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I SEE before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand; his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony;

And his drooped head sinks gradually low;
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,

Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him — he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not- his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother- he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday!

All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire,
And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!


LXIV. LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF CELIN.* Ar the gate of old Grana'da, when all its bolts are barred, At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling heard; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe. "What tower is fallen? what star is set ? what chief come these bewailing?"

"A tower is fallen! A star is set! Alas! alas for Celin!"

Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw;

Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go!

In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch,
Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch.
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,
For all have heard the misery, - "Alas! alas for Celin!"

Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood: 'T was at the solemn jousting; around the nobles stood;

* Pronounce Sălin,



The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share; But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing,

For he was Granada's darling knight, — "Alas! alas for Celin!"
Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two,

With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view;
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil,

Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale; When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing,

And all the people, far and near, cry, "Alas! alas for Celin!"
O! lovely lies he on his bier above the purple pall,

The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all;
His dark, dark eye is closed, his rosy lip is pale,

The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail;
And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing;
Its sound is like no earthly sound, "Alas! alas for Celin!

The Moorish maid at her lattice stands, the Moor stands at his


One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore. Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they


Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green, and blue ; Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing,

From door and lattice, high and low, -"Alas! alas for Celin!" An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry; Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye;

'Twas she who nursed him at her breast, who nursed him long


She knows not whom they all lament, but, ah! she soon shall


With one loud shriek, she through doth break, when her ears receive their wailing,

"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die!

- Alas! alas for Celin!"




THE name of Commonwealth is past and
O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe;
Venice is crushed, and Holland deigns to own
A scepter, and endures the purple robe;

If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone
His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time,
For Tyranny of late is cunning grown,
And in its own good season tramples down
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime,
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and
Bequeathed a heritage of heart and hand,
And proud distinction from each other land,
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion,
! As if his senseless scepter were a wand

Full of the magic of exploded science

Still one great clime, in full and free defiance,
Yet rears her crest, unconquered and sublime,
Above the far Atlantic! She has taught
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag,

The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag,

May strike to those whose red right hands have bought
Rights cheaply earned with blood. Still, still for ever
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river,
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins,
Dammed like the dull canal with locks and chains,
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,
Three paces, and then faltering: - better be
Where the extinguished Spartans still are free,
In their proud charnel of Thermopyla,
Than stagnate in our marsh, or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
One freeman more, America, to thee!




The following will be found suitable for delivery by three speakers. Let the First Speaker be on the right, the Second on the left, and the Third in the middle. The First and Second Speakers will distinguish between those parts of their stanzas addressed to the audience, and those parts addressed to the Third Speaker.


"O, ARM thee, youthful warrior,
And gird me to thy side!

Come forth to breast, undaunted,

The battle's crimson tide;


Where the clarion soundeth joyously
A free and forward blast,
And where, 'twixt death and victory,

Lies all the choice thou hast!"
So, with full many a stirring word,
Did speak the stern and clashing Sword.*


But a Lyre hung near that falchion,
From whose unheeded strings
Came a low and plaintive murmur,
Like the sound of viewless wings:
"O, cast thy fearful arms away!”
Such were the words it spake,
"And think on those that watch and pray
Afar, for thy dear sake!

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Ah, bring not thou the voice of tears
Into the home of thine early years!

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* Pronounced sord, by Walker, Smart, and the best English authorities.


The Sword spake yet more proudly:
"Which lifts the bitterer cry,
The grief for those who perish,

Or the shame for those who fly?
When thou shalt join the mighty slain,
When life's brief day is done,
Wouldst have thy hero-sire disdain

To own thee for a son?

How should he brook his line's disgrace?
How couldst thou look upon his face?"


Out spake that youthful warrior: *
"Good Sword, thou counselest well;
Come with me to the battle,

Where my true father fell:
Fair Honor is the queen I serve,
Bright Fame the gem I seek;
Nor will I suffer, nor deserve,
A blush to stain my cheek!
Unshaken let me ever stand,
Honor at heart, and sword in hand!

"And thou, fond Lyre, remember
Thou art not wont to weep
On those who tamely perish
In slōthfulness and sleep;

Still have thy noblest strains been poured
Above the true and free;

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It may be more effective to omit this line in the delivery.

Here a hand on the First's shoulder; at Lyre on the Second's, and a look upward.

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