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Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,
That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood to flame,
Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,
And learn, by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare.

16. THE SPARTANS' MARCH.--Felicia Hemans. Born, 1794; died, 1835.

The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made to the Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.

T WAS morn upon the Grecian hills, where peasants dressed the vines;
Sunlight was on Citharon's rills, Arcadia's rocks and pines.
And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, Eurotas wandered by,
When a sound arose from Sparta's towers of solemn harmony.
Was it the hunter's choral strain, to the woodland-goddess poured?
Did virgin hands, in Pallas' fane, strike the full-sounding chord?
But helms were glancing on the stream, spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam to the morn of a fearful day!
And the mountain echoes of the land swelled through the deep-blue sky,
While to soft strains moved forth a band of men that moved to die.
They marched not with the trumpet's blast, nor bade the horn peal out;
And the laurel-groves, as on they passed, rung with no battle shout!

They asked no clarion's voice to fire their souls with an impulse high;
But the Dorian reed, and the Spartan lyre, for the sons of liberty!
And still sweet flutes, their path around, sent forth Æolian breath:
They needed not a sterner sound to marshal them for death!
So moved they calmly to their field, thence never to return,
Save bringing back the Spartan shield, or on it proudly borne!


Io! they come, they come! garlands for every shrine!
Strike lyres to greet them home! bring roses, pour ye wine!
Swell, swell the Dorian flute, through the blue, triumphant sky!
Let the Cittern's tone salute the sons of victory.

With the offering of bright blood, they have ransomed hearth and tomb, Vineyard, and field, and flood; — Io! they come, they come!

Sing it where olives wave, and by the glittering sea,
And o'er each hero's grave, - sing, sing, the land is free!
Mark ye the flashing oars, and the spears that light the deep!
How the festal sunshine pours, where the lords of battle sweep!
Each hath brought back his shield; — maid, greet thy lover home!
Mother, from that proud field,— Io! thy son is come!

Who murmured of the dead? Hush, boding voice! We know
That many a shining head lies in its glory low.

Breathe not those names to-day! They shall have their praise ere long,
And a power all hearts to sway, in ever-burning song.

But now shed flowers, pour wine, to hail the conquerors home! Bring wreaths for every shrine, - Io! they come, they come !

18. ODE. William Collins. Born, 1720; died, 1756.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there.


I AFFIRM, O Romans, that Appius Claudius is the only man not entitled to a participation in the laws, nor to the common privileges of civil or human society. The tribunal over which, as perpetual Decemvir, he presided, was made the fortress of all villanies. A despiser of Gods and men, he vented his fury on the properties and persons of citizens, threatening all with his rods and axes. Executioners, not Lictors, were his attendants. His passions roaming from rapine to murder, from murder to lust, he tore a free-born maiden, as if she were a prisoner of war, from the embraces of me, her father, before the eyes of the Roman People, and gave her to his creature, the purveyor of his secret pleasures! Ye heard, my countrymen, the cruel decree, the infamous decision. Ye beheld the right hand of the father armed against his daughter. Armed against, do I say? No, by the Gods! armed in her behalf, since it was to rescue her, by death, from dishonor, that I sheathed in her innocent bosom the knife! Ye heard the tyrant, when the uncle and the betrothed husband of Virginia raised her lifeless body, order them to be taken off to prison. Yes, Romans, even at that tragical moment, the miscreant Claudius was more moved by the disappointment of his gross sensual appetite than by the untimely death of the unoffending victim!

And Appius Claudius now appeals!

You hear his words: 66 1 appeal!" This man, who, so recently, as Decemvir, would have consigned a free-born maiden to bonds and to dishonor, utters that sacred expression, that safeguard of Roman liberty,—"I appeal!" Well may ye stand awe-struck and silent, O my countrymen! Ye see, at length, that there are Gods who overlook human affairs; that there is such a thing as RETRIBUTION! Ye see that punishment must sooner


or later overtake all tyranny and injustice. The man who abciished the right of appeal now appeals! The man who trampled on the rights of the People now implores the protection of the People! And, finally, the man who used to call the prison the fitting domicile of the Roman commons shall now find that it was built for him also. Wherefore, Appius Claudius, though thou shouldst appeal, again and again, to me, the Tribune of the People, I will as often refer thee to a Judge, on the charge of having sentenced a free person to slavery. And since thou wilt not go before a Judge, well knowing that justice will condemn thee to death, I hereby order thee to be taken hence to prison, as one condemned.


Original Paraphrase from Livy.

THIS is not the first time, O Romans, that Patrician arrogance has denied to us the rights of a common humanity. What do we now demand? First, the right of intermarriage; and then, that the People may confer honors on whom they please. And why, in the name of Roman manhood, my countrymen, - why should these poor boons be refused? Why, for claiming them, was I near being assaulted, just now, in the senate-house? Will the city no longer stand, — will the empire be dissolved,- because we claim that Plebeians shall no longer be excluded from the Consulship? Truly these Patricians will, by and by, begrudge us a participation in the light of day; they will be indignant that we breathe the same air; that we share with them the faculty of speech; that we wear the forms of human beings! But I cry them mercy. They tell us it is contrary to religion that a Plebeian should be made Consul! The ancient religion of Rome forbids it! Ah! verily? How will they reconcile this pretence to the facts? Though not admitted to the archives, nor to the commentaries of the Pontiffs, there are some notorious facts, which, in common with the rest of the world, we well know. We know that there were Kings before there were Consuls in Rome. We know that Consuls possess no prerogative, no dignity, not formerly inherent in Kings. We know that Numa Pompilius was made King at Rome, who was not only not a Patrician, but not even a citizen; that Lucius Tarquinius, who was not even of Italian extraction, was made King; that Servius Tullius, who was the son of a captive woman by an unknown father, was made King. And shall Plebeians, who formerly were not excluded from the Throne, now, on the juggling plea of religious objection, be debarred from the Consulship?


But it is not enough that the offices of the State are withheld from To keep pure their dainty blood, these Patricians would prevent, by law, all intermarriage of members of their order with Plebeians. Could there be a more marked indignity, a more humiliating insult, than this? Why not legislate against our living in the same neigh

Dorhood, dwelling under the same skies, walking the same earth? Ignominy not to be endured! Was it for this we expelled Kings? Was it for this that we exchanged one master for many ? No! Let the rights we claim be admitted, or let the Patricians fight the battles of the State themselves. Let the public offices be open to all; let every invidious law in regard to marriage be abolished; or, by the Gods of our fathers, let there be no levy of troops to achieve victories, in the benefits of which the People shall not most amply and equally partake!

21. CATILINE TO HIS ARMY, NEAR FÆSŬLÆ. —Ben Jonson. Born, 1574 ; died, 1637. Catiline, previous to the

A paraphrase of the celebrated speech which Sallust attributes to engagement which ended in the rout of his army, and his own death.

I NEVER yet knew, Soldiers, that in fight
Words added virtue unto valiant men;
Or that a General's oration made

An army fall or stand: but how much prowess,
Habitual or natural, each man's breast
Was owner of, so much in act it showed.

Whom neither glory nor danger can excite,
'Tis vain attempt with speech.

Two armies wait us, Soldiers; one from Rome
The other from the provinces of Gaul.
The sword must now direct and cut our passage.
I only, therefore, wish you, when you strike,
To have your valors and your souls about you;
And think you carry in your laboring hands
The things you seek,- glory and liberty!
For by your swords the Fates must be instructed!
If we can give the blow, all will be safe;
We shall not want provision, nor supplies;
The colonies and free towns will lie open;
Where, if we yield to fear, expect no place,
Nor friend, to shelter those whom their own fortune
And ill-used arms have left without protection.

You might have lived in servitude or exile,
Or safe at Rome, depending on the great,
But that you thought those things unfit for men;
And, in that thought, my friends, you then were valiant :
For no man ever yet changed peace for war
But he that meant to conquer. Hold that purpose.
Meet the opposing army in that spirit.
There's more necessity you should be such,
In fighting for yourselves, than they for others.
He's base who trusts his feet, whose hands are armed.
Methinks I see Death and the Furies waiting
What we will do, and all the Heaven at leisure

For the great spectacle. Draw, then, your swords;
And, should our destiny begrudge our virtue
The honor of the day, let us take care

To sell ourselves at such a price as may
Undo the world to buy us!


Ir had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet; and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dew-drops on the corslet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of the Vulturnus with a wavy, tremulous light. No sound was heard, save the last sob of some retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach; and then all was still as the breast when the spirit has departed. In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were assembled; their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, the scowl of battle yet lingering on their brows; when Spartacus, starting forth from amid the throng, thus addressed them:

"Ye call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say, that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth, and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not always thus, — a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men! My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon, and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. night, the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling!

That very

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