Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms,
Quite vanquish'd him. |

Then burst his mighty heart、;|

And, in his mantle muffling up his face, |
E'en at the base of Pompey's statue,

(Which all the while ran blood!) great Cæsar fell. |
Ò what a fall was there, my countrymen! |
Then I, and you', and all of us, fell down, |
|
Whilst bloody treason flourish'da over us. ]
O now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity. These are gracious drops. |
Kind, souls! what! | weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar's ves'ture wounded? | Look you here ! |
Here is himself', | marr'd, as you see, by traitors. |
Good friends, | sweet friends! | let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny — ]

They that have done this deed, are honourable! |
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it- they are wise and honourable; |
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you! |

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts: |
I am no orator, as Brutus is; |

But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man,
That love my friend; and that they know full well', |
That gave me public leave to speak of him. |

For I have neither wit', nor words', nor worth', j
Ac'tion, nor utterance, nor power of speech', |
To stir men's blood: | I only speak right on. ]
I tell you that which you yourselves do know; |
Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, | poor, poor, dumb
mouths,

And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony |
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise in mutiny. I

WOMAN.

(R. H. TOWNSEND.)

Sylph of the blue, and beaming eye!]
The Muses' fondest wreaths are thine,
The youthful heart beats warm, and high, |
And joys to own thy power divine! |
Thou shinest o'er the flowery path

Of youth; and all is pleasure there! |
Thou soothest man, whene'er he hath |
An eye of gloom a brow of care. I

To youth, thou art the early morn', |
With "light, and melody, and song,"
To gild his path'; | each scene adorn', |
And swiftly speed his time along. |
To man, thou art the gift of Heav'n, |
A boon from regions bright above;
His lot, how dark, had ne'er been giv'n |
To him the light of woman's love!|

-1

When o'er his dark'ning brow, the storm,
Is gath'ring in its power, and might', |
The radiant beam of woman's form', |
Shines through the cloud', and all is light! |
When dire disease prepares her wrath |
To pour in terror from above', |
How gleams upon his gloomy path', |
The glowing light of woman's love. !|

When all around is clear, and bright', |
And pleasure lends her fairest charm; |
And man, enraptur'd with delight', |

Feels, as he views, his bosom warm', |
Why glows his breast with joy profuse',
And all his deeds, his rap'ture prove? |
It is, because the scene he views' |

Through the bright rays of woman's love! |

O woman! | thine is still the power, |
Denied to all but only thee, |
To chase away the clouds that lower, I
To harass life's eventful sea. I
Thou light of man! his only joy |
Beneath a wide, and boundless sky, |
Long shall thy praise his tongue, employ,
Sylph of the blue, and beaming eye!|

ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

(COLLINS.)

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, |
Ere yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,!
Throng'd around her magic cell, |
Exulting, | trembling, raging, fainting, |
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting. I
By turns they felt the glowing mind |
Disturb'd, delight'ed, rais'd, refin'd; ]
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, |
Fill'd with fury, | rapt', | inspir'd1, |
From the supporting myrtles round', |
They snatch'd her instruments of sound; |
And, as they oft had heard, apart, |
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness rul'd the hour) |
Would prove his own expressive power. [

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, |
Amid the chords, bewilder'd, laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why', |
E'en at the sound himself had made. I
Next, An'ger rush'd'; his eyes on fire, |
In lightnings own'd his secret stings; |
In one rude clash, he struck_the_lyre', |
And swept, with hurried hand, the strings,. |

With wo'ful measures, wan Despair, |
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd; |
A solemn', strange', and min gl'd air: |

"T was sad by fits; by starts, 't was wild. |
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, |
What was thy delighted meas、ure ? |
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, |

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail, ! |
Still would her touch the strain prolong; |

And, from the rocks', the woods', the vale, | She call'd on echo still, through all the song :| And, where her sweetest theme she chose, |

A soft, responsive voice was heard at every close; | And Hope, enchanted, | smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.[

And longer had she sung; but, with a frown, |
Revenge, impatient, rose: |

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down-|
And with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took, |
And blew a blast so loud, and dread, |
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo;
And ever, and anon, he beat |

The doubling drum with furious heat: |
And, though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, |
Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice, applied; |

Yet still he kept his wild, unalter'd mien, | While each strain'd ball of sight, seem'd bursting from his head. I

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought', were fix'd-|
Sad proof of thy distress 'ful state!!

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd、 ; |
And now it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on
Hate.

With eyes, uprais'd, as one inspir'd, |

Pale Melancholy sat retir'd; }

And, from her wild, sequester'd seat, | In notes by distance made more sweet, | Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul; And, dashing soft from rocks around, | Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; |

Through glades, and glooms, the mingl'd measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, | Round a holy calm diffusing, |

Love of peace, and lonely musing, |

In hollow murmurs, died away. |

But, O! how alter'd was its spright 'lier tone, |
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,|
Her bow across her shoulder flung, |

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung', The hunter's call', to fawn and dryad known. | The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd queen', Satyrs, and sylvan boys' were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear; |

And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. [

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial

He, with viny crown advancing, |

First to the lively pipe', his hand address'd; }
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he lov'd the best. I
They would have thought, who heard the strain, |
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, |
Amidst the festal-sounding shades |

To some unwearied minstrel dancing, |

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, | Love fram'd with Mirth, a gay, fantastic round : | Loose were her tresses seen, her zone, unbound ; | And he, amidst the frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay', | Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.