James. Come one, come all! this rock shall fly From its firm base, as soon as I.

[Roderic waves his hand, and the soldier retire.] Rod. Fear not, nay that I need not say, But doubt not aught from mine array.

Thou art my guest, I pledged my word
As far as Coilantogle ford.

So move we on; I only meant

To show the reed on which
you leant,
Deeming this path you might pursue
Without a pass from Roderic hu.
Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
Vich Alpine shall discharge his trust.
This murderous chief, this ruthless man,
This head of a rebellious clan,

Will lead thee safe through watch and ward,
Far past Clan Alpine's outmost guard;
Then man to man, and steel to steel,
A chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.
James. I ne'er delayed

When foeman bade me draw my blade;
Nay, more, brave chief, I vowed thy death;
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,
And my deep debt for life preserved,
A better meed have well deserved;
Can naught but blood our feud atone?
Are there no means?

Rod. No, stranger, none !

James. Nay, first to James at Stirling go.
When, if thou wilt be still his foe,

Or if the king shall not agree
To grant thee grace and favor free,
I plight mine honor, oath, and word,
That to thy native holds restored,
With each advantage shalt thou stand,
That aids thee now to guard thy land.

Rod. Thy rash presumption now shall rue
The homage named to Roderic Dhu.
He yields not, he, to man nor fate-
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate!
My clansmen's wrongs demand revenge.
Not yet prepared! by Heaven! I change
My thought, and hold thy valor light
As that of some vain carpet knight,

Who ill deserved my courteous care,
And whose best boast is but to wear
A braid of his fair lady's hair

[Pointing to a braid on

James's breast.]

James. I thank thee, Roderic, for the word;

It nerves my heart, it steels my sword.
I had it from a frantic maid,

By thee dishonored and betrayed;
And I have sworn the braid to stain
In the best blood that warms thy vein.
Now, truce, farewell! and ruth, begone!
I heed not that my strength is worn-
Thy word's restor'd; and if thou wilt,
We try this quarrel, hilt to hilt.

XXXIV. FROM RIENZI.-Mitford.

ANGELO-RIENZI.

Angelo. Tribune,-I said Tribune;—but Thou wavest away the word with such a scorn As I poured poison in thine ear. Already

Dost

weary of the title?

Rienzi. Wherefore should I?

Ang. Thou art ambitious.

Rie. There thou mistakest. A king! fair son!
Power dwelleth not in sound, and fame hath garlands
Brighter than diadems. I might have been
Anointed, sceptered, crowned, have cast a blaze
Of glory round the old imperial wreath,
The laurel of the Cæsars; but I chose
To master kings, not to be one; to direct
The royal puppets as my sovereign will,
And Rome-my Rome-decrees.

Tribune! the Gracchi

Were called so. Tribune! I will make that name

A word of fear to kings.

Ang. Rienzi! Tribune!

Hast thou forgotten, on this very spot,

How thou didst shake the slumbering soul of Rome
With the brave sound of freedom, till she rose,

And from her giant limbs the shackles dropped,
Burst by one mighty throe? Hadst thou died then,

History had crowned thee with a glorious title—
Deliverer of thy country.

Rie. Well!

When now thou fallest, as fall thou must, 'twill be
The common tale of low ambition. Tyrants
O'erthrown to form a wilder tyranny;

Princes cast down, that thy obscurer house
May rise on nobler ruins.

Rie. Hast thou ended?

I fain would have mistaken thee-hast done?

Ang. No-for, despite thy smothered wrath, the voice Of warning truth shall reach thee. Thou, to-day, Hast, by thy frantic sacrilege, drawn on thee The thunders of the church, the mortal feud Of either emperor. Here, at home, the barons Hate, and the people shun thee. Seest thou not, Even in this noon of pride, thy waning power Fade, flicker, and wax dim? Thou art as one Perched on some lofty steeple's dizzy height, Dazzled by the sun, inebriate by long draughts Of thinner air; too giddy to look down Where all his safety lies; too proud to dare The long descent to the low depth from whence The desperate climber rose.

Rie. Ay, there's the sting

That I, an insect of to-day, outsoar
The reverend worm, nobility!

With my poor parentage?

Wouldst shame me

Sir. I'm the son

Of him who kept a sordid hostelry

In the Jew's quarter; my good mother cleansed
Linen for honest hire. Canst thou say worse?
Ang. Cun worse be said?

Rie. Add, that my boasted school-craft

Was gained from such base toil, gained with such pain That the nice nurture of the mind was oft

Stolen at the body's cost. I have gone dinnerless

And supperless, the scoff of our poor street,

For tattered vestments and lean hungry looks,

Το pay the pedagogue. Add what thou wilt
Of injury. Say that, grown into man,
I've known the pittance of the hospital,
And, more degrading still, the patronage
Of the Colonna. Of the tallest trees

The roots delve deepest. Yes, I've trod thy halls,
Scorned and derided! 'midst their ribald crew,
A licensed jester, save the cap and bells;
I have borne this—and I have borne the death,
The unavenged death, of a dear brother.

I seemed I was a base, ignoble slave.
What am I? Peace, I say! what am I now?
Head of this great republic, chief of Rome;
In all but name, her sovereign; last of all,
Thy father.

Ang. In an evil hour

Rie. Darest thou

Say that? An evil hour for thee, my Claudia!
Thou shouldst have been an emperor's bride, my fairest.
In evil hour thy woman's heart was caught,
"By the form molded as an antique god

The gallant bearing, the feigned tale of love

All false, all outward, simulated all.

Ang. But that I loved her, but that I do love her
With a deep tenderness, softer and fonder

Than thy ambition-hardened heart e'er dreamed of,
My sword should answer thee.

Rie. Go to, lord Angelo;

Thou lovest her not. Men taunt not, nor defy
The dear one's kindred. A bright atmosphere
Of sunlight and of beauty breathes around
The bosom's idol. I have loved-she loves thee;
And therefore, thy proud father-even the shrew,
Thy railing mother-in her eyes are sacred.
Lay not thy hand upon thy sword, fair son-

Keep that brave for thy comrades. I'll not fight thee.
Go and give thanks to yonder simple bride,
That her plebeian father mews not up,
Safe in the citadel, her noble husband.
Thou art dangerous, Colonna. But, for her,
Beware

[Going.]

For her dear sake-come, to thy bride! home! home!
Ang. Dost fear me, Tribune of the people?

XXXV.-MAURICE, THE WOODCUTTER.-Somerset.

PRINCE LEOPOLD-BARON LEIBHEIM-COUNT HARTENSTEINMAURICE HANS, HIS FRIEND-DOMINIE STARRKOPH-GLAN DOFF, FRIEND OF THE COUNT-CAPTAIN MANHOOF-RIEGEL, PRISON-KEEPER-BOLTZEN, HIS TURNKEY-FRITZ, SON OF MAURICE-MARIE, WIFE OF MAURICE-LOTTA, THEIR DAUGH

TER-OFFICERS-PEASANTS.

Scene 1.-A pleasant Village.-A post from which a bell is suspended. [Enter groups of peasantry, in holiday suits, preceded by music. Enter Dominie Starrkoph, with a large paper.] Dominie Ah-good morrow to ye, my merry men, all!