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And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs.

"O Rome! Rome! thou has been a tender nurse to me! Ay, thou hast given, to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, musclesof iron and a heart of flint: taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe! -to gaze into the glaring eye-balls of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, till the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled!

"Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but tomorrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood! Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours,-and a dainty meal for him ye will be!

"If ye are brutes, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher's knife: if ye are men,—follow me! strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and there do bloody work, as did your sires at Old Thermopyla! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master's lash? O comrades! warriors! Thracians!-if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves; if we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors; if we must die, let us die under the open sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle!"

THE CHESTNUT HORSE.

An Eaton stripling, training for the law,
A dunce at Syntax, but a dab at taw,
One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf
His cap and gown, and stores of learned pelf,
With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.
Return'd, and past the usual how-dy'e-does,
Inquiries of old friends, and college news:

"Well, Tom, the road; what saw you worth discerning? How's all at College, Tom?-what is 't you're learning?"

"Learning-O, logic, logic!-not the shallow rules
Of Locke and Bacon-antiquated fools!
But wits' and wranglers' logic; for d 'ye see,
I'll prove as clear, as clear as A, B, C,
That an eel pie 's a pigeon; to deny it,

Is to say black 's not black."—

"Come, let's try it!"

"Well, sir; an eel pie is a pie of fish." "Agreed."
"Fish pie may be a jack pie." "Well, well, proceed."
“A jack pie is a John pie-and, 'tis done!

For every John pie must be a pie-John."-(pigeon.)
"Bravo! bravo !" Sir Peter cries; "logic forever!
That beats my grandmother, and she was clever;
But now I think on 't, 't would be mighty hard
If merit such as thine met no reward;

To show how much I logic love in course,

I'll make thee master of a chestnut horse."

"A horse!" quoth Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces! O, what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!"

Tom dreamt all night of boots and leather breeches,
Of hunting-caps, and leaping rails and ditches;
Rose the next morn an hour before the lark,
And dragg'd his uncle, fasting, to the park;
Bridle in hand, each vale he scours, of course,
To find out something like a chestnut horse;

But no such animal the meadows cropt,

Till under a large tree Sir Peter stopt,
Caught at a branch, and shook it, when down fell
A fine horse chestnut, in its prickly shell.

There, Tom, take that."—" Well, sir, and what beside ?"

"Why, since you're booted, saddle it and ride."
"Ride! what, a chestnut, sir ?"-" Of course,
For I can prove that chestnut is a horse;
Not from the doubtful, fusty, musty rules
Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools,
Nor old Malebranch, blind pilot into knowledge,
But by the laws of wit and Eton college;
As you have prov'd, and which I don't deny,
That a pie John 's the same as a John pie,
The matter follows, as a thing of course,
That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut horse."

THE NATURE OF TRUE ELOQUENCE.
(DANIEL WEBSTER.)

When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech further than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which produce conviction.

True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject and in the occasion.

Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it: they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the out-breaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force.

The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities.

Then, patriotism is eloquent; then, self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, out-running the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward, to his object—this, this is eloquence; or, rather it is something greater and higher than all eloquence-it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action.

WARREN'S ADDRESS.

(REV. JOHN PIERPONT.)

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves-
Will ye give it up to slaves?

Will ye look for greener graves

Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it, ye who will.

?

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they're a-fire!
And before you, see

Who have done it! From the vale
On they come! and will ye quail?—
Leaden rain and iron hail

Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust!
Die we may-and die we must;
But, oh, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,

As where heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell?

BELSHAZZAR.

(B. W. PROCTER.)

Belshazzar is king! Belshazzar is lord!

And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board; Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a

flood

Of the wine that man loveth runs redder than blood;
Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth,
And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth:
And the crowds all shout, till the vast roofs ring-
"All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"

Bring forth," cries the monarch, "the vessels of gold Which my father tore down from the temples of old; Bring forth, and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown,

To the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone;
Bring forth!" and before him the vessels all shine,
And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine;
While the trumpets bray, and the cymbals ring.-
"Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"

Now what cometh-look, look!-without menace, or call?

Who writes with the lightning's bright hand on the wall?

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