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The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft

Even of its name—and nothing now remains But the deep memory of that glory, left

To whet our pangs, and aggravate our chains! But shall this be?-our sun and sky the same,

Treading the very soil our fathers trod-
What withering curse hath fallen on soul and frame,

What visitation has there come from God,
To blast our strength and rot us into slaves,
Here, on our great forefathers' glorious graves ?

It cannot be-rise up, ye Mighty Dead,

If we, the living, are too weak to crush These tyrant priests, that o'er your empire tread,

Till all but ROMANS at Rome's tameness blush.

Happy PALMYRA! in thy desert domes,

Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss; And thou, whose pillars are but silent homes

For the stork's brood, superb PERSEPOLIS! Thrice happy both, that your extinguished race Have left no embers—no half-living traceNo slaves, to crawl around the once-proud spot, Till past renown in present shame 's forgot; While ROME, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks,

If lone and lifeless through a desert hurled, Would wear more true magnificence, than decks

The assembled thrones of all the existing world. ROME, ROME alone, is haunted, stained, and cursed,

Through every spot her princely Tiber laves, By living human things—the deadliest, worst,

That earth engenders—tyrants and their slaves!

And we-oh shame!-we, who have pondered o'er

The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay; Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore,

Tracking our country's glories all the wayEven we have tamely, basely kissed the ground

Before that Papal Power, that Ghost of Her, The world's Imperial Mistress-sitting, crowned

And ghastly, on her mouldering sepulchre! But this is past-too long have lordly priests

And priestly lords led us, with all our pride Withering about us like devoted beasts,

Dragged to the shrine, with faded garlands tied.

'T is o'er—the dawn of our deliverance breaks!
Up from his sleep of centuries awakes
The Genius of the Old Republic, free
As first he stood, in chainless majesty,
And sends his voice through ages yet to come,
Proclaiming ROME, ROME, ROME, Eternal ROME!

DIALOGUE.
SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE AND CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.-Sheridan.

Capt. A. Sir ANTHONY, I am delighted to see you here, and looking so well! your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.

Sir A. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are recruiting here, hey?

Capt. A. Yes, sir, I am on duty.

Sir A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it! for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not be with you long.

Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty; and I pray fervently that you may continue so.

Sir A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my heart. Well then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit.

Capt. A. Sir, you are very good.

Sir A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. Í have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence.

Capt. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army!

Sir A. Oh! that shall be as your wife chooses.
Capt. A. My wife, sir!

Sir A. Ay, ay, settle that between you; settle that between you.

Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you say?

Sir A. Ay, a wife: why, did not I mention her before?

Capt. A. Not a word of her, sir.

Sir A. Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage; the fortune is saddled with a wife: but I suppose that makes no difference?

Capt. A. Sir, sir! you amaze me!

Sir A. What 's the matter with the fool? just now you were all gratitude and duty.

Capt. A. I was, sir: you talked to me of independence and a fortune, but not one word of a wife.

Sir A. Why, what difference does that make? Sir! if you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands.

Capt. A. Pray, sir, who is the lady?

Sir A. What's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and to marry her directly.

Capt. A. Sure, sir, that 's not very reasonable, to summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of!

Sir A. I am sure, sir, 't is more unreasonable in you, to object to a lady you know nothing of,

Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that in this point, I cannot obey you.

Sir A. Hark ye, Jack; I have heard you for some time with patience-I have been cool, quite cool: but take care; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led, when I have my own way; but do n't put me in a frenzy.

Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey

you.

Sir A. Now, hang me, if ever I call you Jack again while I live! i Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me.

Sir A. Sir, I won't hear a word, not a word! not one word! so give me your promise by a nod, and I 'll tell you what, Jack, -I mean, you dog-if you do n't by

Capt. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness; to

Sir A. Zounds! sirrah! the lady shall be as ugly as I choose: she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's museum; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew-She shall be all this, sirrah!'

yes, I 'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty.

Capt. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed!

Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jackanapes!

Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour for mirth in my life.

Sir A. 'Tis false, sir; I know you are laughing in your sleeve; I know you 'll grin when I am gone, sirrah!

Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better.

Sir A. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if you please; it won't do with me, I promise you.

Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I was never cooler in my life.

Sir A. 'T is a confounded lie! I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are a hypocritical, young dog; but it wont do.

Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word.

Sir A. So you will fly out! can't you be cool, like me? what good can passion do? passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, over-bearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! do n't provoke me! But you rely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog! you play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet take care; the patience of a saint may be overcome at last! But mark! I give you six hours and a half to consider of this; if you then agree, without any condition, to do everything on earth that I choose, why, confound you! I may in time forgive you. If not, do n't enter the same hemisphere with me? do n't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own: I'll strip you of your commission: I 'll lodge a five and three pence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest. I'll disown you; I'll disinherit you; and hang me, if ever I call you Jack again!

Exit. Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father, I kiss your hands.

PARODY ON HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.-Anonymous.

To buy, or not to buy? that is the question;
Whether to live contentedly within
The scanty limits of a narrow income,
Or make a stand against increasing debts,
And by the lottery end them—to try one's fate?
To be in Fortune's way? and so to end
The heart-ache, and a thousand haunting fears
The insolvent's heir to:-'t is a resolution
Instantly to be made; to run the hazard?
Perchance to gain? ay there's the lucky hit-
For in that wheel, what to our share may come,
When the safe number's shuffled to the last,
Must give us hope; there's the great odds,
That make a ticket so much worth the purchase:
For who would bear the dearness of the times
The oppressive tax, the tradesman's cozenage,
The shame of refused credit, the law's arrest,
The insolence of duns, and the base 'vantage,
That griping lenders of the borrower take,
When he himself might an estate secure
With a bare sixteenth? who, in a rack-rent farm,
Would toil and sweat under a lordly steward,
But that the fear of (e'en on the first day's drawing)
A fatal blank! whose cruel disappointment
No adventurer survives, shuts up the purse,
And makes us rather bear our present losses,
Than feel still greater that we dream not of;
For gambling doth make spendthrifts of us all,
And though the puffing schemes of every office,
Be pasted up with the broad glare of capitals,
Yet the fair chance of plodding industry,
In the long run, shall turn up richer prizes;
Nor honesty its labour lose.

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