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Or thy gay smile and converse rendered sweeter,—
I, who have thrice in the ensanguined field,

When death seemed certain, only uttered "BROTHER!”
And seen that form like lightning rush between
Saladin and his foes, and that brave breast
Dauntless exposed to many a furious blow
Intended for my own,-I could forget
That 'twas to thee I owed the věry breath
Which sentenced thee to perish! Oh, 'tis shameful!
Thou canst not pardon me!

Mal. Ad. By these tears, I can!

O brother! from this very hour, a new,
A glorious life commences! I am all thine!
Again the day of gladness or of anguish
Shall Malek Adhel share; and oft again
May this sword fence thee in the bloody field.
Henceforth, Saladin,

My heart, my soul, my sword, are thine forever.

III.

184. BRUTUS AND TITUS.

RUTUS. Well, Titus, speak; how is it with thee now?
I would attend awhile this mighty motion,

Wait till the tempèst were quite overblown,
That I might take thee in the calm of nature,
With all thy gentler virtues brooding on thee:
So hushed a stillness, as if all the gods

Looked down and listened to what we were saying:
Speak, then, and tell me, O my best beloved,

My son, my Titus! is all well again?

Titus. So well, that saying how must make it nothing:
So well, that I could wish to die this moment,

For so my heart, with powerful throbs, persuades me
That were indeed to make you reparation;

That were, my lord, to thank you home-to die

And that, for Titus, too, would be most happy.

Brutus. How's that, my son? would death for thee be happy? Titus. Most certain, Sir; for in my grave I 'scape

All those affronts which I, in life, must look for;

All those reproaches which the eyes, the fingers,
And tongues of Rome will daily cast upon me,-
From whom, to a soul so sensible as mine,

Each single scorn would be far worse than dying.
Besides, I 'scape the stings of my own conscience,
Which will forever rack me with remembrance,
Haunt me by day, and torture me by night,
Casting my blotted honor in the way,
Where'er my měl'ancholy thoughts shall guide me.
Brutus. But, is not death a věry dreadful thing?
Titus. Not to a mind resolved. No, Sir; to me
It seems as natural as to be born.

Groans and convulsions, and discolored faces,
Friends weeping round us, crapes and obsequies,
Make it a dreadful thing: the pomp of death
Is far more terrible than death itself

Yes, Sir; I call the powers of heaven to witness,
Titus dares die, if so you have decreed;
Nay, he shall die with joy to honor Brutus.

Brutus. Thou perfect glory of the Junian race!
Let me endear thee once more to my bosom ;
Grōan an eternal farewell to thy soul;
Instead of tears, weep blood, if possible ;-
Blood, the heart-blood of Brutus, on his child!
For thou must die, my Titus-die, my son!

I swear, the gods have doomed thee to the grave.
The violated genius of thy country

Bares his sad head, and passes sentence on thee.
This morning sun, that lights thy sorrows on
To the tribunal of this horrid vengeance,

Shall never see thee more!

Titus.

Why art thou moved thus?

Alas! my lord,

Why am I worth thy sorrow?

Why should the godlike Brutus shake to doom me?
Why all these trappings for a traitor's hearse?

The gods will have it so.

Brutus.

They will, my Titus;

Nor heaven nor earth can have it otherwise.
Nay, Titus, mark! the deeper that I search,
My harassed soul returns the more confirmed.

Methinks I see the very hand of Jove
Moving the dreadful wheels of this affair,-
Like a machine, they whirl thee to thy fate.
It seems as if the gods had preördained it,
To fix the reeling spirits of the people,
And settle the loose liberty of Rome.

'Tis fixed; O, therefore let not fancy dupe thee!
So fixed thy death, that 'tis not in the power

Of gods or men to save thee from the ax.

Titus. The ax! O Heaven! must I, then, fall so basely? What! shall I perish by the common hangman?

Brutus. If thou deny me this, thou givest me nothing.

Yes, Titus, since the gods have so decreed

That I must lose thee, I will take the advantage
Of thy important fate; cement Rome's flaws,
And heal her wounded freedom with thy blood.
I will ascend myself the sad tribunal,
And sit upon my son-on thee, my Titus ;
Behold thee suffer all the shame of death,
The lictor's lashes, bleed before the people;
Then, with thy hopes and all thy youth upon thee,
See thy head taken by the common ax,

Without a groan, without one pitying tear

(If that the gods can hold me to my purpose),

To make my justice quite transcend example.

Titus. Scourged like a bondman! Ha! a beaten slave!

But I deserve it all: yet, here I fail ;

The image of this suffering quite unmans me.

O Sir! O Brutus! must I call you father,

Yet have no token of your tenderness-
No sign of mercy ? What! not bate me that?
Can you resolve on all the extremity

Of cruel rigor? To behold me, too—

To sit, unmoved, and see me whipped to death-
Is this a father?

Ah, Sir, why should you make my heart suspect
That all your late compassion was dissembled ?
How can I think that you did ever love me?

Brutus. Think that I love thee, by my present passion, By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here;

These sighs, that twitch the věry strings of life;
Think that no other cause on earth could move me
To tremble thus, to sob, or shed a tear,

Nor shake my solid virtue from her point,
But Titus' death. O, do not call it shameful
That thus shall fix the glory of the world.
I own thy suffering ought to unman me thus,
To make me throw my body on the ground,
To bellow like a beast, to gnaw the earth,
To tear my hair, to curse the cruel fates
That force a father thus to kill his child!

Titus. O, rise, thou vīölated majesty!
I now submit to all your threatened vengeance.
Come forth, ye executioners of justice!

Nay, all ye lictors, slaves, and common hangmen
Come, strip me bare, unrobe me in his sight,
And lash me till I bleed! Whip me, like furies!
And, when you've scourged me till I foam and fall
For want of spirits, groveling in the dust,
Then take my head, and give it to his justice:
By all the gods, I greedily resign it?

LEE.

NATHANIEL LEE, an English dramatic writer, was born in Hertfordshire in 1651. He received a classical education at Westminster school, and at Trinity College, Cambridge. He tried the stage both as an actor and author; was four years in bedlam from wild insanity; but recovered his reason, resumed his labors as a dramatist, and though subject to fits of partial derangement, continued to write till the end of his life. He was the author of eleven tragedies, besides assisting Dryden in the composition of "Edipus" and "The Duke of Guise." His best tragedies are the "Rival Queens," "Mithridates," "Theodosius," and Lucius Junius Brutus." He possessed no small degree of the fire of genius, excelling in tenderness and genuine passion; but his style often degenerates into bombast and extravagant phrensy, in part caused by his mental malady. He died in London on the 6th of April, 1692.

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Hart. And not her mind? Oh, dirèst wreck of all!
That noble mind!-But 'tis some passing seizure,
Some powerful movement of a trănsient nature ;
It is not madness!

Theo. 'Tis Heaven's infliction; let us call it so;

Give it no other name.

Eleanora. Nay, do not thus despair; when she behōlds us, She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly soothing, Be gradually restored

Alice.

Let me go to her.

Theo. Nay, forbear, I pray thee;

I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman,
Go in and lead her forth.

Orra. Come back, come back! the fierce and fiery light!
Theo. Shrink not, dear love! it is the light of day.
Orra. Have cocks crowed yet?

Theo. Yes; twice I've heard already

Their matin sound. Look up to the blue sky-
Is it not daylight? And these green boughs
Are fresh and fragrant round thee: every sense
Tells thee it is the cheerful early day.

Orra. Aye, so it is; day takes his daily turns,
Rising between the gulfy dells of night,

Like whitened billows on a gloomy sea.

Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the dark,

And will-o'-the wisp his dancing taper light,"

They will not come again.

[Bending her ear to the ground.

Hark, hark! aye, hark!

They are all there: I hear their hollow sound

Full many a fathom down.

Theo. Be still, poor troubled soul! they'll ne'er return

They are forever gone. Be well assured

Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home,
With crackling fagots on thy midnight fire,
Blazing like day around thee; and thy friends-
Thy living, loving friends-still by thy side,
To speak to thee and cheer thee. See, my Orra!
They are beside thee now; dost thou not know them?
Orra. No, no! athwart the wavering, garish light,
Things move and seem to be, and yet are nothing.
Elea. My gentle Orra, hast thou then forgot me?
Dost not thou know my voice?

Orra. 'Tis like an old tune to my ear returned.
For there be those who sit in cheerful halls,

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