While hostile banners, o'er thy rampart walls, Wave their proud blazonry?
Last night before my own ancestral towers,
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat On my bare head-what reck'd it ?-There was joy Within, and revelry; the festive lamps
Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs,
I' th' stranger's tongue, made mirth. They little deem'd Who heard their melodies!-but there are thoughts Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows Known to the mountain-echoes. Procida ! Call on the outcast when revenge is nigh.
Pro. I knew a young Sicilian, one whose heart Should be all fire. On that most guilty day, When, with our martyr'd Conradin, the flower Of the land's knighthood perished; he, of whom I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid, Stood by the scaffold, with extended arms, Calling upon his father, whose last look Turned full on him its parting agony.
That father's blood gushed o'er him!—and the boy Then dried his tears, and, with a kindling eye, And a proud flush on his young cheek, look'd up To the bright heaven.-Doth he remember still That bitter hour?
He bears a sheathless sword! -Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh.
Pro. Our band shows gallantly-but there are men Who should be with us now, had they not dared In some wild moment of festivity
To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish For freedom!-and some traitor-it might be A breeze perchance-bore the forbidden sound To Eribert :- -so they must die-unless Fate (who at times is wayward) should select Some other victim first!-But have they not Brothers or sons amongst us?
I have a brother, a young, high-soul'd boy,
And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow That wears, amidst its dark, rich curls, the stamp Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is
A glorious creature !-But his doom is sealed
With theirs of whom you spoke; and I have knelt- Ay, scorn me not! 'twas for his life-I knelt E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on That heartless laugh of cold malignity
We know so well, and spurned me. But the stain Of shame like this, takes blood to wash it off, And thus it shall be cancell'd!-Call on me, When the stern moment of revenge is nigh.
Pro. I call upon thee now! The land's high soul Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze, Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues To deeper life before it. In his chains, The peasant dreams of freedom!—ay, 'tis thus Oppression fans th' imperishable flame With most unconscious hands.
The majesty of yon pure Heaven, whose eye Is on our hearts, whose righteous arm befriends The arm that strikes for freedom; speak! decree The fate of our oppressors.
Mont. Let them fall When dreaming least of peril!-When the heart, Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget That hate may smile, but sleeps not. With a thick veil of myrtle, and in halls Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines Red in the festal torch-light; meet we there, And bid them welcome to the feast of death. Rai. Must innocence and guilt
When hath their hand been stayed for innocence? Let them all perish !-Heaven will choose its own. Why should their children live? The earthquake whelms Its undistinguished thousands, making graves
Of peopled cities in its path-and this Is Heaven's dread justice-ay, and it is well! Why then should we be tender, when the skies Deal thus with man? What, if the infant bleed? Is there not power to hush the mother's pangs? What, if the youthful bride perchance should fall In her triumphant beauty ?-Should we pause? As if death were not mercy to the pangs Which make our lives the records of our foes?
Let them all perish !—And if one be found Amidst our band, to stay th' avenging steel For pity or remorse, or boyish love,
Then be his doom as theirs!
Brethren, what means your silence?
Gui. If one amongst us stay th' avenging steel For love or pity, be his doom as theirs! Pledge we our faith to this!
No! I but dreamt I heard it!-Can it be?
My countrymen, my father!-Is it thus
That freedom should be won ?-Awake! Awake To loftier thoughts!-Lift up, exultingly,
On the crown'd heights, and to the sweeping winds, Your glorious banner!-Let your trumpet's blast Make the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud, Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear The stranger's yoke no longer!—What is he Who carries on his practised lip a smile, Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings? That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from, And our blood curdle at-Ay, yours and mine- A murderer !—Heard ye?-Shall that name with ours Go down to after days ?—Oh, friends! a cause Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names Of the elder time as rallying-words to men, Sounds full of might and immortality!
And shall not ours be such?
Fame! What is fame ?-Will our unconscious dust
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave,
At the vain breath of praise?—I tell thee, youth,
Our souls are parch'd with agonizing thirst,
Which must be quench'd though death were in the draught : We must have vengeance, for our foes have left
The time is past for such high dreams as thine.
Thou know'st not whom we deal with. Knightly faith, And chivalrous honour, are but things whereon They cast disdainful pity. We must meet Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge.
I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice Might yet have power amongst you, I would say, Associates, leaders, be avenged! but yet As knights, as warriors!
Peace! have we not borne Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains? We are not knights and warriors." Our bright crests Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. Boy! we are slaves—and our revenge shall be Deep as a slave's disgrace.
Why, then farewell; I leave you to your counsels. He that still Would hold his lofty nature undebased, And his name pure, were but a loiterer here.
SIR JOSEPH BANKS-PETER.....John Wolcott.
Sir Joseph. YOUR meaning, friend, I easily divine! Peter. Yes, quit for life the chair-resign, resign. Sir J. No, with contempt the grinning world I see, And always laugh at those who laugh at me.
Pet. To steal a point then, may I never thrive
must be the merriest man alive.
Sir J. Good!-but, my friend, 'twould be a black No
To lose the chair, and sneak a vulgar member; Sit on a bench mumchance without my hat, Sunk from a lion to tame tom cat:
Just like a schoolboy trembling o'er his book, Afraid to move, or speak, or think, or look, When Mr. President, with mastiff air, Vouchsafes to grumble 'Silence' from the chair. Pet. All this is mortifying to be sure,
And more than flesh and blood can well endure ! Then to your turnip fields in peace retire: Return, like Cincinnatus, country 'squire. Thus, though proud London dares refuse you fame, The towns of Lincolnshire shall raise your name, Knock down the bear, and bull, and calf, and king, And bid Sir Joseph on their signposts swing.
Sir J. No! since I've fairly mounted fortune's mast, Till fate shall chop my hands off, I'll hold fast.
Pet. And yet, Sir Joseph, fame reports you stole To fortune's topmast through the lubberhole. Think of the men whom science so reveres !
Sir J. Blockheads! for whom I do not care a button, Fools, who to mathematics would confine us, And bother all our ears with plus and minus. Pet. Sir Joseph, do not fancy, that by fate Great wisdom goes with titles and estate! I grant that pride and insolence appear Where purblind fortune thousands gives a year. Too many of fortune's insects have I seen, Proud of some little name, with scornful mien, High o'er the head of modest genius rise, Pert, foppish, whiffling, flutt'ring butterflies!
Sir J. Since truth must out, then know, my biting friend, Philosophers my soul with horror rend;
Whene'er their mouths are opened, I am mum— Plague take 'em, should a president be dumb?
1 loath the arts-the universe may know it
I hate a painter, and I hate a poet.
Pet. In troth, Sir Joseph, I have often seen ye Look in debate a little like a ninny,
Struggling to grasp the sense with mouth, hands, eyes,
And with the philosophic speaker rise;
Just like a spider, brushed by Susan's broom,
That tries to claw its thread, and mount the roca, Poor sprawling reptile, but with humbled air
Condemn'd to sneak away behind a chair.
Sir J. Still to the point-a rout let fellows make;
My power is too well fix'd for such a shake;
My sure artillery hath o'ercome a host.
Pet. I own the great past powers of tea and toast! Ven'son's a Cæsar in the fiercest fray;
Turtle an Alexander in its way;
And then, in quarrels of a slighter nature,
Mutton's a most successful mediator!
Sir J. Come, tell me fairly without more delay,
What 'tis the tattling world hath dar'd to say.
Pet. Thus, then, How dares that man his carcass squat,
Bold in the sacred chair where Newton sat;
Whose eye could Nature's darkest veil pervade,
And, sun-like, view the solitary maid;
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