And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims!

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet,

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale!
For never shall Albin a destiny meet

So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat.

Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!

And, leaving in battle no blot on his name,

Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame!

14. PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE'S DEFENCE OF HIS REBELLION.- Henry Taylor.
You speak of insurrections: bear in mind
Against what rule my father and myself
Have been insurgent; whom did we supplant?
There was a time, so ancient records tell,
There were communities, scarce known by name
In these degenerate days, but once far-famed,

Where liberty and justice, hand in hand,

Ordered the common weal; where great men grew

Up to their natural eminence, and none,

Saving the wise, just, eloquent, were great.

Whom may we now call free? whom great? whom wise?
Whom innocent? - the free are only they

Whom power makes free to execute all ills
Their hearts imagine; they are only great

Whose passions nurse them from their cradles up
In luxury and lewdness, whom to see
Is to despise, whose aspects put to scorn
Their station's eminence; the wise, they only
Who wait obscurely till the bolts of Heaven
Shall break upon the land, and give them light
Whereby to walk; the innocent, alas!
Poor Innocency lies where four roads meet,

A stone upon her head, a stake driven through her,-
For who is innocent that cares to live?

The hand of power doth press the very life

Of Innocency out!

What, then, remains,

But in the cause of nature to stand forth,

And turn this frame of things the right side up?

For this the hour is come, the sword is drawn,
And tell your masters vainly they resist.
Nature, that slept beneath their poisonous drugs,
Is up and stirring, and from north and south,
From east and west, from England and from France,
From Germany, and Flanders, and Navarre,
Shall stand against them like a beast at bay.
The blood that they have shed will hide no longer
In the blood-sloken soil, but cries to Heaven.
Their cruelties and wrongs against the poor
Shall quicken into swarms of venomous snakes,
And hiss through all the earth, till o'er the earth,
That ceases then from hissings and from groans,
Rises the song-How are the mighty fallen!
And by the peasant's hand! Low lie the proud!
And smitten with the weapons of the poor-
The blacksmith's hammer and the woodman's axe!
Their tale is told; and for that they were rich,
And robbed the poor; and for that they were strong,
And scourged the weak; and for that they made laws
Which turned the sweat of labor's brow to blood, -
For these their sins the nations cast them out!
These things come to pass

From small beginnings, because God is just.

15. DUTY TO ONE'S COUNTRY.-Hannah More. Born, 1744; died, 1833. OUR country is a whole, my Publius,

Of which we all are parts; nor should a citizen
Regard his interests as distinct from hers;
No hopes or fears should touch his patriot soul,
But what affect her honor or her shame.
E'en when in hostile fields he bleeds to save her,
"Tis not his blood he loses, 't is his country's;
He only pays her back a debt he owes.
To her he's bound for birth and education;
Her laws secure him from domestic feuds,
And from the foreign foe her arms protect him.
She lends him honors, dignity, and rank,
His wrongs revenges, and his merit pays;
And, like a tender and indulgent mother,

Loads him with comforts, and would make his state
As blessed as nature and the gods designed it.
Such gifts, my son, have their alloy of pain,
And let the unworthy wretch, who will not bear
His portion of the public burthen, lose
The advantages it yields; let him retire
From the dear blessings of a social life,

And from the sacred laws which guard those blessings,
Renounce the civilized abodes of man,

With kindred brutes one common shelter seek
In horrid wilds, and dens, and dreary caves,
And with their shaggy tenants share the spoil;
Or, if the shaggy hunters miss their prey,
From scattered acorns pick a scanty meal;
Far from the sweet civilities of life,

There let him live, and vaunt his wretched freedom,
While we, obedient to the laws that guard us,
Guard them, and live or die, as they decree.

16. ST. PIERRE TO FERRARDO.-James Sheridan Knowles.

St. Pierre, having possessed himself of Ferrardo's dagger, compels him to sign a confession from his own lips, of his villany.

KNOW you me, Duke? Know you the peasant boy,
Whom, fifteen years ago, in evil hour,

You chanced to cross upon his native hills,
In whose quick eye you saw the subtle spirit,
Which suited you, and tempted it? He took
Your hint, and followed you to Mantua
Without his father's knowledge,

his old father,

Who, thinking that he had a prop in him
Man could not rob him of, and Heaven would spare,
Blessed him one night, ere he lay down to sleep,

And, waking in the morning, found him gone!

[Ferrardo tries to rise.

Move not, or I shall move! You know me.

O, yes! you trained me like a cavalier,

You did, indeed! You gave me masters, Duke,
And their instructions quickly I took up,

As they did lay them down! I got the start

Of my cotemporaries! not a youth

Of whom could read, write, speak, command a weapon,
Or rule a horse, with me! You gave me all,

All the equipments of a man of honor,
But you did find a use for me, and made
A slave, a profligate, a pander, of me!
I charge you keep your seat!

Ten thousand ducats?

[Ferrardo rising.

What, Duke! Is such your offer? Give me, Duke,
The eyes that looked upon my father's face,

The hands that helped my father to his wish,
The feet that flew to do my father's will,
The heart that bounded at my father's voice,
And say
that Mantua were built of ducats,
And I could be its Duke at cost of these,

---

I would not give them for it! Mark me, Duke!
I saw a new-made grave in Mantua,

And on the head-stone read my father's name!
To seek me, doubtless, hither he had come,

To seek the child that had deserted him,
And died here, ere he found me.

Heaven can tell how far he wandered else!

Upon that I knelt an altered man,

grave

And, rising thence, I fled from Mantua;-nor had returned,
But tyrant hunger drove me back again

At cost of my dear soul! I have done thy work,
Do mine! and sign me that confession straight.
I'm in thy power, and I'll have thee in mine!
There is the dial, and the sun shines on it, -
The shadow on the very point of twelve,
My case is desperate! Your signature
Of vital moment is unto my peace!
My eye is on the dial! Pass the shadow
The point of noon, the breadth of but a hair,
As can my eye discern — and, that unsigned,
The steel is in thy heart! I speak no more!

17. WILLIAM TELL ON SWITZERLAND.-Adaptation from J. S. Knowles.
ONCE Switzerland was free! With what a pride
I used to walk these hills,-look up to Heaven,
And bless God that it was so! It was free
From end to end, from cliff to lake 't was free!
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys, without asking leave;
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun!

How happy was I in it, then! I loved
Its very storms. Ay, often have I sat

In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring, I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.

You know the jutting cliff, round which a track
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow
To such another one, with scanty room
For two a-breast to pass? O'ertaken there
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along,
And while gust followed gust more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,

And I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just

Have wished me there; - the thought that mine was free
Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head,
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,
Blow on! This is the land of liberty!

18. WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.-J. S. Knowles.

YE crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,

To show they still are free. Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,

And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again! O sacred forms, how proud you look!
How high you lift your heads into the sky!
How huge you are! how mighty, and how free!
Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose smile
Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty,
I'm with you once again!-I call to you
With all my voice! I hold my hands to you,
To show they still are free. I rush to you
As though I could embrace you!

Scaling yonder peak,

I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow
O'er the abyss: his broad-expanded wings.
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively
I bent my bow; yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight

Of measuring the ample range beneath

And round about; absorbed, he heeded not

The death that threatened him. I could not shoot!

'T was liberty! I turned my bow aside,

And let him soar away!

19. THE FRACTIOUS MAN. - Original Translation from Brueys.

Monsieur Grichard. Blockhead! Would you keep me knocking two hours at the door?

Lolive. I was at work, Sir, in the garden. At the first sound of the knocker, I ran to answer it with such haste, as to fall down on the way.

M. Gri. A great pity it was you did n't break your neck, booby! Why didn't you leave the door open

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