Pulled out his watch, and cried "Păst nine! Backward he turned his steps instanter,* He could n't gallop, trot, or canter, (Those who had seen him would confess it), he Eying his watch, and now his forehead mopping, "Tell me," he pǎnted in a thawing state, "Dost think I can get in, friend, at the gate?" Measuring with his eye our bulky wight, 66 Why—yes, sir,—I should think you might; A load of hay went in this afternoon." LESSON CLXIV. Speech of Catiline before the Roman Senate, in reply to the Charges of Cicero. CROLY'S Catiline. CONSCRIPT FATHERS! I do not rise to waste the night in words; Let that plebe'ian talk; 't is not my trade; But here I stand for right. Let him show proofs; For Roman right; though none, it seems, dare stand * Immediately actions speak You have my answer: * * * Let my The gates of honor on me, turning out The Roman from his birthright; and for what? To fling your offices to every slave; (— Looking round him.) 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, Was it the chime of a tiny bell, That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, And he his notes as silvery quite, While the boatman listens and ships his oar, But no; it was not a fairy's shell, Blown on the beach so mellow and clear; Striking the hour, that filled my ear, And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,* O, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow! And lo! she had changed :— in a few short hours, Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, 66 Passing away! passing away!" The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush This word, brought from the French into our own language, retains its French pronunciation, -boo-kay. And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, That marched so calmly round above her, Was a little dimmed, as when evening steals Upon noon's hot face:-Yet one could n't but love her, For she looked like a mother, whose first babe lay, Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; And she seemed in the same silver tone to say, "Passing away! passing away!" While yet I looked, what a change there came! Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan: Stooping and staffed was her withered frame, Yet just as busily, swung she on; The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain When on my ear this plaintive strain Slow, solemn, stole. "Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows. Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, "Even in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pampered Luxury,- Flattery by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide, And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glittering show, A creature of another kind, Some coarser substance, unrefined, Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. "Where, where is Love's fond, tender thre, The powers you proudly own? * "O ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown |