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us here in council, takes part in our deliberations, and with his measuring eye, marks out each man of us for slaughter. And we, all this while, strenuous that we are, think we have amply discharged our duty to the state, if we but shun this madman's sword and fury.

Long since, O Catiline, ought the Consul to have ordered thee to execution, and brought upon thine own head the ruin thou hast been meditating against others. There was that virtue once in Rome, that a wicked citizen was held more execrable than the deadliest foe. We have a law still, Catiline, for thee. Think not that we are powerless, because forbearing. We have a decree, though it rests among our archives like a sword in its scabbard, a decree by which thy life would be made to pay the forfeit of thy crimes. And, should I order thee to be instantly seized and put to death, I make just doubt whether all good men would not think it done rather too late than any man too cruelly.

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But, for good reasons, I will yet defer the blow long since deserved. Then will I doom thee, when no`man is found so lost, so wicked, nay, so like thyself, but shall confess that it was justly dealt. While there is one man that dares defend thee, live! But thou shalt live so beset, so surrounded, so scrutinized, by the vigilant guards that I have placed around thee, that thou shalt not stir a foot against the Republic, without my knowledge. There shall be eyes to detect thy slightest movement, and ears to catch thy wariest whisper, of which thou shalt not dream. The darkness of night shall not cover thy treason, the walls of privacy shall not stifle its voice. Baffled on all sides, thy most secret counsels clear as noonday, what canst thou now have in view? Proceed, plot, conspire, as thou wilt; there is nothing you can contrive, nothing you can propose, nothing you can attempt, which I shall not know, hear, and promptly understand. Thou shalt soon be made aware that I am even more active in providing for the preservation of the state, than thou in plotting its destruction.

CICERO.

CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.

CONSCRIPT Fathers:

I do not rise to waste the night in words;
Let that Plebeian talk, 'tis not my trade;

But here I stand for right, let him show proofs,
For Roman right, though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there!
Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves!
His charge is false; I dare him to his proofs.

You have my answer.

Let my actions speak!

But this I will avow, that I have scorned
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong.
Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword,
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back,
Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts
The gates of honor on me, - turning out
The Roman from his birthright; and for what?

To fling your offices to every slave!

Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb,
And, having wound their loathsome track to the top
Of this huge, mouldering monument of Rome,
Hang hissing at the nobler man below.

Come, consecrated Lictors, from your thrones;

(To the Senate.)

Fling down your sceptres; take the rod and axe,
And make the murder as you make the law.

Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free From daily contact of the things I loathe?

"Tried and convicted traitor!"

Who'll prove it, at his peril, on

Who says this?

my head?

Banished! I thank you for't. It breaks my chain!

I held some slack allegiance till this hour;

But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my Lords!
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,

Thinking that our remembrance, thougn unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;

For when with raptures wild

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Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs
To stir a fever in the blood of age,

Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.

This day's the birth of sorrow; this hour's work
Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my Lords!
For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus; all shames and crimes;
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup;
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Till Anarchy comes down on you like night,
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave

I go; but not to leap the gulf alone.

I go; but when I come, 'twill be the burst
Of ocean in the earthquake,

rolling back

In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well!
You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood
Shall quench its flame! Back, slaves!

I will return.

GEORGE CROLY.

RESIGNATION.

CONSCRIPT FATHERS:

I do not rise to waste the night in words;
Let that Plebeian talk, 'tis not my

trade;

The air is full of farewells to the dying;

And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient!

These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,

the child of our affection,

But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her
She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest,

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.

LONGFELLOW.

WAX WORK.

ONCE on a time, some years ago,
Two Yankees, from Connecticut,
Were travelling, - on foot of course,
A style now out of date;

And, being far away down South,

It wasn't strange or funny,

That they, like other folks, sometimes
Should be out of money.

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