So fix'd thy death, that 'tis not in the
power Of mortal man to save thee from the axe.
Ti. The axe!--Oh heaven !—Then must I fall so basely? What, shall I perish like a common felon ?
Br. How else do traitors suffer ?—Nay, Titus, more—
I must myself ascend yon sad tribunal—
And there behold thee meet this death of shame-
With all thy hopes and all thy youth upon thee.-
See thy head taken by the common axe—
All-if the gods can hold me to my purpose-
Without one groan, without one pitying tear.
Ti. Die like a felon ?-Ha! a common felon !-
But I deserve it all:-yet here I fail :-
This ignominy quite unmans me!
Oh, Brutus, Brutus! Must I call you father,
Yet have no token of your tenderness,
No sign of mercy? Not even leave to fall
As noble Romans fall, by my own sword?
Father, why should you make my heart suspect
That all your late compassion was dissembled?
How can I think that you did ever love me?
Br. Think that I love thee by my present passion,
By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here,
These sighs that strain the very strings of life-
Let these convince you that no other cause
Could force a father thus to wrong his nature.
Ti. Oh, hold, thou violated majesty :
I now submit with calmness to my fate.
Come forth, ye executioners of justice-
Come, take my life-and give it to my country!
Br. Embrace thy wretched father. May the gods
Arm thee with patience in this awful hour.
The sov'reign magistrate of injur'd Rome
Condemns a crime, thy father's heart forgives.
Go-meet thy death with a more manly courage
Than grief now suffers me to show in parting;
And, while she punishes, let Rome admire thee!
Farewell! Eternally farewell!—
Ti. Oh, Brutus! Oh, my father!
Br. What would'st thou say, my son?
Ti. Wilt thou forgive me?
When I shall be no more, forget not my Tarquinia.
Br. Leave her to my care.
Ti. Farewell, for ever!
Br. For ever.
[BRUTUS re-ascends the tribunal. Lictors attend! -conduct your pris'ner forth! Val. (Rapidly and anxiously.) Whither!
[All the characters bend forward in great anxiety. Br. To death !—(All start.) When you do reach the spot
My hand shall wave, your signal for the act,
Then let the trumpet's sound proclaim it done!
[TITUS is conducted out by the LICTORS. A dead march-which gradually dies away as it becomes more distant. BRUTUS remains seated in a melan
choly posture on the tribunal.
Poor youth! Thy pilgrimage is at an end!
A few sad steps have brought thee to the brink
Of that tremendous precipice, whose depth
No thought of man can fathom. Justice, now,
Demands her victim! A little moment-
And I am childless!—One effort, and 'tis past !—
[He rises and waves his hand, convulsed with agita-
tion, then drops on his seat, and shrouds his face
with his toga. Three sounds of the trumpet are
heard instantly. All the characters assume atti-
tudes of deep misery.-BRUTUS starts up wildly,
descends to the front in extreme agitation, looks out
on the side by which TITUS departed for an instant,
then, with an hysterical burst, exclaims,
Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free!
[BRUTUS falls.-The characters group around him.
On the Being of a God.-YOUNG.
RETIRE; the world shut out--thy thoughts call home!
Imagination's airy wing repress;
Lock up thy senses ;--let no passion stir ;
Wake all to Reason ;---let her reign alone :--
Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth
Of nature's silence,-midnight, thus inquire,
As I have done; and shall inquire no more.
In Nature's channel, thus the questions run.
What am I? and from whence? I nothing know,
But that I am; and, since I am, conclude
Something eternal. Had there e'er been nought,
Nought still had been; eternal there must be.
But what eternal ?-why not human race;
And Adam's ancestors without an end?—
That's hard to be conceived; since every link
Of that long-chain'd succession is so frail :
Can every part depend, and not the whole ?
Yet, grant it true, new difficulties rise:
I'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore.
Whence earth, and these bright orbs?—eternal, too ?—
Grant matter was eternal; still these orbs
Would want some other father. Much design
Is seen in all their motions, all their makes.
Design implies intelligence and art;
That can't be from themselves-or man; that art
Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow?
And nothing greater, yet allowed than man.—
Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain,
Shot through vast masses of enormous weight?
Who bade brute matter's restive lump assume
Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly?
Has matter inuate motion? then, each atom,
Asserting its indisputable right
To dance, would form a universe of dust.
Has matter none? then whence these glorious forms,
And boundless flights, from shapeless, and reposed?
Has matter more than motion? Has it thought,
Judgment, and genius? Is it deeply learn'd
In mathematics? Has it framed such laws,
Which, but to guess, a Newton made immortal ?—
If so, how each sage atom laughs at me,
Who think a clod inferior to a man!
If art, to form; and counsel to conduct-
And that with greater far than human skill,
Resides not in each block;-a GODHEAD reigus.-
And, if a God there is, that God how great!
Henry V. to his Soldiers.-SHAKSPEARE.
ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more:
Or close the wall up with the English dead!
In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man,
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage;
Then, lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon!
Now, set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath; and bend up every spirit
To its full height. Now, on, you noblest English!
Whose blood is fetch'd from fathers of war proof;
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
Have, in these parts, from morn till eveu fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument!
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start.-The game's afoot!-
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge,
Cry, God for Harry, England, and St. George!
Marcellus's Speech to the Mob.-IB.
WHEREFORE rejoice? that Cæsar comes in triumph!
What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels ?
You blocks! you stoues! you worse than senseless things! Oh, you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome!
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you
climb'd up
to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimuey-tops-
Your infants in your arms—and there have sat
The live-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome?
And, when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made a universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath his banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Begone!
Run to your houses! fall upon your knees!
Pray to the Gods to intermit the plague,
That needs must light on this ingratitude!
Henry V's Speech before the Battle of Agin ourt.—IB. WHAT'S he that wishes for more men from Egland? My cousin Westmoreland!—No, my fair cousin; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and, if to live,
The fewer meu, the greater share of honour.
No, no, my lord! wish not a man from England!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my host,
That he who hath no stomach to this fight,
May straight depart: his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company!
This day is called the Feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian!
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will, yearly on the vigil, feast his neighbours:
And say-To-morrow is Saint Crispian !
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.
Old men forget, yet shall not all forget,
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