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 and mutiny!

-Shakespeare.

Now like smiths at their forges
Worked the red St. George's
Cannoniers,

And the "villainous saltpeter"
Rang a fierce, discordant meter
Round their ears:

As the swift

Storm-drift,

With hot sweeping anger,

Came the horse-guards' clangor
On our flanks;

Then higher, higher, higher,
Burned the old-fashioned fire
Through the ranks!

Then the old-fashioned colonel
Galloped through the white infernal
Powder cloud;

And his broad sword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing.
Trumpet loud:

Then the blue
Bullets flew,

And the trooper jackets redden
At the touch of the leaden
Rifle breath,

And rounder, rounder, rounder,
Roared the iron six-pounder,
Hurling death!

CLV.-ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting,
By turns they felt the glowing mind

Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each-for Madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept, with hurried hands, the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds!-his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad, by fits,-by starts, 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised 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 called on Echo still through all her song;
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope, enchanted, smiled and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose.

He threw his blood-stained 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 woe;
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 unaltered mien,

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed;

Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed:
And now it courted Love-now, raving, called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And, from her wild, sequestered seat,
In notes, by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft, from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole:
Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay-
Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, oh! how altered was its sprightly tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown, advancing,

First to the lively, pipe his hand addressed;

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids, Amid the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic round-
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amid his frolic play,

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

-William Collins.

CLVI.-POLONIOUS TO LAERTES.

My blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy memory:

See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar:

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,

Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;

But do not dull thy palm with entertainment

Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in,

Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;

Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy:

For the apparel oft proclaims the man;

And they in France, of the best rank and station, Are of a most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be: