For this did Servius give us laws? For this did Lucrece bleed? For this was the great vengeance done on Tarquin's evil seed? For this did those false sons make red the axes of their sire? For this did Scævola's right hand hiss in the Tuscan fire? Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that stormed the lion's den? Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked Ten? Oh for that ancient spirit, which curbed the Senate's will! Oh for the tents which in old time whitened the Sacred Hill! In those brave days our fathers stood, aye firmly, side by side; They faced the Marcian fury; they tamed the Fabian pride: They drove the fiercest Quinctius an outcast forth from Rome; They sent the haughtiest Claudius with shivered fasces home. But what their care bequeathëd us our madness flung away: All the ripe fruit of three score years was blighted in a day. Exult, ye proud patricians! The hard-fought fight is o'er : We strove for honors-'t was in vain! for freedom, 'tis no more! No crier to the polling, summons the eager throng; No Tribune breathes the word of might that guards the weak from wrong. Our very hearts, that were so high, sink down beneath your will; Riches, and lands, and power, and state-ye have them :-keep them still. Still keep the holy fillets; still keep the purple gown, The axes, and the curule chair, the car, and laurel crown; Still press us for your cohorts, and, when the fight is done, Still fill your garners from the spoil which our good swords have won. Still, like a spreading ulcer, which leech-craft may not cure, Let your foul usance eat away the substance of the poor. Still let your haggard debtors bear all their father's bore; Still let your dens of torment be noisome as of yore; No fire when Tiber freezes; no air in dog-star heat; And store of rods for freeborn backs, and stocks for freeborn feet. Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still the grate; Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your cruel hate, But, by the shade beneath us, and by the gods above, Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more cruel love! Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs From consuls, and high pontiffs, and ancient Alban kings? Ladies, who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet, Who from their cars look down in scorn upon the wondering street, Who in Corinthian mirrors their own proud smiles be hold, And breathe of Capuan odors, and shine with Span ish gold? Then leave the poor plebeian his single tie to life The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures, The kiss, in which he half forgets even such a yoke as yours. Still let the maiden's beauty swell the father's breast with pride; Still let the bridegroom's arms enfold an unpolluted bride. Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame, That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood to flame. Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our des pair, And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare. Ye will not! See how he points his eager hand this way! See how his eyes gloat on my grief, like a kite's upon the prey! With all his wit, he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft, The father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left. Oh! dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain; And even as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line! (Here he stabs his daughter.) Ye're moved at last! your cheek is blanched before the Forum's yell, See, see, thou fiend! what thou hast done, and hide thy shame in hell! Thou that wouldst make our maidens slaves, must first make slaves of MEN. Tribunes!-Hurrah for Tribunes! Down with the infernal Ten!" LESSON CXXXIX. THE MANIAC. The following affecting picture of insanity brought on by oppression, may be rare in this country, but the piece may not be without its use in awakening the public feeling to a sense of the injustice done to that unfortunate class of human beings, who seem to be cruelly treated just in proportion to their unaccountability. A better prospect seems openning upon these benighted minds; but yet the philanthropist has much to do, not only in curing the insane, but in removing the causes of insanity. MONK LEWIS is the author of the piece, and he called it the Captive. Stay, gaoler, stay, and hear my woe, She is not mad who kneels to thee; And what I am, and what should be. I am not mad! I am not mad! My tyrant husband forged the tale He smiles in scorn and turns the key! His glimmering lamp still, still I see- 'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain! Which never more my heart must glad, Hast thou, my child, forgot ere this His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled! His mild, blue eyes, how bright they shone! None ever bore a lovelier child! And art thou now for ever gone? I am not mad! I am not mad! Oh hark! what mean those yells and cries? He comes! I see his glaring eyes! Now at my dungeon grate he shakes; |