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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 proved best man i' 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 of 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 weeds before

A vessel under sail, so men obey'd

And fell below his stem: his sword, death's stamp,
Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot
He was a thing of blood, whose every motion
Was timed with dying cries: alone he enter'd
The mortal gate of the city, which he painted
With shunless destiny; aidless came off,
And with a sudden re-inforcement struck
Corioli like a planet: now all's his :
When, by and by, the din of war gan pierce
His ready sense; then straight his doubled spirit
Re-quicken'd what in flesh was fatigate,
And to the battle came he; where he did
Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if
"Twere a perpetual spoil: and till we call'd
'Both field and city ours, he never stood

To ease his breast with panting.- Coriolanus, act ii. sc. 2.

16. Jephtha's Daughter.

Since our Country, our God-Oh, my sire!
Demand that thy Daughter expire;

Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow

Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now !

And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!

And of this, oh, my Father! be sure-
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,

And the last thought that soothes me below.

Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent!
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my father and country are free!

When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd,
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd,
Let my memory still be thy pride,

And forget not I smiled as I died!

BYRON, Hebrew Melodies

EXECRATION.

17. Timon's Malediction on Athens.

Let me look back upon thee. O thou wall,
That girdlest in those wolves, dive in the earth,
And fence not Athens !

Slaves and fools,

Pluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bench,
And minister in their steads !

Bankrupts, hold fast;

Rather than render back, out with your knives,

And cut your trusters' throats! bound servants, steal Large-handed robbers your grave masters are

And pill by law.

Son of sixteen,

Pluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire,
With it beat out his brains! Piety, and fear,
Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth,
Domestic awe, night-rest, and neighbourhood,
Instruction, manners, mysteries, and trades,
Degrees, observances, customs, and laws,
Decline to your confounding contraries,

And let confusion live! Plagues, incident to men,
Your potent and infectious fevers heap

On Athens, ripe for stroke! Thou cold sciatica,

Cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt
As lamely as their manners! Lust and liberty
Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth,
That 'gainst the stream of virtue they may strive,
And drown themselves in riot! Itches, blains,
Sow all the Athenian bosoms; and their crop
Be general leprosy! Breath infect breath,
That their society, as their friendship, may
Be merely poison! Nothing I'll bear from thee,
But nakedness, thou detestable town!

Take thou that too, with multiplying bands!
Timon will to the woods; where he shall find
The unkindest beast more kinder than mankind.
The gods confound-hear me, you good gods all-
The Athenians both within and out that wall!
And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow
To the whole race of mankind, high and low !
Amen.-Timon of Athens, iv. 1

FATIGUE.

18. Fatigue after long Travel.

I see a man's life is a tedious one:

I have tired myself, and for two nights together
Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick,
But that my resolution helps me. Milford,
When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee,
Thou wast within a ken: O Jove! I think
Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean,
Where they should be relieved.-Cymbeline, iii. 6.

FEROCITY.

19. Speech of Moloch.

My sentence is for open war. Of wiles,

More unexpert, I boast not: them let those Contrive who need, or when they need; not now. For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest

Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait
The signal to ascend-sit lingering here,
Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place
Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame,
The prison of His tyranny who reigns

By our delay? No! let us rather choose,
Armed with Hell-flames and fury, all at once
O'er Heaven's high towers to force resistless way,
Turning our tortures into horrid arms
Against the Torturer; when to meet the noise
Of his almighty engine, he shall hear
Infernal thunder, and, for lightning, see
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage
Among his Angels, and his throne itself
Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire,
His own invented torments. But perhaps
The way seems difficult, and steep to scale
With upright wing against a higher foe !
Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench
Of that forgetful lake benumb not still,
That in our proper motion we ascend
Up to our native seat; descent and fall
To us is adverse. Who but felt of late,
When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear
Insulting, and pursued us through the Deep,
With what compulsion and laborious flight
We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy, then;
The event is feared! Should we again provoke
Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find
To our destruction, if there be in Hell

Fear to be worse destroyed! What can be worse
Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned
In this abhorred deep to utter woe;

Where pain of unextinguishable fire

Must exercise us without hope of end

The vassals of his anger, when the scourge

Inexorably, and the torturing hour,

Calls us to penance? More destroyed than thus,

We should be quite abolished, and expire.

What fear we then? what doubt we to incense

His utmost ire? which, to the highth enraged,
Will either quite consume us, and reduce,
To nothing this essential-happier far
Than miserable to have eternal being !-
Or, if our substance be indeed divine,
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst
On this side nothing; and by proof we feel
Our power sufficient to disturb his Heaven,
And with perpetual inroads to alarm,
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne:
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.

Paradise Lost, ii.

FRENZY.

20. The Death of Cardinal Beaufort.

Enter the KING, SALISBURY, WARWICK, to the
CARDINAL in bed.

King. How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign Car. If thou be'st death, I'll give thee England's treasure, Enough to purchase such another island,

So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.

King. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,

Where death's approach is seen so terrible!

War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee.
Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will.
Died he not in his bed? where should he die?
Can I make men live, whether they will or no?
O, torture me no more! I will confess.
Alive again? then show me where he is :
I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him.
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.
Comb down his hair; look, look! it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul.
Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

King. O thou eternal Mover of the heavens,
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch !
O, beat away the busy meddling fiend

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