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Or if not free, another doth possess
That royal monster whose untender zeal
Thus spoke the lofty dame, while passions strove
Who tore her very heart to please his whim.
Yet such as cheer'd her at her utmost need.
When thus was undermined their only stay?
"When the uncorrupted part of the senate had, by the death of Cæsar, made one great effort to restore their former state and liberty, the success did not answer their hopes; but that whole assembly was so sunk in its authority, that those patriots were forced to fly and give way to the madness of the people, who, by their own disposition, stirred up with the harangues of their orators, were now wholly bent upon single and despotic slavery."-SWIFT.
WHEN Liberty, triumphing over her foes,
The genius of Rome had aroused him too late-
* See an admirable defence of the exclamation of Brutus in his dying moments, in the Dictionnaire de Bayle, article "Brutus," tome i. page 677.
THE DEATH OF ROSA.
as soon as I am dead,
Come all and watch one night about my hearse;
Bring each a mournful story and a tear,
To offer at it when I go to earth."
The Maid's Tragedy, by BEAUMONT and
A HEART full of feeling, poor Rosa, was thine,
But beauty and tenderness frequently shine
Some pitiless hypocrite tainted thy youth,
Thy spirit, that sported in yesterday's light,
Like the Garland of Chloe * that wither'd at night,
* See Prior's Garland.
Rejected of man, the poor sufferer sought
That mercy denied her on earth,
From Him, in whose eyes our best virtues are nought, If haughtiness pampers their worth.
She loved-was betray'd-is misfortune a crime?
Ah no! that I ne'er can believe;
The seducer may thrive in his guilt for a time,
Fair mourner! thy agony soon will be o'er,
That pang-'tis the price of forgiveness-no more,
ON THE COMMEMORATION OF THE SECOND CENTENARY OF
WHAT beings, Ariel-like, appear
'Tis come, 'tis come the joyous year,
Their eyes with brighter radiance shine,
To Fancy's pictured hall repair.
There fairy-land in landscape glows;
There shines not the sun; but a new light from heaven, Many-colour'd as Iris, to Genius is given;
Who waves it, and waving it, fitfully plays
O'er our Shakspeare's fine eyes that reflect back its rays.