Like a machine, they whirl thee to thy fate. And settle the loose liberty of Rome. 'Tis fix'd; oh, therefore let not fancy dupe thee! So fix'd thy death, that 'tis not in the power Of gods or men to save thee from the ax. Titus. The ax! O Heaven! must I, then, fall so basely! What! shall I perish by the common hangman ? Brutus. If thou deny me this, thou givest me nothing. Yes, Titus, since the gods have so decreed That I must lose thee, I will take the advantage Of thy important fate; cement Rome's flaws, Then, with thy hopes and all thy youth upon thee, Without a groan, without one pitying tear (If that the gods can hold me to my purpose), To make my justice quite transcend example. Titus. Scourged like a bondman! Ha! a beaten slave' But I deserve it all: yet, here I fail; The image of this suffering quite unmans me. O Sir! O Brutus! must I call you father, Of cruel rigor? To behold me, too— To sit, unmoved, and see me whipp'd to death- Ah, Sir, why should you make my heart suspect Brutus. Think that I love thee, by my present passion, Think that no other cause on earth could move me Titus. O, rise, thou viölated majesty! Nay, all ye lictors, slaves, and common hangmen, Then take my head, and give it to his justice: By all the gods, I greedily resign it? LEE. NATHANIEL LEE, an English dramatic writer, was born in Hertfordshire in 1651. He received a classical education at Westminster school, and at Trinity College, Cambridge. He tried the stage both as an actor and author; was four years in bedlam from wild insanity; but recovered his reason, resumed his labors as a dramatist, and though subject to fits of partial derangement, continued to write till the end of his life. He was the author of eleven tragedies, besides assisting DRYDEN in the composition of "Edipus" and "The Duke of Guise." His best tragedies are the "Rival Queens," "Mithridates," "Theodosius," and "Lucius Junius Brutus." He possessed no small degree of the fire of genius, excelling in tenderness and genuine passion; but his style often degenerates into bombast and extravagant phrensy, in part caused by his mental malady. He died in London on the 6th of April, 1692. ONCE 187. THE RAVEN. I. NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lōre,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door. ""Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber-doorOnly this, and nothing more." II. Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wish'd the morrow: vainly I had sought to bōrrōw From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here forevermore. III. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain, IV. Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer, V. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word, "Lenore!" This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word, "LENORE!" Merely this, and nothing more. VI. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window-lattice; Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore,— Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;— 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." VII. Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, VIII. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shōrn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven; Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shōre, Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !" IX. Much I marvel'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, X. But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." XI. Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, 66 Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore,— Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, Of" Never-nevermore!" XII. But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bira, and bust, and door, Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yōre— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore !" XIII. This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing XIV. Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe' from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind uepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!" XV. "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil !—prophet still, if bird or devil! 'Ne pên' the, a drug or medicine that relieves pain and exhilarates. |