To grace the noble fervor of an hour;-
But words which bear the spirits of great deeds
Winged for the future; which the dying breath
Of freedom's martyr shapes as it exhales,
And to the most enduring forms of earth
Commits to linger in the craggy shade
Of the huge valley, 'neath the eagle's home,
Or in the sea-cave where the tempest sleeps,
Till some heroic leader bid them wake.

To thrill the world with echoes!-But I talk
Of things above my grasp, which strangely press
Upon my soul, and tempt me to forget

The duties of my youth; pray you forgive me.
Tim. Have I not said so?

Agen. Welcome to the morn!

The eastern gates unfold, the priest approaches;
[MEDON, the priest, enters.]
And lo! the sun is struggling with the gloom,
Whose masses fill the evening sky, and tints
Its edges with dull red;-but he will triumph;
Blessed be the omen!

Medon. God of light and joy,

Once more delight us with thy healing beams!
If I may trace thy language in the clouds
That wait upon thy rising, help is nigh—
But help achieved in blood.

Ion. Say'st thou in blood?

Medon. Yes, Ion !-why, he sickens at the word,
Spite of his new-born strength: the sights of woe
That he will seek have shed their paleness on him.
Has this night's walk shown more than common sorrow?
Ion. I passed the palace where the frantic king

Yet holds his crimson revel, whence the roar
Of desperate mirth came, mingling with the sigh
Of death-subdued robustness, and the gleam
Of festal lamps 'mid spectral columns hung

Flaunting o'er shapes of anguish, made them ghastlier.
How can I cease to tremble for the sad ones
He mocks and him, the wretchedest of all?

Tim. And canst thou pity him? Dost thou discern,

Amidst his impious darings, plea for him?

Ion. Is he not childless, friendless, and a king? He's human; and some pulse of good must live Within his nature-have ye tried to wake it?

Medon. Yes; I believe he felt our sufferings once, When, at my strong entreaty, he despatched Phocion, my son, to Delphos, there to seek Our cause of sorrow; but, as time dragged on Without his messenger's return, he grew Impatient of all counsel,-to his palace In awful mood retiring, wildly called The reckless of his court to share its stores, And end all with him. When we dared disturb His dreadful feasting with a humble prayer That he would meet us, the poor slave, who bore The message, flew back smarting from the scourge, And muttered a decree that he, who next Unbidden met the tyrant's glance, should die. Agen. I am prepared to brave it.

Tim. And I

Ion. O, sages, do not think my prayer
Bespeaks unseemly forwardness send me!
The coarsest reed that trembles in the marsh,
If Heaven select it for its instrument,
May shed celestial music on the breeze,
As clearly as the pipe whose virgin gold
Befits the lips of Phœbus;-ye are wise;
And needed by your country; ye are fathers!
I am a lone stray thing, whose little life
By strangers' bounty cherished, like a wave,
That from the summer sea a wanton breeze
Lifts for a moment's sparkle, will subside
Light as it rose, nor leave a sigh in breaking.
Medon. Ion, no sigh?

Ion. Forgive me, if I seemed

To doubt that thou wilt mourn me if I fall;
Nor would I tax thy love with such a fear,

But that high promptings, which could never rise
Spontaneous in my nature, bid me plead

Thus boldly for the mission.

Medon. My brave boy!

It shall be as thou wilt. I see thou art called

To this great peril, and I will not stay thee.
When wilt thou be prepared to seek it?

Ion. Now.

Medon. If thou wouldst have it so, thou shalt.
Ion. Farewell, then!

Your prayers wait on my steps.

The arm of Heaven

I feel, in life or death, will be around me.
Medon. O grant it be in life!

[Exit.] [Exeunt.]

Ex. CCXXXV.-SCENE FROM VIRGINIUS.

LUCIUS, VIRGINIUS.

KNOWLES.

[Lucius comes to inform VIRGINIUS that his daughter is claimed as a slave by CLAUDIUS.]

Enter LUCIUS to VIRGINIUS.

Luc. 'Tis well you 're found, Virginius!
Vir. What makes you from the city?
Hast thou a message for me, Lucius? Well!
I'll stay and hear it—but be brief; my heart
Follows poor Dentatus.

Luc. You are wanted

In Rome.

Vir. On what account? Luc. On your arrival You'll learn.

Vir. How! is it something can't be told

At once? Speak out, boy! Ha! your looks are loaded
With matter-Is 't so heavy that your tongue

Can not unburden them? Your brother left
The camp on duty yesterday-hath ought
Happened to him? Did he arrive in safety?
Is he safe? Is he well?

Luc. He is both safe and well.

Vir. What then? What then? Tell me the matter, Lucius.

Luc. I have said

It shall be told you.

Vir. Shall! I stay not for

That shall, unless it be so close at hand
It stop me not a moment-'Tis too long
A coming. Fare you well, my Lucius.
Luc. Stay,

Virginius.-hear me then with patience.
Vir. [Returns.] Well,

I am patient.

Luc. Your Virginia—

[Going.

Vir. Stop, my Lucius!

I am cold in every member of my frame!
If 'tis prophetic, Lucius, of thy news,

Give me such token as her tomb would, Lucius—
I'll bear it better.-Silence.

Luc. You are still

Vir. I thank thee, Jupiter! I am still a father!
Luc. You are, Virginius, yet.

Vir. What, is she sick?

Luc. No.

Vir. Neither dead nor sick! All well! No harm! Nothing amiss! Each guarded quarter safe, That fear may lay him down and sleep, and yet This sounding the alarm! I swear thou tell 'st A story strangely.-Out with 't! I have patience For any thing, since my Virginia lives,

And lives in health!

Luc. You are required in Rome,

To answer a most novel suit.

Vir. Whose suit?

Luc. The suit of Claudius.

Vir. Claudius!

Luc. Him that 's client

To Appius Claudius, the Decemvir.

Vir. What!

That pander! Ha! Virginia! you appear
To couple them. What makes my fair Virginia
In company with Claudius? Innocence

Beside lasciviousness! His suit! What suit?
Answer me quickly!-Quickly! lest suspense
Beyond what patience can endure, coercing,
Drive reason from his seat!

Luc. He has claimed Virginia.

Vir. Claimed her! Claimed her!

On what pretence?

Luc. He says she is the child

Of a slave of his, who sold her to thy wife.

Vir. Go on ;-you see I'm calm.

Luc. He seized her in

The school, and dragged her to the Forum, where

Appius was giving judgment.

Vir. Dragged her to

The Forum! Well?-I told you, Lucius,

I would be patient.

Luc. Numitorius there confronted him!
Vir. Did he not strike him dead?
True, true, I know it was in presence of
The Decemvir-O! had I confronted him!
Well! well! the issue-Well! o'erleap all else,
And light upon the issue! Where is she?

Luc. I was dispatched to fetch thee, ere I could learn.
Vir. The claim of Claudius-Appius' client-Ha!

I see the master-cloud-this ragged one,

That lowers before, moves only in subservience
To the ascendant of the other-Jove,

With its own mischief break it and disperse it,
And that be all the ruin! Patience! Prudence!
Nay, prudence, but no patience.-Come! a slave
Dragged through the streets in open day! my child!
My daughter! my fair daughter, in the eyes
Of Rome! O! I'll be patient. Come! the essence
Of my best blood in the free common ear
Condemned as vile! O! I'll be patient. Come!
O they shall wonder.-I will be so patient.

[Exeunt.

Ex. CCXXXVI-SCENE FROM RIENZI.

RIENZI, ANGELO, AND PEOPLE.

MISS MITFORD.

[ANGELO, incited by RIENZI, joins the conspiracy.]

FRIENDS,

Rienzi.
I come not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave: not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame;
But base, ignoble slaves-slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords;
Rich in some dozen paltry villages-

Strong in some hundred spearmen-only great

In that strange spell—a name. Each hour, dark fraud,
Or open rapine, or protected murder,