And rouse th' inspiring soul of song
To speed the banquet's hour along!—
The feast is spread, and music's call
Is echoing through the royal hall,
And banners wave and trophies shine
O'er stately guests in glittering line;
And Otho seeks awhile to chase
The thoughts he never can erase,

And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep
Rise like a spirit on his sleep-

The still small voice of conscience-die,
Lost in the din of revelry.

On his pale brow dejection lowers,
But that shall yield to festal hours;
A gloom is in his faded eye,

But that from music's power shall fly;
His wasted cheek is wan with care,
But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there.
Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high,
Strike the bold chord exultingly!
And pour upon the enraptured ear
Such strains as warriors love to hear!
Let the rich mantling goblet flow,
And banish aught resembling woe;
And if a thought intrude, of power
To mar the bright convivial hour,
Still must its influence lurk unseen,
And cloud the heart-but not the mien !

Away, vain dream !-on Otho's brow,
Still darker lower the shadows now;
Changed are his features, now o'erspread
With the cold paleness of the dead;
Now crimson'd with a hectic dye,
The burning flush of agony !
His lip is quivering, and his breast
Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress'd;
Now his dim eye seems fix'd and glazed,
And now to heaven in anguish raised;
And as, with unavailing aid,

Around him throng his guests dismay'd,
He sinks-while scarce his struggling breath
Hath power to falter-"This is death!"

Then rush'd that haughty child of song, Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng. Fill'd with a strange delirious light, His kindling eye shone wildly bright; And on the sufferer's mien awhile Gazing with stern vindictive smile, A feverish glow of triumph dyed His burning cheek, while thus he cried :"Yes! these are death-pangs-on thy brow Is set the seal of vengeance now!

Oh! well was mix'd the deadly draught,
And long and deeply hast thou quaff'd;
And bitter as thy pangs may be,

They are but guerdons meet from me!
Yet these are but a moment's throes-
Howe'er intense, they soon shall close.
Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath-
My life hath been a lingering death,
Since one dark hour of woe and crime,
A blood-spot on the page of time!

"Deem'st thou my mind of reason void?
It is not frenzied-but destroy'd!
Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought--
That work of ruin thou hast wrought!

The secret of thy doom to tell,
My name alone suffices well!
Stephania!-once a hero's bride!
Otho! thou know'st the rest-he died.
Yes! trusting to a monarch's word,
The Roman fell, untried, unheard!
And thou, whose every pledge was vain,
How couldst thou trust in aught again?

"He died, and I was changed-my soul,
A lonely wanderer, spurn'd control.
From peace, and light, and glory hurl'd,
The outcast of a purer world,

I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown,
And lived for one dread task alone.
The task is closed, fulfill'd the vow-
The hand of death is on thee now.
Betrayer! in thy turn betray'd,
The debt of blood shall soon be paid!
Thine hour is come-the time hath been
My heart had shrunk from such a scene;
That feeling long is past-my fate
Hath made me stern as desolate.

"Ye that around me shuddering stand, Ye chiefs and princes of the land! Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom? Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb ! He sleeps unhonour'd-yet be mine To share his low, neglected shrine. His soul with freedom finds a home, His grave is that of glory-Rome! Are not the great of old with her, That city of the sepulchre? Lead me to death! and let me share, The slumbers of the mighty there!"

The day departs-that fearful day Fades in calm loveliness away:

From purple heavens its lingering beam
Seems melting into Tiber's stream,
And softly tints each Roman hill

With glowing light, as clear and still
As if, unstain'd by crime or woe,
Its hours had pass'd in silent flow.
The day sets calmly-it hath been
Mark'd with a strange and awful scene:
One guilty bosom throbs no more,
And Otho's pangs and life are o'er.
And thou, ere yet another sun
His burning race hath brightly run,
Released from anguish by thy foes,
Daughter of Rome! shalt find repose.
Yes! on thy country's lovely sky
Fix yet once more thy parting eye!
A few short hours-and all shall be
The silent and the past for thee.
Oh! thus with tempests of a day
We struggle, and we pass away,

Like the wild billows as they sweep,
Leaving no vestige on the deep!
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed
The sons of future days shall tread,
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot,
By them unknown, by thee forgot.

THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

["Antony, concluding that he could not die more honourably than in battle, determined to attack Cæsar at the same time both by sea and land. The night preceding the execution of this design, he ordered his servants at supper to render him their best services that evening, and fill the wine round plentifully, for the day following they might belong to another master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His friends were affected, and wept to hear him talk thus; which when he perceived, he encouraged them by assurances that his expectations of a glorious victory were at least equal to those of an honourable death. At the dead of night, when universal silence reigned through the city—a silence that was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day-on a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go out at the gate which led to the enemy's camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him."— LANGHORNE'S Plutarch.]

THY foes had girt thee with their dread array,
O stately Alexandria !—yet the sound
Of mirth and music, at the close of day,
Swell'd from thy splendid fabrics far around

But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath made

His desolation-thou art by his side,

In all thy sovereignty of charms array'd,

To meet the storm with still unconquer'd pride. Imperial being! e'en though many a stain

Of error be upon thee, there is power
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign
O'er the stern genius of misfortune's hour;
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye
E'en now is all illumed with wild sublimity.

Thine aspect, all impassion'd, wears a light
Inspiring and inspired-thy cheek a dye,
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright

With the deep glow of feverish energy.
Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraught
With an immortal fire-in every beam
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought,
But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream;
For thou with death hast communed to attain
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from
the chain.1

And the stern courage by such musings lent,
Daughter of Afric! o'er thy beauty throws
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent

With all the majesty of mighty woes :
While he, so fondly, fatally adored,

Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet, Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar'd Can deem the day-star of its glory set; Scarce his charm'd heart believes that power can be In sovereign fate, o'er him thus fondly loved by thee.

But there is sadness in the eyes around,

Which mark that ruin'd leader, and survey His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound Strange triumph chases haughtily away. "Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!" he cries; "Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep! Ere sunset gild once more the western skies

Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep; While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea, And the red bowl again is crown'd-but not for me.

1 Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being desirous to know which was least painful in the operation, she tried them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their operation, she found to be attended with violent pain and convulsions; such as were milder were slow in their effect: she therefore applied herself to the examination of venomous creatures; and at length she found that the bite of the asp was the most eligible kind of death, for it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy.-See PLUTARCH.

"Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o'er, O victors of Philippi! many a field Hath yielded palms to us: one effort more!

By one stern conflict must our doom be seal'd. Forget not, Romans! o'er a subject world

How royally your eagle's wing hath spread, Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurl'd,

Now bursts the tempest on his crested head! Yet sovereign still, if banish'd from the sky, The sun's indignant bird, he must not droop-but die."

The feast is o'er. "Tis night, the dead of nightUnbroken stillness broods o'er earth and deep; From Egypt's heaven of soft and starry light

The moon looks cloudless o'er a world of

sleep.

For those who wait the morn's awakening beams,
The battle-signal to decide their doom,
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams;-
Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb ;
Dreams dark and ominous, but there to cease,
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace.

Wake, slumberers! wake! Hark! heard ye not a sound

Of gathering tumult?-Near and nearer still Its murmur swells. Above, below, around, Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill.

Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the tread
Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note
Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread,
Is heard upon the midnight air to float;
And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth,
Mingle their thousand tones, which are not of the
earth.

These are no mortal sounds-their thrilling strain Hath more mysterious power, and birth more

high;

And the deep horror chilling every vein
Owns them of stern terrific augury.
Beings of worlds unknown! ye pass away,
O ye invisible and awful throng!
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay
To Cæsar's camp exulting move along.
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky
By that dread sign reveals thy doom-" Despair
and die !"2

2To-morrow in the battle think on me,

And fall thy edgeless sword; despair and die!'
Richard III.

ALARIC IN ITALY.

[After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the German and Scythian hordes united under the command of Alaric, the historian of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire thus proceeds :-" Whether fame, or conquest, or 1 riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that object with an indefatigable ardour, which could neither be quelled by adversity nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the neighbouring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even the possession of Sicily he considered only as an intermediate step to the important expedition which he already meditated against the continent of Africa. The straits of Rhegium and Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the narrowest passage, about one mile and a half broad; and the fabulous monsters of the deep-the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool of Charybdis could terrify none but the most timid and unskilful mariners: yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered many of the transports. Their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element; and the whole design was defeated by the premature death of Alaric, which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of his conquests. The ferocious character of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated with mournful applause. By the labour of a captive multitude, they forcibly diverted the course of the Busentinus, a small river that washes the walls of Consentia. The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant bed; the waters were then restored to their natural channel, and the secret spot where the remains of Alaric had been deposited was for ever concealed by the inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to execute the work."-Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 329.]

1

HEARD ye the Gothic trumpet's blast?
The march of hosts as Alaric pass'd?
His steps have track'd that glorious clime,

The birth-place of heroic time;
But he, in northern deserts bred,
Spared not the living for the dead,1

Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries
From temple and from tomb arise.
He pass'd-the light of burning fanes
Hath been his torch o'er Grecian plains;

1 After the taking of Athens by Sylla, "though such Jumbers were put to the sword, there were as many who laid violent hands upon themselves in grief for their sinking country. What reduced the best men among them to this despair of finding any mercy or moderate terms for Athens, was the well-known cruelty of Sylla: yet, partly by the intercession of Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles who threw themselves at his feet-partly by the entreaties of the senators who attended him in that expedition, and being himself satiated with blood besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop his hand; and in compliment to the ancient Athenians, he said, 'he forgave the many for the sake of the few, the living for the dead."-PLUTARCH.

And woke they not-the brave, the free,
To guard their own Thermopyla?
And left they not their silent dwelling,
When Scythia's note of war was swelling?
No! where the bold Three Hundred slept,
Sad freedom battled not-but wept !
For nerveless then the Spartan's hand,
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band;
Nor one high soul from slumber broke
When Athens own'd the northern yoke.

But was there none for thee to dare
The conflict, scorning to despair?
O City of the seven proud hills!
Whose name e'en yet the spirit thrills,
As doth a clarion's battle-call-
Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall?
Did no Camillus from the chain
Ransom thy Capitol again?

Oh, who shall tell the days to be
No patriot rose to bleed for thee!

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast? The march of hosts as Alaric pass'd? That fearful sound, at midnight deep,2 Burst on the Eternal City's sleep :How woke the mighty? She whose will So long had bid the world be still, Her sword a sceptre, and her eye Th' ascendant star of destiny! She woke to view the dread array Of Scythians rushing to their prey, To hear her streets resound the cries Pour'd from a thousand agonies! While the strange light of flames, that gave A ruddy glow to Tiber's wave, Bursting in that terrific hour From fane and palace, dome and tower, Reveal'd the throngs, for aid divine, Clinging to many a worshipp'd shrine : Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed O'er spear and sword, with carnage red, Shone o'er the suppliant and the flying, And kindled pyres for Romans dying.

Weep, Italy! alas, that e'er

Should tears alone thy wrongs declare!

2" At the hour of midnight the Salarian gate was silently opened, and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremendous sound of the Gothic trumpet. Eleven hundred and sixty-three years after the foundation of Rome, the imperial city, which had subdued and civilised so considerable a portion of mankind, was delivered to the licentious fury of the tribes of Germany and Scythia."-Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 311.

The time hath been when thy distress
Had roused up empires for redress!
Now, her long race of glory run,
Without a combat Rome is won,
And from her plunder'd temples forth
Rush the fierce children of the North,
To share beneath more genial skies
Each joy their own rude clime denies.

Ye who on bright Campania's shore
Bade your fair villas rise of yore,
With all their graceful colonnades,
And crystal baths, and myrtle shades,
Along the blue Hesperian deep,
Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep-
Beneath your olive and your vine
Far other inmates now recline;
And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed
With rich libations duly shed,1
O'er guests, unlike your vanish'd friends,
Its bowery canopy extends.

For them the southern heaven is glowing,
The bright Falernian nectar flowing;
For them the marble halls unfold,
Where nobler beings dwelt of old,
Whose children for barbarian lords
Touch the sweet lyre's resounding chords,
Or wreaths of Pæstan roses twine
To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine.
Yet, though luxurious they repose
Beneath Corinthian porticoes-
While round them into being start
The marvels of triumphant art—
Oh! not for them hath Genius given
To Parian stone the fire of heaven,
Enshrining in the forms he wrought
A bright eternity of thought.
In vain the natives of the skies
In breathing marble round them rise,
And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade
People the dark-green laurel shade.
Cold are the conqueror's heart and eye
To visions of divinity;

And rude his hand which dares deface
The models of immortal grace.

Arouse ye from your soft delights! Chieftains the war-note's call invites;

1 The plane-tree was much cultivated among the Romans, on account of its extraordinary shade; and they used to nourish it with wine instead of water, believing (as Sir W. Temple observes) that "this tree loved that liquor as well as those who used to drink it under its shade."-See the notes to MELMOTH'S Pliny.

And other lands must yet be won,
And other deeds of havoc done.
Warriors! your flowery bondage break;
Sons of the stormy North, awake!
The barks are launching from the steep-
Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,2
And Afric's burning winds afar
Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric's war.
Where shall his race of victory close?
When shall the ravaged earth repose?
But hark! what wildly mingling cries
From Scythia's camp tumultuous rise?
Why swells dread Alaric's name on air?
A sterner conquerer hath been there!
A conqueror-yet his paths are peace,
He comes to bring the world's release;
He of the sword that knows no sheath,
The avenger, the deliverer-Death!

Is then that daring spirit fled? Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? Tamed are the warrior's pride and strength, And he and earth are calm at length. The land where heaven unclouded shines, Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines; The land by conquest made his own, Can yield him now-a grave alone. But his-her lord from Alp to seaNo common sepulchre shall be ! Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye Its buried wealth may ne'er descry! Where mortal foot may never tread Above a victor-monarch's bed. Let not his royal dust be hid 'Neath star-aspiring pyramid; Nor bid the gather'd mound arise, To bear his memory to the skies. Years roll away-oblivion claims Her triumph o'er heroic names; And hands profane disturb the clay That once was fired with glory's ray; And Avarice, from their secret gloom, Drags e'en the treasures of the tomb. But thou, O leader of the free! That general doom awaits not thee: Thou, where no step may e'er intrude, Shalt rest in regal solitude, Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, The Awakener's final trumpet sound. Turn ye the waters from their course, Bid Nature yield to human force,

1 Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured and pecur liar dominion of Ceres.