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Cornelia. Your brother's blood, my son!


Does not his blood Cry for revenge, and is your ear unapt To hear it?-Caius, that dear brother's death's The life of all thy acts!-'Twas that did plead For Vettius-ask'd the Tribuneship-revived Tiberius' laws-defied the Senate-made thee' Like a god to Rome, dealing out fate—and, now Thou art no longer arm'd with thy great office, Would lead thee forth to sacrifice-My son, Go not to the Forum! 'Tis a worthless cause! Why should you go, my Caius ? To defend Your laws from abrogation? Think of them For whom you made those laws-the fickle people Did lend a hand to pull you from your seat, And raise up them they shake at! Thou art single! Thou hast no seconds! 'Tis a hopeless struggle! So sunk are all, the heart of public virtue

Has not the blood to make it beat again!

C. Grac. And should I therefore sink with the base times ?

What, mother, what! Are the gods also base?
Is virtue base? Is honour sunk?

A thing contemptible-and not to be

Is manhood

Maintain'd? Remember you Messina, mother?
Once from its promontory we beheld
A galley in a storm; and as the bark
Approach'd the fatal shore, could well discern.
The features of the crew with horror all

Aghast, save one! Alone he strove to guide
The prow, erect amidst the horrid war

Of winds and waters raging.—With one hand
He rul'd the hopeless helm-the other strain'd
The fragment of a shiver'd sail-his brow
The while bent proudly on the scowling surge,
At which he scowl'd again.-The vessel struck!
One man alone bestrode the wave, and rode

The foaming courser safe! 'Twas he, the same!—

You clasp'd your Caius in your arms, and cried,
"Look, look, my son! the brave man ne'er despairs;
And lives where cowards die !" I would but make
Due profit of your lesson.

Cor. Caius-Caius !

C. Grac. Mother-I

Cor. My son!

C. Grac. Well, I'll not go, I will be ruled by you,
If you please; let men say what they list of me.
I care not if they whisper as I pass,

And point and smile, and say to one another,
"Lo the bold Tribune Gracchus! Lo the man
Did lord it o'er the Senate!" What is't to me!
I know I am your son, and would approve it,
If I might but since you will not have it so,
I'll stay from the Forum, mother; I'll not go
To the Forum.

Cor. Know the people you did promise
To go?

C. Grac. Are they not here with Fulvius Flaccus Expecting me? But let them go with him;

He'll speak for them. He'll be their friend-He'll dare
Oppose the Senate.-He'll preserve my laws
If he can. If there's no other man to speak
For liberty, he'll do it! Pray you, mother,
Send Lucius to them-tell them I'll not go
Abroad to-day.

Cor. You must go to the Forum-you must.
C. Grac. Not if you will it not.

Cor. I neither will it nor will it not.
C. Grac. Unless you bid me go

They go without me!

Cor. Why, I think, as it is,

You cannot help but go. I know not what's
The matter. 'Tis perhaps the fears of thy wife
Infect me—but I've dark forebodings, Caius.
What will be left me, should I lose thee, son ?
C. Grac. My monument !
Cor. Go to the Forum.
You are Cornelia's son !

C. Grac. My only use


Of life's to prove it!

Cor. Go! Go! Go! my Caius.



A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lea.

O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-

The world of waters is our home,

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There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;

But hark, the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

The laverock loves the dewy light,
The bee the balmy fox-glove fair,
The shepherd loves the glowing morn,
When song and sunshine fill the air
But I love best the summer morn,


With all her stars, pure streaming still;

For then in light and love I meet

The sweet lass of Gleneslan mill.

The violets lay their blossoms low;
Beneath her white foot on the plain;

Their fragrant heads the lilies wave,
Of her superior presence fain.
O might I clasp her to my heart,
And of her ripe lips have my will!
For loath to woo, and long to win,
Was she by green Gleneslan mill.
Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,

O'er Blackwood brow bright glow'd the moon ; Rills murmur'd music and the stars

Refused to set our heads aboon :

Ye might have heard our beating hearts,
Our mixing breaths,-all was so still,
Till morning's light shone on her locks,--
Farewell! lass of Gleneslan mill.

Wert thou an idol, all of gold,

Had I the eye of worldish care,-
I could not think thee half so sweet,
Look on thee so, or love thee mair.
Till death's cold dewdrop dim mine eye,
This tongue be mute, this heart lie still,-
Thine every wish of joy and love,

My lass of green Gleneslan mill!



Rejoice my little merry mate,

The blithesome spring is coming,
When thou shalt roam, with heart elate,
To hear the wild bee humming;

To hear the wild bee humming round
The primrose, sweetly blowing,

And listen to each gentle sound
Of gladsome music flowing.

The birds shall sing from many a bower
Joy like thy own obeying ;

And, round full many a blooming flow
The butterfly be playing;-
Be playing, love, on wings as light
As heart in thy young bosom,
And showing tints as fair and bright
As does the opening blossom.

The snow-drops by our garden-walk,
Long since to life have started;
They wither now upon the stalk;
Their beauty is departed:
Their beauty is departed, but
Flowers in the fields are springing,
Which by-and-by shall ope and shut,
As to the glad birds' singing.
The robin from the pear-tree bough,
Gives us of song our ear-full;
The morns are getting lightsome now,
The evenings growing cheerful:
And soon they'll be more long and light,
With warm and pleasant weather ;
And we, to see the sun-set bright,
May go abroad together.

Then shall our summer haunts again
Renew their former pleasures,
The poplar grove, the shady lane,
For thee be full of treasures.
For flowers are treasures unto thee,
And well thou lov'st to find them;
To gather them with childish glee,
And then in posies bind them.
Spring is to me no merry time;
Its smiles are touch'd with sadness;
For vanish'd, with life's early prime,
Is much that gave it gladness.
Yet, merry playmate, for thy sake,
I will not sing of sorrow;

But since thou canst its joys partake,

I would 'twere spring to-morrow.

CCCVI. HEN. KIRKE WHITE, 1785—1806. STANZAS, WRITTEN SHORTLY BEFORE HIS DEATH. Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme, With self-rewarding toil; thus far have sung Of god-like deeds, far loftier than beseem The lyre which I in early days have strung; And now my spirits faint, and I have hung

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