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And hangs on Dian's temple : Dear Valeria !
Vol. This is a poor epitome of yours,
The god of soldiers,
Your knee, sirrah. Cor. That's my brave boy.
Vol. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself,
I beseech you, peace :
O, no more, no more!
Cor. Aufidius, and you Volces, mark; for we'll Hear nought from Rome in private.—Your request ?
Vol. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment,
And to poor we,
With manacles through our streets, or else
Ay, and on me,
He shall not tread on me;
Cor. Not of a woman's tenderness to be,
Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volces whom you serve, you might condemn us, As poisonous of your honor: No; our suit, Is, that you reconcile them: While the Volces May say, This mercy we have show'd; the Romans, This we received ; and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee, and cry Be bless'd For making up this peace ! Thou know'st great son, The end of war's uncertain; but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name, Whose repetition will be dogg'd with curses; Whose chronicle thus writ,- The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wip'd it out; Destroy'd his country; and his name remains To the ensuing age, abhorr'd. Speak to me, son: Thou hast affected the fine strains of honor, To imitate the graces of the gods; To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' the air, And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak ? Think'st thou it honorable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs ?—Daughter, speak you. He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy: Perhaps, thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons.—There is no man in the world More bound to his mother; yet here he lets me prate, Like one i' the stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy ; When she, (poor hen !) fond of no second brood, Has cluck'd thee to the wars, and safely home,
Loaden with honor. Say, my request's unjust,
He turns away :
O mother, mother!
I dare be sworn, you were: And, sir, it is no little thing, to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, What peace you'll make, advise me for my part, I'll not to Rome, I'll back with you, and pray you, Stand to me in this cause.-0 mother! wife!
Auf. I am glad, thou hast set thy mercy and thy honor At difference in thee : out of that I'll work Myself a former fortune.
[Aside. [The Ladies make signs to CORIOLANUS. Cor. Ay, by and by; [TO VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, dc. But we will drink together; and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions will have counter-seal’d. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built you: all the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have made this peace.
THE HEAD OF MEMNON.-HORACE SMITH.
In Egypt's centre, when the world was young,
-a man-shaped tower,
And built by Apis' and Osiris' power.
I mark'd the labors of unwearied time;
Stupendous temples, obelisks sublime !
Some new colossus more enormous springs,
I thought them, like myself, eternal things.
Psammis the king, whose alabaster tomb,
Now floats athwart the sea to share my doom.
Still shalt thou soar, its everlasting boast :
And fierce Cambyses led the invading host.
Where from the east a dust of cloud proceeds,
A thousand banner'd suns at once appear;
And faint barbaric music met mine ear.
Onward they march, and foremost I descried
A cuirassed Grecian band in phalanx dense,
Commingled tribes—a wild magnificence.
Dogs, cats, and monkeys in their van they show,
Which Egypt's children worship and obey;
And fall—a pious, unresisting prey.
Palaces, temples, cities are o'erthrown;
And shuddering Egypt heaved a general groan!
Flames round its granite columns hiss'd in vain,
Look'd down with indestructible disdain.
Mine was a deeper aud more quick disgrace :
Beneath my shade a wondering army flock'd; With force combined, they wrench'd me from my base,
And earth beneath the dread concussion rock'd. Nile from his banks receded with affright,
The startled Sphynx long trembled at the sound; While from each pyramid's astounded height,
The loosun'd stones slid rattling to the ground. I watch'd, as in the dust supine I lay,
The fall of Thebes—as I had mark'd its fameTill crumbling down, as ages roll'd away,
Its site a lonely wilderness became !
The throngs that choked its hundred gates of yore,
Its fleets, its armies, were no longer seen; Its priesthood's pomp, its Pharaohs were no more
All-all were gone-as if they ne'er had been! Deep was the silence now, unless some vast
And time-worn fragment thunder'd to its base; Whose sullen echoes, o'er the desert cast,
Died in the distant solitude of space. Or haply, in the palaces of kings,
Some stray jackal sate howling on the throne: Or, on the temple's holiest altar, springs
Some gaunt hyæna, laughing all alone. Nature o'erwhelms the relics left by time;
By slow degrees entombing all the land; She buries every monument sublime,
Beneath a mighty winding-sheet of sand. Vain is each monarch's unremitting pains,
Who in the rock his place of burial delves; Behold! their proudest palaces and fanes
Are subterraneous sepulchres themselves.
Twenty-three centuries unmoved I lay,
And saw the tide of sand around me rise; Quickly it threaten'd to engulf its prey,
And close in everlasting night mine eyes. Snatch'd in this crisis from my yawning grave,
Belzoni roll'd me to the banks of Nile, And slowly heaving o'er the western wave,
This massy fragment reach'd the imperial isle.
In London, now with face erect I gaze
On England's pallid sons, whose eyes upcast, View my collossal features with amaze,
And deeply ponder on my glories past.