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And Cassius; Vetus too, and Thrasea,

Minds of the antique cast, rough, stubborn souls,
That struggle with the yoke. How shall the spark
Unquenchable, that glows within their breasts,
Blaze into freedom, when the idle herd
(Slaves from the womb, created but to stare,
And bellow in the Circus) yet will start,
And skake 'em at the name of liberty,
Stung by a senseless word, a vain tradition,
As there were magic in it? Wrinkled beldams
Teach it their grandchildren, as somewhat rare
That anciently appear'd, but when, extends
Beyond their chronicle-oh! 'tis a cause
To arm the hand of childhood, and rebrace
The slacken'd sinews of time-wearied age.

Yes, we may meet, ungrateful boy, we may !
Again the buried Genius of old Rome
Shall from the dust uprear his reverend head,
Rous'd by the shout of millions: there before
His high tribunal thou and I
Let majesty sit on thy awful brow,

And lighten from thy eye: around thee call
The gilded swarm that wantons in the sunshine
Of thy full favour; Seneca be there,

In gorgeous phrase of labour'd eloquence

To dress thy plea, and Burrhus strengthen it
With his plain soldier's oath, and honest seeming.
Against thee, liberty and Agrippina:

The world, the prize; and fair befall the victors.
But soft! why do I waste the fruitless hours
In threats unexecuted? Haste thee, fly
These hated walls that seem to mock my shame,
And cast me forth in duty to their lord.

ACER. 'Tis time to go, the sun is high advanc'd, And, ere mid-day, Nero will come to Baia.

AGRIP. My thought aches at him; not the basilisk
More deadly to the sight, than is to me
The cool injurious eye of frozen kindness.
I will not meet its poison. Let him feel
Before he sees me.


Where he so soon may

Why then stays my sovereign,


Yes, I will be gone,

But not to Antium-all shall be confess'd,
Whate'er the frivolous tongue of giddy fame

Has spread among the crowd; things, that but whisper'd
Have arch'd the hearer's brow, and riveted

His eyes in fearful ecstacy: no matter
What; so't be strange, and dreadful.-Sorceries,
Assassinations, poisonings the deeper
My guilt, the blacker his ingratitude.


And you, ye manes of ambition's victims,
Enshrined Claudius, with the pitied ghosts
Of the Syllani, doom'd to early death,
(Ye unavailing horrors, fruitless crimes!)
If from the realms of night my voice ye
In lieu of penitence, and vain remorse,
Accept my vengeance. Though by me ye bled,
He was the cause. My love, my fears for him,
Dried the soft springs of pity in my heart,
And froze them up with deadly cruelty.
Yet if your injur'd shades demand my fate,
If murder cries for murder, blood for blood,
Let me not fall alone; but crush his pride,
And sink the traitor in his mother's ruin.


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OTHо. Thus far we're safe. Thanks to the rosy queen Of amorous thefts: and had her wanton son

Lent us his wings, we could not have beguil'd
With more elusive speed the dazzled sight
Of wakeful jealousy. Be gay securely;
Dispel, my fair, with smiles, the tim❜rous cloud
That hangs on thy clear brow. So Helen look'd,
So her white neck reclin'd, so was she borne
By the
young Trojan to his gilded bark
With fond reluctance, yielding modesty,
And oft-reverted eye, as if she knew not
Whether she fear'd, or wish'd to be pursued.



HAIL, Horrors, hail! ye ever gloomy bowers,
Ye gothic fanes, and antiquated towers,
Where rushy Camus' slowly-winding flood
Perpetual draws his humid train of mud:
Glad I revisit thy neglected reign,
Oh take me to thy peaceful shade again.

But chiefly thee, whose influence, breath'd from high,
Augments the native darkness of the sky;
Ah Ignorance! soft salutary power!
Prostrate with filial reverence I adore.
Thrice hath Hyperion roll'd his annual race,
Since weeping I forsook thy fond embrace.
Oh say, successful dost thou still oppose
Thy leaden Ægis 'gainst our ancient foes?
Still stretch, tenacious of thy right divine,
The massy sceptre o'er thy slumb'ring line?
And dews Lethean through the land dispense
To steep in slumbers each benighted sense?
If any spark of wit's delusive ray

Break out, and flash a momentary day.
With damp, cold touch forbid it to aspire,
And huddle
up in fogs the dangerous fire.

Oh say-she hears me not, but careless grown, Lethargic nods upon her ebon throne. Goddess! awake, arise! alas my fears! Can powers immortal feel the force of years? Not thus of old, with ensigns wide unfurl'd, She rode triumphant o'er the vanquish'd world; Fierce nations own'd her unresisted might, And all was ignorance, and all was night.

Oh sacred age! Oh times for ever lost! (The schoolman's glory, and the churchman's boast.) For ever gone-yet still to Fancy new, Her rapid wings the transient scene pursue, And bring the buried ages back to view.

High on her car, behold the grandam ride, Like old Sesostris, with barbaric pride; *** a team of harness'd monarchs bend

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