Rise, kindling with the orient beam;
Let Calvary's hill inspire the theme!

Unfold the garments rolled in blood!
Oh touch the soul, touch all her chords,
With all the omnipotence of words,

And point the way to heaven-to God.

53. OTHELLO'S ADDRESS TO THE SENATE.- -Shakspeare.

Most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors,
My very noble and approved good masters;
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her ;-
The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent-no more. Rude am I in speech,
And little blessed with the set phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;
And, therefore, little shall I grace my cause,
In speaking for myself; yet by your patience,
I will a round unvarnished tale deliver

Of

my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceeding I am charged withal,)

won his daughter with.

Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have passed.

I run it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances;
Of moving accidents, by flood and field;

Of hairbreadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence ;-
Of battles bravely, hardly fought; of victories,
For which the conqueror mourned-so many fell!
Sometimes I told the story of a siege,
Wherein I had to combat plagues and famine;
Soldiers unpaid; fearful to fight, yet bold
In dangerous mutiny.

These things to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline:

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Whichever as she could with haste dispatch,
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 distinctively.

I did consent,

And often did beguile her of her tears,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffered. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains, a world of sighs!

She swore, "In fait 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful;"

She wished she had not heard it ;-yet she wished

That heaven had made her such a man ;-she thanked me;
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake.
She loved me for the dangers I had past;
And I loved her that she did pity them.-
This, only, is the witchcraft I have used.

54. MOLOCH AND SATAN, BEFORE THE POWERS OF HELL.White.

One there was there, whose loud defying tongue Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell

Of overboiling malice. Utterance long

His passion mocked and long he strove to tell
His laboring ire; still syllable none fell
From his pale quivering lip, but died away
For very fury; from each hollow cell

Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray.

"This comes," at length burst from the furious chief,

"This comes of dastard counsels! Here behold

The fruits of wily cunning! the relief

Which coward policy would fain unfold

To soothe the powers that warred with heaven of old.
Oh wise! Oh potent! Oh sagacious snare!

And lo! our prince-the mighty and the bold,

There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air,

While heaven subverts his reign and plants her standard there."

Here as recovered, Satan fixed his eye
Full on the speaker; dark as it was stern;
He wrapped his black vest round him gloomily
And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts concern.
Him Moloch marked and strove again to turn
His soul to rage. "Behold, behold," he cried,
"The lord of hell, who bade these legions spurn
Almighty rule-behold he lays aside

The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied.”
Thus ended Moloch and his burning tongue
Hung quivering as if mad to quench its heat
In slaughter. So, his native wilds among,
The famished tiger pants, when near his seat,
Pressed on the sands, he marks the traveler's feet.
Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword
Had from its scabbard sprung; but toward the seat
Of the arch-fiend, all turned with one accord,
As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde :-

"Ye powers of hell, I am no coward. I proved this of old. Who led your forces against the armies of Jehovah? Who coped with Ithuriel, and the thunders of the Almighty? Who, when stunned and confused ye lay on the burning lake, who first awoke and collected your scattered powers? Lastly, who led you across the unfathomable abyss to this delightful world, and established that reign here which now totters to its base? How, therefore, dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on Satan's bravery? He, who preys only on the defenseless-who sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in acts of ignoble cruelty and unequal contention! Away with the boaster who never joins in action; but, like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed upon the wounded and overwhelm the dying. True bravery is as remote from rashness as from hesitation. Let us counsel coolly, but let us execute our counseled purposes determinately. In power, we have learned by that experiment which lost us heaven, that we are inferior to the thunder-bearer in subtlety -in subtelty alone, we are his equals. Open war is impossible.

:

Thus shall we pierce our conqueror through the race
Which, as himself, he loves; thus, if we fall,

We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace

Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call
Of vengeance rings within me! Warriors all,
The word is vengeance, and the spur despair.
Away with coward wiles! Death's coal-black pall
Be now our standard! Be our torch, the glare

Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air!"

55 DESCRIPTION OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE IN SCOTLAND.

Scott.

At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends from heaven that fell,
Had pealed the banner-cry of hell!
Forth from the pass, in tumult driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven,
The archery appear;

For life! for life! their flight they ply;
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry,
And plaids and bonnets waving high,
And broadswords flashing to the sky,
Are maddening in their rear.
Onward they drive in dreadful race
Pursuers and pursued ;

Before that tide of flight and chase
How shall it keep its rooted place,

The spearsman's twilight wood?
"Down, down," cried Mar, "your lances down!
Bear back both friend and foe!"
Like reeds before the tempest's frown,
That serried grove of lances brown
At once lay leveled low;

And closely shouldering side to side
The bristling ranks the onset bide.
"We'll quell the savage mountaineer,
As their hunters cow the game!
They come as fleet as forest deer,

We'll drive them back as tame."
Bearing before them in their course,
The relics of the archer force,

Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,
Right onward did Clan Alpine come.

Above their tide each broadsword bright
Was brandishing like beam of light,

Each targe was dark below;
And with the ocean's mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest's wing,
They hurled them on the foe.

I heard the lance's shivering crash,
As when the whirlwind rends the ash;
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang,
As if a hundred anvils rang;

But Moray wheeled his rearward rank
Of horsemen on Clan Alpine's flank-
"My banner-men advance!

I see," he cried, "their column shake;
Now gallants! for your ladies' sake,
Upon them with the lance."

The horsemen dashed among the rout,
As deer break through the broom;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan Alpine's best are backward borne-
Where, where was Rhoderic then?
One blast upon his bugle-horn

Were worth a thousand men.
And refluent through the pass of fear
The battle's tide was poured;
Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear,
Vanished the mountain sword.

As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep,
Receives her roaring linn,

As the dark caverns of the deep
Suck the wild whirlpool in,
So did the deep and darksome pass
Devour the battle's mingled mass;
None linger now upon the plain,
Save those who ne'er shall fight again.

"Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst those Olynthian captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man; and, when he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture and torment, the better by his example to express the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint."

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvass. There Prometheus lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus,