The American Union Speaker Part 45

Lord Byron.

CCx.x.xVII.

BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night; And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell;-- But hus.h.!.+ hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No: 't was but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet-- But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and crumblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which never might be repeated. Who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar-- And near, the beat of the alarming drum, Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;-- While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips--"The foe! they come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose!

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard--and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:-- How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years: And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pa.s.s, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,-- Over the unreasoning brave,--alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the gra.s.s Which now beneath them, but above shall grow, In its next verdure; when this fiery ma.s.s Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of l.u.s.ty life; Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife; The morn, the marshalling in arms; the day, Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover,--heaped and pent, Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!

Lord Byron.

CCx.x.xVIII.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

The a.s.syrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strewn.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pa.s.s'd; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances uplifted, the trumpet unknown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Lord Byron.

CCx.x.xIX.

SPEECH OF MOLOCH.

My sentence is for open war. Of wiles, More inexpert, I boast not; them let those Contrive who need, or when they need, not now; For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest, Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait The signal to ascend, sit lingering here, Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place Accept this dark, opprobrious den of shame, The prison of his tyranny, who reigns By our delay? No; let us rather choose, Armed with h.e.l.l-flames and fury, all at once, O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way, Turning our tortures into horrid arms Against the torturer; when, to meet the noise Of his almighty engine, he shall hear Infernal thunder, and for lightning, see Black fire and horror shot with equal rage Among his angels,--and his throne itself, Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire, His own invented torments.

But, perhaps, The way seems difficult and steep to scale, With upright wing, against a higher foe.

Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, That in our proper motion we ascend Up to our native seat; descent and fall To us adverse. Who but felt of late, When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, With what compulsion and laborious flight, We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy then; The event is feared.

Should we again provoke Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find To our destruction; if there be in h.e.l.l, Fear to be worse destroyed. What can be worse Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned In this abhorred deep to utter woe; Where pain of unextinguishable fire Must exercise us without hope of end, The va.s.sals of his anger, when the scourge Inexorable, and the torturing hour Calls us to penance? More destroyed than thus We should be quite abolished and expire.

What fear we then? what doubt we to incense His utmost ire? which to the height enraged, Will either quite consume us, and reduce To nothing this essential (happier far, Than miserable, to have eternal being,) Or, if our substance be indeed divine, And cannot cease to be, we are at worst On this side nothing; and by proof we feel Our power sufficient to disturb his heaven, And with perpetual inroads to alarm, Though inaccessible, his fatal throne; Which, if not victory--is yet Revenge.

Milton.

CCXL.

ANTONY'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears: I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones: So let it be with Caesar, The n.o.ble Brutus Hath told you, Caesar, was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar, answered it.

Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, (For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men), Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Caesar, seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Caesar, hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man.

You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And, sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, not without cause: What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?

O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason! Bear with me: My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me.

But yesterday the word of Caesar, might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence.

O Masters! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Ca.s.sius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men.

I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honorable men: But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar,-- I found it in his closet; 't is his will.

Let but the commons hear this testament (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read), And they, would go and kiss dead Caesar's, wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, Unto their issue.--

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

You all do know this mantle; I remember The first time ever Caesar, ever put it on; 'T was on a summer's evening in his tent; That day he overcame the Nervii.-- Look! In this place ran Ca.s.sius's dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed; And as he plucked his cursed steel away, Mark, how the blood of Caesar, followed it!-- This was the most unkindest cut of all!

For when the n.o.ble Caesar, saw him stab, Ingrat.i.tude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquished him! Then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle m.u.f.fling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar, fell.

O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!

Then I and you, and all of us, fell down, Whilst b.l.o.o.d.y treason flourished 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 Caesar, vesture wounded? Look ye here!

Here is himself--marred, 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 honorable!

What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it! They are wise and honorable, 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 all know me, 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, Action, nor utterance, nor the 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 Caesar'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 Caesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny!

Shakespeare.

CCXLI.

HAMLETS SOLILOQUY.