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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.

Byron.
He wandered on, along the beach,
Till within the range of a carbine's reach
Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not,
Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot?
Did traitors lurk in the Christian's hold ?
Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold ?
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball,
Tho' he stood beneath the bastion's frown,
That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town ;
Tho' he heard the sound, and could almost tell
The sullen words of the sentinel,
As his measured step on the stone below
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ;
And he saw the lean dogs, beneath the wall,
Hold o'er the dead their carnival ;
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb,
They were too busy to bark at him!
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh,
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh;
And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull,
As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew dull;
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,
When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed,
So well had they broken a lingering fast
With those who had fallen for that night's repast.
And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolld on the sand,
The foremost of these were the best of his band ;
Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear;
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,
All the rest was shaven and bare :
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,
The hair was tangled round his jaw.
But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf,
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away,
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ;
But he seiz'd on his share of a steed that lay,
Pick'd by the birds, on the sand of the bay.

Alp turn’d him from the sickening sight :
Never had shaken his nerves in fight;
But he better could brook to behold the dying,
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying,
Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain
Than the perishing dead, who are past all pain.
There is something of pride in the perilous hour,
Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ;
For fame is there to say who bleeds,
And honour's eye on daring deeds !
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread,
O’er the weltering field of the tombless dead ;
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air,
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ;
All regarding man as their prey ;
All rejoicing in his decay.

THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE GASCON.

Ar Neufchatel, in France, where they prepare

Cheeses that set us longing to eat mites,
There dwelt a farmer's wife famed for her rare

Skill in these small quadrangular delights.
Where they were made they sold for the immense

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,
A Gascon peasant, with a sturdy arm

For digging, or for carrying logs ;-
But in his noddle weak as any baby,

In fact a gaby;
And such a glutton, when you came to feed him,

That Wantly's Dragon, who ate “barns and churches,"

As if they were geese and turkeys,
Scarcely could exceed him.
One morn she had prepared a monstrous bowl

Of cream like nectar,
And would not go to church (good careful soul!)

Till she had left it safe with a protector ;
So she gave strict injunction to the Gascon
To watch it while his mistress was to mass gone.
Watch it he did-he never took his eyes off,

But licked his upper, then his under lip,

And doubled up his fist to keep the flies off,
Begrudging them the smallest sip,

Which if they got,
Like

my Lord Salisbury, he heav'd a sigh, And cried—“Oh happy, happy fly,

How I do envy you your lot!”
Each moment did his appetite grow stronger ;

His bowels yearned ;
At length he could not bear it any longer,

But on all sides his looks he turn'd,
And finding that the coast was clear, he quaff'd

The whole up at a draught.
Scudding from church, the farmer's wife

Flew to the dairy ;
But stood aghast, and could not for her life

One sentence mutter,
Until she muster'd breath enough to utter-

"Holy St. Mary!"
And shortly, with a face of scarlet,

The vixen (for she was a vixen) flew

Upon the varlet,
Asking the when, and where, and how, and who,
Had gulph'd her cream, nor left an atom ?

To which he gave, not separate replies,
But, with a look of excellent digestion,
One answer made to every question,

“The flies!”
“ The flies! you rogue! the flies ! you guttling dog,
Behold

your

whiskers still are cover'd thickly ;
Thief!-villain !- liar !-gormandizer !-hog! -

I'll make you tell another story quickly!”
So out she bounc'd, and brought, with loud alarms,
Two stout gens-d'armes,
Who bore him to the judge-a little prig,

With angry bottle-nose,

Like a red cabbage-rose,
While lots of white ones flourished in his wig !
Looking at once both stern and wise,

He turn’d to the delinquent,
And 'gan to question him, and catechise,

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.

66

You've my authority, where'er you meet them,
To kill the rogues, and, if you like it, eat them.”
Zooks!” cried the rustic, “ I'm right glad to hear it.
Constables, catch that thief ! may

I

go hang
If yonder blue-bottle (I know his face)
Isn't the very leader of the gang
That stole the cream ;-let me come near it."

This said, he started from his place,
And aiming one of his sledge-hammer blows
At a large fly upon the judge's nose,
The luckless blue-bottle he crush'd,

And gratified a double grudge ;
For the same catapult completely smash'd
The bottle-nose belonging to the judge !

New Monthly Magazine.

THE DIRGE OF WALLACE.

Campbell.

They lighted a taper at dead of night,

And chanted their holiest hymn;
But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright,

Her eye was all sleepless and dim!
And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,

When a death-watch beat in her lonely room,
When her curtain had shook of its own accord,
And the raven had flapped at her window-board,

To tell of her warrior's doom !

Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray

For the soul of my Knight so dear;
And call me a widow this wretched day,

Since the warning of God is here!
For a nightmare rides on my strangled sleep,

The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die ;
His valorous heart they have wounded deep,
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep

For Wallace of Elderslie.

Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,

Ere the loud matin bell was rung,
That a trumpet of death on an English tower,

Had the dirge of her champion sung!
When his dungeon light look'd dim and red,

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.

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