"The speech of Petreius in THe Catiline of this author, I have always thought one of the most magnificent passages in the whole compass of English literature,-listen." "Petreius. The straits and needs of Catiline being such, As he must fight with one of the two armies That then had near enclosed him, it pleased fate To make us th' object of his desperate choice, Wherein the danger almost poised the honour: And, as he rose, the day grew black with him, And fate descended nearer to the earth, As if she meant to hide the name of things Under her wings, and make the world her quarry. At this we roused, lest one small minute's stay Had left it to be inquired what Rome was; And (as we ought) arm'd in the confidence Of our great cause, in form of battle stood, Whilst Catiline came on, not with the face Of any man, but of a public ruin : His countenance was a civil war itself; And all his host had, standing in their looks, The paleness of the death that was to come; Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged on, As if they would precipitate our fates. Nor stay'd we longer for 'em, but himself Struck the first stroke, and with it fled a life, Which out, it seem'd a narrow neck of land Had broke between two mighty seas, and either Flow'd into other; for so did the slaughter; And whirl'd about, as when two violent tides Meet and not yield. The furies stood on hills, Circling the place, and trembling to see men Do more than they; whilst piety left the field, Grieved for that side, that in so bad a cause They knew not what a crime their valour was. The sun stood still, and was, behind a cloud His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward: Consumed all it could reach, and then itself, Cover'd the earth they 'ad fought on with their trunks, Ambitious of great fame to crown his ill, Collected all his fury, and ran in (Arm'd with a glory high as his despair) Upon his hunters, scornful of our weapons, Then fell he too, t' embrace it where it lay. Became his tomb; yet did his look retain Some of his fierceness, and his hands still moved, Cato. A brave bad death! Had this been honest now, and for his country, "It is very fine," said Benedict; "but, after all, my love, I should not much like to see many of the old dramatists, even with all their merits, restored to the use of the general reader. You will find, I suspect, that they have deservedly fallen into obscurity on account of their impure language and gross allusions. It may be said of them all as it was said of Marston by one of his contemporaries,― He cared not for modest close-couched terms, but dealt in plain naked words, stripped from their shirts."" "And yet,” replied the nymph, " a judicious selection from their works would be a valuable addition to the library of the boudoir. Many passages of Marston himself are of the very highest order of poetry. Look at his explanation of what it is to be a king." Why, man, I never was a prince till now. Who is not blown up with the flattering puffs Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng Adoring, not affecting, majesty : Whose brow is wreathed with the silver crown "The description of Antonio's visit to the vaults in which the body of his father lies, affords also a specimen of very splendid poetry." "I purify the air with odorous fume. Graves, vaults, and tombs, groan not to bear my weight. Most honour'd sepulchre, vouchsafe a wretch Thou royal spirit of Andrugio, where'er thou hoverest, (Airy intellect) I heave up tapers to thee (view thy son), On celebration of due obsequies. Once every night I'll dew thy funeral hearse O blessed father of a cursed son ! Thou diedst most happy, since thou livedst not Stoop and beat down this rising fog of shame, "And the death of Mellida is full of tenderness and beauty. The fool alluded to is Antonio in disguise." "Being laid upon her bed, she grasp'd my hand, And do I live to say Antonio's dead? And have I lived to see his virtues blurr'd With guiltless blots? O world, thou art too subtle Therefore I'll leave thee; farewell, mart of woe, With that her head sunk down upon her breast; Screech'd out so loud, that he brought back her soul, Dared kiss her hand, wish'd her soft rest, loved bride; She fumbled out thanks good, and so she died." 66 And, my dear Benedict, could even you yourself say any thing finer than the lewd Marston has done of conjugal love?" "If love be holy, if that mystery Into our species; if those amorous joys, Those sweets of life, those comforts even in death, Unchanged by time, immortal, maugre death. D |