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immortal gods. Should we by our valour recover only Sicily and Sardinia, which were ravished from our fathers, those would be no inconsiderable prizes. Yet, what are these ? The wealth of Rome, whatever riches she has heaped together in the spoils of nations, all these, with the masters of them, will be yours. You have been long enough employed in driving the cattle upon the vast mountains of Lusitania and Celtiberia ; you have hitherto met with no reward worthy of the labours and dangers you have undergone. The time is now come to reap the full recompense of
your toilsome marches over so many mountains and rivers, and through so many nations, all of them in arms. This is the place which fortune has appointed to be the limits of your labours ; it is here that you will finish your glorious warfare, and receive an ample recompense of your completed service. For I would not have you imagine, that victory will be as difficult as the name of a Roman war is great and sounding. It has often happened that a despised enemy has given a bloody battle, and the most renowned kings and nations have by a small force been overthrown. And if you but take away the glitter of the Roman name, what is there wherein they may stand in competition with you? For from the very pillars of Hercules, from the ocean, from the utmost bounds of the earth, through so many warlike nations of Spain and Gaul, are you not come hither victorious ? And with whom are you now to fight? With raw soldiers, an undisciplined army, beaten, vanquished, besieged by the Gauls the very last summer; an army unknown to their leader, and unacquainted with him.
Or shall I, the conqueror of Spain and Gaul, and not only of the Alpine nations, but which is greater yet, of the Alps themselves, shall I compare myself with this half-year captain ? A captain ! before whom should one place the two armies without their ensigns, I am persuaded he would not know to which of them he is consul ! I esteem it no small advantage, soldiers, that there is not one among you, who has not often been an eye-witness of my exploits in war ; not one of whose valour I myself have not been a spectator.
On what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all full of courage and strength; a veteran infantry, a most gallant cavalry ; you, my allies, most faithful and valiant ; you, Carthaginians, whom not only your country's cause, but the justest anger impels to battle. With hostile banners displayed, you are come down upon Italy; you bring the war. Grief, injuries, indignities fire your minds, and spur you forward to revenge. First, they demanded me, that I, your general, should be delivered up to them ; next, all of you, who had fought at the siege of Saguntum; ani we were to be put to death by the extremeşt tortures.Proud and cruel nation! Every thing must be yours, and at your disposal ! You are to prescribe to us with whom we shall make war, with whom we shall make peace! You are to set us bounds; to shut us up within hills and rivers; but you—you are not to observe the limits which yourselves have fixed! Pass not the Iberus. What next? Touch not the Saguntines ; Saguntum is upon the Iberus. Move not a step towards that city. Is it a small matter, then, that you have deprived us of our ancient possessions, Sicily and Sardinia : you would have Spain too? Well, we shall yield Spain, and then you will pass into Africa ! Will pass, did I say? This very year they ordered one of their consuls into Africa, the other into Spain. No, soldiers, there is nothing left for us but what we
can vindicate with our swords. Come on, then! Be men! The Romans may with more safety be cowards. They have their own country behind them—have places of refuge to flee to, and are secure from danger in the roads thither ; but for you there is no middle fortune between death and victory.
ALP.-THE BATTLE FIELD.
Alp turn’d him from the sickening sight :
THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE GASCON.
Ar Neufchatel, in France, where they prepare
Cheeses that set us longing to eat mites,
Skill in these small quadrangular delights.
Price of three sous apiece ;
But as salt-water made their charms increase, In England the fixed rate was eighteen-pence.
This damsel had, to help her in the farm,
To milk her cows, and feed her hogs,
For digging, or for carrying logs ;-
In fact a gaby;
That Wantly's Dragon, who ate “barns and churches,"
As if they were geese and turkeys,
Of cream like nectar,
Till she had left it safe with a protector ;
But licked his upper, then his under lip,
And doubled up his fist to keep the flies off,
Which if they got,
my Lord Salisbury, he heav'd a sigh, And cried—“Oh happy, happy fly,
How I do envy you your lot!”
His bowels yearned ;
But on all sides his looks he turn'd,
The whole up at a draught.
Flew to the dairy ;
One sentence mutter,
"Holy St. Mary!"
The vixen (for she was a vixen) flew
Upon the varlet,
To which he gave, not separate replies,
whiskers still are cover'd thickly ;
I'll make you tell another story quickly!”
With angry bottle-nose,
Like a red cabbage-rose,
He turn’d to the delinquent,
As to which way the drink went. Still the same dogged answers rise, “The flies, my lord; the flies, the flies!” “Pshaw !” quoth the judge, half peevish, and half pompous, “Why you're a non-compos! You should have watch'd the bowl, as she desir'd,
And killed the flies, you stupid clown!”— “What! is it lawful, then,” the dolt inquir'd,
“To kill the flies in this here town?" “This man's an ass !-a pretty question this !
Lawful ? you booby! to be sure it is.
You've my authority, where'er you meet them,
This said, he started from his place,
And gratified a double grudge ;
New Monthly Magazine.
THE DIRGE OF WALLACE.
They lighted a taper at dead of night,
And chanted their holiest hymn;
Her eye was all sleepless and dim!
When a death-watch beat in her lonely room,
To tell of her warrior's doom !
Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray
For the soul of my Knight so dear;
Since the warning of God is here!
The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die ;
For Wallace of Elderslie.
Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,
Ere the loud matin bell was rung,
Had the dirge of her champion sung!
On the high-born blood of a martyr slain, No anthem was sung on his holy death-bed ; No weeping there was when his bosom bled
And his heart was rent in twain.