COLLECTANEA ORATORIA:

OR,

THE ACADEMIC ORATOR.

PART I. .

DEMONSTRATIVE.

I. Portia's Eulogium of Mercy.

THE quality of mercy is not strain'd':

It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heav'n,
Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless'd;
Blessed in him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His scepter shews the force of temporal power,.
The attribute to awe and majesty,

The

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; is above this sceptered sway,

But mercy

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to god himself;

And earthly pow'r doth then shew likest god's,
When mercy seasons justice.

II. Saint Paul's Eulogium of Charity.

CHARITY suffereth long, and is kind. Charity envieth not. Charity vaunteth not itself; is not puffed up; doth not behave itself unseemly; seeketh not its own; is not easily provoked; thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things; believeth all things; hopeth all things; endureth all things.

III. Eulogium of the Man of Ross.

ALL our praises why should lords engross?
Rise, honest muse! and sing the man of Ross;
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow ?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

But clear and artless pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?

Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise?
"The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The man of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate:
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? The man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med cine makes, and gives..
Is there a variance? Enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attornies, now a useless race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the pow'r to do!

Oh say, what sums that gen'rous hand supply?
What mines to swell that boundless charity?
Of debts, and taxes, wife, and children clear,
This man possess'd five hundred pounds a year.
Blush, grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your
blaze!

Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays.

And what! no monument, inscription, stone?
Ilis race, his form, his name almost unknown!
Who builds a church to god, and not to fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name.
Go search it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor, makes all the history;
Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between;
Prov'd by the ends of being to have been.

IV. Eulogium of the Village Preacher.

NEAR Yonder copse, where once the garden smil'dz
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,.
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was, to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
For other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain;
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast:
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guest, the good man learn'd to glow,.
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave e'er charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff, remain'd to pray..
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran;
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile ;-
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,

Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv'n,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on his head.

V. M. Antony's Oration over the Corse of Cæsar.

FRIENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let it be with Cæsar.The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cæsar was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answer'd it.

Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest→→ (For Brutus is an honourable man;

So are they all-all honourable men ;)

Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my friend; faithful and just to me :-
But Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cry'd, Cæsar hath wept :— Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious:
And Brutus is an honourable man.

Was this ambition?.

You all did see, that, on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse.
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And sure, he is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke;
But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once-not without cause;
What cause with-holds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason.

Bear with me:
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause 'till it come back to me.-
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.-
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on;

'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent ;
That day he overcame the Nervii.-

Look! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through;

See, what a rent the envious Casca made:

Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd:
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow'd it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolvid
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no:-
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel-
Judge, O you gods! how dearly Cæsar lov'd him!
This was the most unkindly cut of all:

For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,

Quite vanquish'd him. Then burst his mighty hearty
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,

Eyen at the base of Pompey's statue,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.

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