hapless fight, with a, fierce
Heroic fire, inspirited each other:
Resolv'd on death, disdaining to survive
Their dearest country. "If we fall," I cry'd,
"Let us not tamely fall, like passive cowards!
No--let us live, or let us die--like men!
Come on, my friends. To Alfred we will cut
Our glorious way: or as we nobly perish,
Will offer to the genius of our country--
Whole hecatombs of Danes." As if one soul
Have mov'd them all, around their heads they flash'd
Their flaming falchions--"lead us to those Danes!
Our Country!--Vengeance!" was the general cry.

BOASTING.

I will tell you, Sir, by the way of private, and under seal. I am a
gentleman; and live here, obscure, and to myself; but, were I known
to his Majesty, and the Lords, observe me, I would undertake, upon
this poor head and life, for the public benefit or the state, not
only to spare the entire lives of his subjects in general, but to
save the one half, nay three parts of his yearly charge, in holding
war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think
you? Why thus, Sir. I would select nineteen more to myself,
throughout the land; gentlemen they should be; of good spirit,
strong and able constitution. I would chuse them by an instinct that
I have. And I would teach these nineteen, the special rules; as your
Punto, your Reverso, your Stoccaio, your Imbroccato, your Passada,
your Montonto; till they could all play very near, or altogether, as
well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong.
We twenty, would come into the field the tenth of March or
thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of the enemy; they could
not, in their honour refuse us: Well, we would kill them; challenge
twenty more, kill them: twenty more, kill them: twenty more, kill
them too. And thus, would we kill, every man, his twenty a day;
that's twenty score; twenty score; that's two hundred; two hundred
a day; five days, a thousand: forty thousand--forty times five--five
times forty--two hundred days kill them all up by computation. And
this I will venture my poor gentleman-like carcase to perform
(provided there by no treason practised upon) by fair and discreet
manhood; that is, civilly by the sword.

PERPLEXITY.

--Let me think--
What can this mean--Is it to me aversion?
Or is it, as I feared, she loves another?
Ha! yes--perhaps the king, the young count Tancred?
They were bred up together--surely that,
That cannot be--Has he not given his hand,
In the most solemn manner, to Constantia?
Does not his crown depend upon the deed?
No--if they lov'd, and this old statesman knew it,
He could not to a king prefer a subject.
His virtues I esteem--nay more, I trust them--
So far as virtue goes--but could he place
His daughter on the throne of Sicily--
O! 'tis a glorious bribe; too much for man!
What is it then!--I care not what it is.

SUSPICION.

Would he were fatter--but I fear him not.
Yes, if my name were liable to fear,
I do not know the man I should avoid,
So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much--
He is a great observer--and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men.
He loves no plays: he hears no music.
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit,
That could be moved to smile at any thing.
Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
Whilst they behold a greater than themselves--
And, therefore, are they very dangerous.

WIT AND HUMOUR.

A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain. Dries me there, all-the foolish, dull, and crudy vapours which environ it: makes it apprehensive, quick, inventive; full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which, delivered over to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit--The second property of your excellent sherris, is, the warming of the blood; which, before, cold and settled, left the liver white and pale: which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice. But the sherris warms it, and makes its course from the inwards to the parts extreme. It illuminateth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then, the vital commoners, and inland petty spirits, muster me all to their captain, the heart; who, great, and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage--and this value comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon, is nothing without sack; for that sets it a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, steril, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and tilled, with drinking good, and good store of fertile sherris--If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would teach them, should be--to foreswear thin potations, and to addict themselves to sack.

A plague on all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too, marry
and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy--Ere I lead this life long,
I'll sew nether socks and mend them, and foot them too. A plague
on all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue
extant? [_Drinks._

You rogue! here's lime in this sack too. There is nothing but
roguery to be found in villainous man. Yet a coward is worse
than a cup of sack with lime in it---Go thy ways, old Jack! die
when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon
the face of the earth, then a'nt I a shotten herring. There lives
not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is
fat, and grows old, God help the while!--A plague on all cowards,
I say still!---Give me a cup of sack. [_Drinks._

I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them
two hours together. I have escaped by miracle. I am eight
times thrust through the doublet; four through the hose; my
buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw--_ecce
signum!_ I never dealt better since I was a man. All
would not do. A plague on all cowards!--But I have peppered
two of them; two, I am sure I have paid; two rogues in buckram
suits. I tell thee what, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face;
call me a horse.--Thou knowest my old ward. Here I lay; and
thus I bore my point.--Four rogues in buckram let drive at me.
These four came all afront, and mainly thrust at me. I made no
more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.
Then, these nine in buckram, that I told thee of, began to give
me ground. But I followed them close; came in foot and hand;
and, with a thought--seven of these eleven I paid.--A plague on
all cowards, say I!--Give me a cup of sack. [_Drinks_.

RIDICULE.

I can as well be hanged, as tell the manner of it; it was mere
foolery.--I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; and, as I told you,
he put it by once--but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain
have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then, he put it by
again--but, to my thinking, he was very loth to lay his fingers off
it. And then he offered it a third time; he put it the third time
by; and still as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapt
their chopt hands, and threw by their sweaty night-caps, and uttered
such a deal of stinking breath, because Cæsar refused the crown,
that it had almost choaked Cæsar, for he swooned, and, fell down at
it; and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my
lips, and receiving the bad air.

Before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd were glad, he
refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet, and offered them
his throat to cut: an' I had been a man of any occupation, if I
would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among
the rogues!--and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said,
"if he had done, or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships
to think it was his infirmity." Three or four wenches where I stood,
cried, Alas, good soul!--and forgave him with all their hearts. But
there's no heed to be taken of them: if Cæsar had stabbed their
mothers they would have done no less.

PERTURBATION.

Vengeance! death! plague! confusion!
Fiery! what quality?---Why, Gloster, Gloster!
I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife:
The King would speak with Cornwall---the dear father
Would with his daughter speak; commands her service.
Are they inform'd of this?---My breath and blood!
Fiery! the fiery Duke! Tell the hot Duke--
No' but not yet: may be he is not well:
I beg his pardon: and I'll chide my rashness,
That took the indisposed and sickly fit.
For the sound man,---But wherefore sits he there?--
Death on my state! this act convinces me,
That this retiredness of the Duke and her
Is plain contempt--Give me my servant forth--
Go tell the Duke and's wife I'd speak with 'em:
Now: instantly--Bid 'em come forth and hear me;
Or, at their chamber-door, I'll beat the drum--
'Till it cry--Sleep to death.

Elements of Gesture.