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For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle ;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious

patience, I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what

What conjuration, and what mighty magic,
For such proceeding I am charg'd withal,
I won his daughter.

A maiden never bold;
Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
Blush'd at herself; and shein spite of nature,
Of years, of country, credit, everything,
To fall in love with what she fear'd to look on!
It is a judgment maim'd, and most imperfect,
That will confess perfection so could err
Against all rules of nature; and must be driven
To find out practices of cunning hell,
Why this should be. I therefore vouch again,
That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood,
Or with some dram conjur'd to this effect,
He wrought upon her.

To vouch this is no proof, Without more wider and more overt test Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods Of modern seeming do prefer against him.

I Sen. But, Othello, speak :

you by indirect and forced courses
Subdue and poison this young maid's affections?
Or came it by request, and such fair question
As soul to soul affordeth?


I do beseech you,
Send for the lady to the Sagittary,
And let her speak of me before her father :
If you do find me foul in her report,
The trust, the office, I do hold of you,
Not only take away, but let your sentence
Even fall upon my life.

Fetch Desdemona hither. Oth. Ancient, conduct them; you best know the

place.-- [Exeunt Iago and Attendants] And, till she come, as truly as to heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I'll present How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, And she in mine.

Duke. Say it, Othello.

Oth. Her father lov'd me; oft invited me; Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have passed. I ran it through, even from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it : Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field : Of hair-breadth scapes i'th'imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, And portance. In my traveller's history, (Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, [heaven, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch It was my hint to speak),—such was my process; And of the Cannibals that cach other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to

to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline:
But still the house affairs would draw her thence ;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse : which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour ; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively : I did consent ;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs :
She swore,-In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful : [strange ;
She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man : she thank'd
And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her, [me;
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd;
And I lov'd her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have us'd:
Here comes the lady ; let her witness it.


LOCHIEL'S WARNING.-(Thomas Campbell.)

Wizard. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle

array ; For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight : They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and

crown ;

Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the

But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of

What steed to the desert flies frantic and far !
'Tis thine, oh, Glenullin ; whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate;
A steed comes at morning : no rider is there,
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led !
Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave-
Culloden ; that reeks with the blood of the brave.

1 1

Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death

telling seer!
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight,
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright!
Wizard. Ha! laugh’st thou, Lochiel, my vision

to scorn ?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be

Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth
From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the

Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high !
Ah ! home let him speed-for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the

Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ?

'Tis the fire-shower of ruin all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of

heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel ; the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely, return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it

stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing

brood. Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd

my clan,

Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their

breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the

rock! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ! When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided and plumed in their tartan array

Wizard. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive

king. Lo! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath,


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