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The mountaineers that lead the steers without stand whisper

ing low,

"Now thinks this proud Alcaydé to stun Harpado so ?”

Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth

boil,

And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil.

His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow; But now they stare with one red glare of glass upon the foe. Now stops the drum; close, close they come; thrice meet, and thrice give back;

The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of black,

The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of dun; Once more advance upon his lance,-once more, thou fearless

one!

Once more, once more!-in dust and gore to ruin must thou reel!

In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel,—
In vain, in vain, thou noble beast!—I see, I see thee stagger,
Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern Alcaydé's
dagger!

They have slipped a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in,

And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din. Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price

bestow

Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low.

Ex. CXLIII-SPEECH OF SPARTACUS TO HIS FELLOW

GLADIATORS.*

E. KELLOGG.

IT had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace, with the sports of the amphitheater, to an extent unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired

* Contributed by the Author, to PROFESSOR RUSSELL'S "University Speaker."

from the banquet; and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dewdrop on the corslet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of Volturnus with a wavy, tremulous light. No sound is heard but the last sob of the retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach; and then, all is still, as the breast when the spirit has departed.

In the deep recesses of the amphitheater, a band of gladiators were assembled; their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict; the foam upon their lips, and the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows,-when Spartacus, rising in their midst, thus addressed them:

"Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief, who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man, or beast, the broad empire of Rome could furnish; and never yet lowered his arms. And if there is one among you, who can say that ever, in public fight, or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him step forth and do it! If there be three, in all your company, dare face me, on the bloody sand, let them COME ON!

"Yet I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men. My father was a Thracian of Pieria, a pious man, who feared great Jupiter, and brought to the rural deities his offerings of fruits and flowers. My ancestors came from Greece, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasello. My early life ran quiet as the brook by which I played; and when, at noon, I gathered my sheep beneath the shade, to play upon the shepherd's flute, I had a friend, the son of our neighbor, to share the pleasure. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared together our rustic meal.

"One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I did not know what war meant then; but my check did burn, I knew not why; and I did clasp the knees of the venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales, and savage wars.

"That very night the Romans landed on our shores, and the clash of steel was heard within our quiet vale. I saw the

breast that nourished me trampled by the iron heel of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the blazing rafters of his dwelling. I killed a man, to-day,

in the arena; and when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! IT WAS MY FRIEND! He knew me,-smiled faintly,-—gasped,-and died. The same sweet smile that I had marked upon his face, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told the Prætor he was my friend, noble and brave, and begged his body, that I might burn it upon the funeral pile, and mourn over him.

66

Ay! on my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, with tears, I begged that boon; while all the Roman maids, and matrons, and those holy virgins, they call vestal, and the rabble, shouted as if mad, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble, like a very child, before that piece of bleeding clay; but he drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said,Let the carrion rot! There are no noble men but Romans!'

"And he, deprived of funeral rites, must wander, a hapless ghost, beside the waters of that sluggish river, and look— and look-and look in vain, to the bright Elysian fields, where dwell his ancestors and noble kindred. And so must you; and so must I, die like dogs.

"O Rome! Rome! I thank thee! thou hast been a ten der nurse to me. Aye! thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid, shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher sound than flute notes, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through bones, and rugged brass, and plaited mail; and warm it in the marrow of his foe; to gaze into the glazing eye-balls of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a smooth-cheeked boy, upon a laughing girl; and he shall pay thee back, till the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest oozing life-blood lies curdled!

"Ye stand here, now, like giants, as ye are: the strength of brass is in your toughened fibers;-but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet odors from his curling locks, shall come, and, with his lily fingers, pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood!

"Listen! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted meat; but, to-morrow, he shall break his fast upon your flesh; and ye will be a dainty meal for him. If ye are brutes, then stand like fat oxen waiting for the butcher's knife; but if ye are men, then FOLLOW ME! Strike

down yon sentinel, and gain the mountain passes; and then do bloody work, as did your sires at old Thermopyla! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins? that you do crouch and cower, like a belabored hound beneath his master's lash? O comrades! warriors! Thracians! If we must fight, let us fight for ourselves; if we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors; if we must die, let us die under a free sky, by the bright waters, in NOBLE,

HONORABLE BATTLE!"

Ex. CXLIV.-ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCH-YARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest ber ancient, solitary reign.

GRAY.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team a-field!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await, alike, the inevitable hour;—

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid

Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast.
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

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