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RELIGION OF REVOLUTIONARY MEN.

Born into that undying life,

They leave us but to come again ;
With joy we welcome them—the same,

Except in sin and pain.

And ever near us, though unseen,

The dear, immortal spirits tread:
For all the boundless Universe

Is life-there are no dead.

RELIGION OF REVOLUTIONARY MEN-LAMARTINE. I

KNOW-I sigh when I think of it—that hitherto the French

People have been the least religious of all the Nations of Europe. The great men of other countries live and die on the scene of history, looking up to Heaven. Our great men live and die looking at the spectator; or, at most, at posterity. Open the history of America, the history of England, and the history of France. Washington and Franklin fought, spoke, and suffered, always in the name of God, for whom they acted; and the liberator of America died confiding to God the liberty of the People and his own soul. Sidney, the young martyr of a patriotism, guilty of nothing but impatience, and who died to expiate his country's dream of liberty, said to his jailer, “I rejoice that I die innocent toward the king, but a victim, resigned to the King on High, to whom all life is due.” The Republicans of Cromwell sought only the way of God, even in the blood of battles. But look at Mirabeau on the bed of death. “Crown me with flowers," said he; “intoxicate me with perfumes. Let me die to the sound of delicious music.” Not a word was there of God or of his own soul! Sensual philosopher, supreme sensualism was his last desire in his agony! Contemplate Madame Roland, the strong-hearted woman of the Revolution, on the cart that conveyed her to death. Not a glance toward Heaven! Only one word for the earth she was quitting: “O Liberty, what crimes in thy name are committed!” Approach the dungeon door of the Girondins. Their last night is a banquet,-their only hymn the Marseillaise! Hear Danton on the platform of the scaffold: “I have had a good time of it; let me go to sleep." Then, to the executioner: “ You will show

DYING SPEECH OF MARINO FALIERO.

67

my head to the People; it is worth the trouble!” His faith, annihilation; his last sigh, vanity!

Behold the Frenchman of this latter age! What must one think of the religious sentiment of a free People, whose great figures seem thus to march in procession to annihilation, and to whom death itself recalls neither the threatenings nor the promises of God! The Republic of these men without a God was quickly stranded. The liberty, won by so much heroism and so much genius, did not find in France a conscience to shelter it, a God to avenge it, a People to defend it, against that Atheism which was called glory. All euded in a soldier, and some apostate republicans travestied into courtiers. An atheistic Republicanism cannot be heroic. When you terrify it, it yields. When you would buy it, it becomes venal. It would be very foolish to immolate itself. Who would give it credit for the sacrifice,—the People ungrateful, and God non-existent? So finish atheistic Revolutions !

DYING SPEECH OF MARINO FALIERO.-LORD BYRON.

I

SPEAK to Time and to Eternity,

Of which I grow a portion, not to man.
Ye elements! in which to be resolved
I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit
Upon you! Ye blue waves! which bore my banner!
Ye winds! which fluttered o'er as if you loved it,
And filled my swelling sails as they were wafted
To many a triumph! Thou, my native earth,
Which I have bled for; and thou, foreign earth,
Which drank this willing blood from many a wound!
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but
-Reek up to Heaven! Ye skies, which will receive it!
Thou sun! which shinest on these things; and Thou,
Who kindlest and who quenchest suns !-Attest
I am not innocent-but, are these guiltless ?
I perish, but not unavenged; far ages
Float up from the abyss of time to be,
And show these eyes, before they close, the doom

68

DYING SPEECH OF MARINO FALIERO.

Of this proud city; and I leave my curse
On her and hers forever!-Yes, the hours
Are silently engendering of the day
When she, who built ’gainst Attila a bulwark,
Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield,
Unto a bastard Attila, without
Shedding so much blood in her last defence
As these old veins, oft drained in shielding her,
Shall pour in sacrifice. She shall be bought
And sold, and be an appanage to those
Who shall despise her! She shall stoop to be
A province for an empire; petty town
In lieu of capital, with slaves for Senates,
Beggars for Nobles, panders for a People!
Then, when the Hebrew's in thy palaces,
The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek
Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his —
When thy Patricians beg their bitter bread
In narrow streets, and in their shameful need
Make their nobility a plea for pity,-
When all the ills of conquered States shall cling thee-
Vice without splendor, sin without relief,
When these, and more, are heavy on thee,—when
Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure,
Youth without honor, age without respect,
Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe,
'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar’st not murmur,
Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts,
Then, in the last gasp of thine agony,
Amidst thy many murders, think of mine!
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes !
Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom!
Thus I devote thee to the infernal Gods !
Thee, and thy serpent seed !--

THE REMOVAL.

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THE REMOVAL.-ANON.

NERVOUS old gentleman, tired of trade,

By which, though, it seems, he a fortune had made, Took a house 'twixt two sheds, at the skirts of the town, Which he meant, at his leisure, to buy and pull down.

This thought struck his mind when he viewed the estate;
But, alas! when he entered he found it too late;
For in each dwelt a smith ;-a more hard-working two
Never doctored a patient, or put on a shoe.

At six in the morning their an vils, at work,
Awoke our good squire, who raged like a Turk.
« These fellows,” he cried, “such a clattering keep,
That I never can get above eight hours of sleep.”
From morning till night they keep thumping away,—
No sound but the anvil the whole of the day;
His afternoon's nap and his daughter's new song
Were banished and spoiled by their hammers' ding-dong.
He offered each Vulcan to purchase his shop;
But, no! they were stubborn, determined to stop:
At length (both his spirits and health to improve)
He cried, “ I'll give each fifty guineas to move."
“Agreed !” said the pair ; "that will make us amends."
“ Then come to my house, and let us part friends:
You shall dine; and we'll drink on this joyful occasion,
That each may live long in his new habitation."
He gave the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale;
He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale;
So much was he pleased with the thought that each guest
Would take from him noise, and restore him to rest.

“And now,” said he, “ tell me, where mean you to move ?
I hope to some spot where your trade will improve."
“Why, sir," replied one, with a grin on his phiz,
“ Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his !”

70

THE MANIAC.

THE MANIAC.

STAY, jailer! stay, and hear my woe!

For what I'm now too well I know,

And what I was—and what should be! I'll rave no more in proud despair

My language shall be mild, though sad; But yet I'll firmly, truly swear,

I am not mad! I am not mad!

My tyrant husband forged the tale

Which chains me in this dismal cell!
My fate unknown my friends bewail-

O! jailer, haste that fate to tell!
0! haste my father's heart to cheer;

His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad,
To know, though chained a captive here,

I am not mad! I am not mad !

He smiles in scorn-he turns the key

He quits the grate-I knelt in vain !
His glimmering lamp still, still I see

'Tis gone—and all is gloom again! Cold, bitter cold !--no warmth, no light!

Life, all thy comforts once I had !
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,

Although not mad! no, 110—not mad!
'Tis sure some dream—some vision vain !

What! I-the child of rank and wealth Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,

Bereft of freedom, friends, and health ? Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head !

But 'tis not mad! it is not mad !

Hast thou, my child, forgot ere this

A parent's face, a parent's tongue?