The Young Gentleman and Lady's Monitor, and English Teacher's Assistant Part 42

Should I reveal the sources of my grief, If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity would not be represt.

Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?

'Tis heav'n has brought me to the state you see; And your condition may be soon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot, Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn: But, ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot, My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter, once the comfort of my age, Lur'd by a villain from her native home, Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage, And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife, sweet soother of my care, Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair, And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door; Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief, and heav'n will bless your store.

ADVANTAGES OF PEACE.

Oh, first of human blessings and supreme, Fair Peace! how lovely, how delightful, thou!

By whose wide tie, the kindred sons of men, brothers live, in amity combin'd, And unsuspicious faith: while honest toil Gives ev'ry joy; and, to those joys, a right, Which idle barbarous rapine but usurps.

Pure is thy reign; when, unaccurs'd by blood, Nought, save the sweetness of indulgent show'rs, Trickling, distils into the vernant glebe; Instead of mangled carcases, sad scene!

When the blythe sheaves lie scatter'd o'er the field; When only shining shares, the crooked knife, And hooks imprint the vegetable wound; When the land blushes with the rose alone, The falling fruitage, and the bleeding vine.

Oh! peace! then source and soul of social life!

Beneath whose calm inspiring influence, Science his views enlarges, art refines, And swelling commerce opens all her ports-- Bless'd be the man divine, who gives us thee!

Who bids the trumpet hush its horrid clang, Nor blow the giddy nations into rage; Who sheathes the murd'rous blade; the deadly gun Into the well-pil'd armory returns; And, ev'ry vigour from the work of death To grateful industry converting, makes The country flourish, and the city smile!

Unviolated, him the virgin sings; And him, the smiling mother, to her train.

Of him, the Shepherd, in the peaceful dale, Chaunts; and the treasures of his labour sure, The husbandman, of him, as at the plough, Or team, he toils. With him, the Tailor soothes, Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave; And the full city, warm, from street to street, And shop to shop, responsive rings of him.

Nor joys one land alone: his praise extends, Far as the sun rolls the diffusive day; Far as the breeze can bear the gifts of peace; Till all the happy nations catch the song.

PROGRESS OF LIFE.

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts; His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms; And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation, Ev'n in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd; With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances, And so he plays his part. The sixth age foists Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side.

His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice Turning again towards childish treble, pipes.

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

_SPEECHES IN THE ROMAN SENATE_.

CATO.--Fathers! we once again are met in council.

Caesar's approach, has summon'd us together, And Rome attends her fate from our resolves.

How shall we treat this bold aspiring man?

Success still follows him, and backs his crimes, Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has since Receiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Caesar's.

Why should I mention Juba's overthrow, And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree What course to take. Our foe advances on us, And envies us ev'n Lybia's sultry deserts.

Fathers, p.r.o.nounce your thoughts. Are they still fix'd To hold it out and fight it to the last?

Or, are your hearts subdu'd, at length, and wrought; By time and ill success, to a submission?-- Semp.r.o.nius, speak.

SEMp.r.o.nIUS.--My voice is still for war.

G.o.ds! can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to chuse, slav'ry or death?

No--let us rise at once; gird on our swords; And, at the head of our remaining troops, Attack the foe; break through the thick array Of his throng'd legions; and charge home upon him.

Perhaps, some arm, more lucky than the rest, May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.

Rise, Fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands your help; Rise, and revenge her slaughter'd citizens, Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senate Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we Sit here, delib'rating' hi told debates, If we should sacrifice our lives to honour, Or wear them out in servitude and chains.

Rouse up, for shame: Our brothers of Pharsalia Point at their wounds, and cry aloud--to battle!

Great Pompey's shade complains that we are flow; And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd amongst us!

CATO.--Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason.

True fort.i.tude is seen in great exploits, That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides; All else is tow'ring frenzy and distraction.

Are not the lives of those who draw the sword In Rome's defence, entrusted to our care?

Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter, Might not th' impartial world, with reason, say We lavish'd, at our deaths, the blood of thousands; To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious?

Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.

LUCIUS.--My thoughts, I must confess, are turn'd on peace, Already have our quarrels fill'd the world With widows and with orphans. Scythia mourns Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome.

'Tis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind, It is not Caesar, but the G.o.ds, my fathers!

The G.o.ds declare against us, and repel Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle, (Prompted by a blind revenge and wild despair) Were, to refuse th' awards of providence, And not to rest in heav'n's determination.

Already have we shewn our love to Rome; Now, let us shew submission to the G.o.ds.

We took up arms not to revenge ourselves, But free the commonwealth. When this end fails, Arms have no further use. Our country's cause, That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands, And bids us not delight in Roman blood Unprofitably shed. What men could do Is done already. Heav'n and earth will witness, If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.

CATO--Let us appear, not rash, nor diffident, Immoderate valour swells into a fault; And fear, admitted into public councils, Betray like treason. Let us shun 'em both.-- Father's, I cannot see that our affairs Are grown thus desp'rate. We have bulwarks round us; Within our walls, are troops inur'd to toil In Afric heats, and season'd to the sun.

Numidia's s.p.a.cious kingdom lies behind us, Ready to rise at its young prince's call.

While there is hope, do not distrust the G.o.ds: But wait, at least, till Caesar's near approach Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late To sue for chains, and own a conqueror.

Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time?

No--let us draw our term of freedom out In its full length, and spin it to the last: So shall we gain still one day's liberty.

And, let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment, A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty, Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.

CATO, solus, _sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand Plato's book on the immortality of the soul. A drawn sword on the table by him_.

It must be so--Plato, thou reason'st well!-- Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction?

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heav'n itself, that points out--an hereafter, And intimates--eternity to man.

Eternity!--thou pleasing--dreadful thought!

Through what variety of untry'd beings, Through what new scenes and changes must we pa.s.s!

The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me-- But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.-- Here will I hold. If there's a pow'r above us, (And that there is all nature cries aloud Through all her works) he must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must be happy.

But, when! or where! this world--was made for Caesar.

I'm weary of conjectures--this must end 'em.

[_Laying his hand on his sword_.

Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and life, My bane and antidote are both before me: This, in a moment, brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die.

The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wrecks of matter; and the crush of worlds.

What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?

This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?

Nature oppress'd, and harra.s.s'd out with care; Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her; That my awaken'd soul may take her flight, Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life; An offering fit for Heav'n. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest; Cato knows neither of 'em; Indiff'rent in his choice, to sleep or die.

HAMLET'S MEDITATION ON DEATH.

To be--or not to be!--that is the question.-- Whether 'tis n.o.bler in the mind, to suffer The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune; Or to take arms against a siege of troubles, And, by opposing, end them?--To die--to sleep-- No more;--and, by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to--'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die--to sleep-- To sleep--perchance to dream--aye, there's the rub.-- For, in that sleep of death what dreams may come; When we have shuffled off this mortal coil; Must give us pause.--There's the respect That makes calamity of so long a life For, who would bear the whips and scorns o' th' time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes; When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To groan and sweat under a weary life; But that the dread of something after death (That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne No traveller returns) puzzles the will; And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of; Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprizes of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn away, And lose the name of action.