The reign of guilty glory. His be the chaplet dropping gòre, Scourge of the Nórth, the Sóuth, the Wèst! 4 But thee, fair Daughter of the Seas, Though doomed perchance awhile to bear Shall Europe's exiled virtue throng, 5 So shalt thou rèst, through rolling years, And to a thousand circling foes EXERCISE 95. Eliza.-DARWIN. Now stood Eliza, on the wood-crown'd height, O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight, Sought, with bold eye, amid the bloody strife, Her dearer self, the partner of her life; 5 From hill to hill the rushing host pursu❜d, And viewed his banner, or, believed she viewed. Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread, Fast by his hand, one lisping boy she led; And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm 10 Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm; While round her brows bright beams of honour dart, -Near, and more near, the intrepid beauty pressed, Saw, through the driving smoke, his dancing crest; 15 Heard the exulting shout, “ They run! they run!" Great God!" she cried, "he 's safe! the battle's won!" -A ball now hisses through the airy tides, (Some fury speeds it, and some demon guides!) Parts the fine locks, her graceful head that deck, 20 Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck; The red stream issuing from her azure veins Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains."Ah me!" she cried, (and, sinking on the ground, Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound;) Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn! 25 " 66 Wait, gushing life, oh wait, my love's return! Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far! "Oh spare, ye war hounds, spare their tender age!30"On me, on me," she cried, exhaust your rage!" Then with weak arms, her weeping babes caressed, And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest. From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies, (Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes:) 35 Eliza's name along the camp he calls, Eliza! echoes through the canvass walls; Quick through the murmuring gloom, his footsteps tread 40 Lo! dead Eliza, weltering in her blood! -Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds, 45 Poor weeping babe, with bloody fingers pressed, Why do you weep?-Mamma will soon awake." -"She'll wake no more!" the hopeless mourner cried, 50 Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands, and sighed; Stretched on the ground awhile entranced he lay, And pressed warm kisses on the lifeless clay; And, all the father kindled in his heart: 66 55 "O, Heavens!" he cried, my first rash vow forgive! "These bind to earth, for these I pray to live!" Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest EXERCISE 96. Character of Mr. Brougham.-ANONYMOUS. Brougham, is a thunderbolt. He may come in the dark, he may come at random, his path may be in the viewless and graspless air; but still, give him something solid, let him come in contact with the earth, and, be it 5 beautiful or barren, it feels the power of his terrible visitation. You see not, or rather you heed not, the agent which works: but, just as when the arch-giant of physical destroyers rends his way, you see the kingdoms of nature yielding at his approach, and the mightiest 10 of their productions brushed aside as though they were dust, or torn as though they were gossamer. While he raises his voice in the house-while he builds firmly and broadly the bases of his own propositions, and snatches from every science a beam to enlarge 15 and strengthen his work; and while he indignantly beats down and tramples upon all that has been reared by his antagonist, you feel as if the wind of annihilation were in his hand, and the power of destruction in his possession. 20 There cannot be a greater treat than to hear Brougham upon one of those questions which give scope for the mighty swell of his mind, and which permit him to launch the bolts of that tremendous sarcasm, for which he has not now, and perhaps never had, an equal in the 25 house. When his display is a reply, you see his long and lathy figure drawn aside from others, and coiled up within itself like a snake, and his eyes glancing from under the slouched hat, as fiery and as fatal as those of the basilisk; you mark the twin demons of irony and 30 contempt, playing about the tense and compressed line of his mouth. Up rises the orator, slowly and clumsily. His body, swung into an attitude which is none of the most grace ful. His long and sallow visage seems lengthened and 35 deepened in its hue. His eyes, his nose, and mouth seem huddled together, as if, while he presses every illustration into his speech, he were at the same time condensing all his senses into one. There is a lowering sublimity in his brows, which one seldom sees equal40 led; and the obliquity of the light shows the organization of the upper and lateral parts of his forehead, proud and palpable as the hills of his native north. His left hand is extended with the palm, prepared as an anvil, upon which he is ever and anon to hammer, with the 45 forefinger of his right, as the preparation to that full swing which is to give life to every muscle, and motion to every limb. He speaks! In the most powerful and sustained, and at the same time, the most close, clear and logical manner, does he demolish the castle which 50 his opponent had built for himself. You have the sounds, you see the flash, you look for the castle, and it is not. Stone after stone, turret after turret, battlement after battlement, and wing after wing, are melted away, and nothing left, save the sure foundation, upon which the 55 orator himself may build. There are no political bowels in him. He gives no quarter, and no sooner has he fazed the fort, than he turns him to torture the garrison. It is now that his mock solemnity is something more terrible than the satire of Canning, the glow of Burdett, 60 or the glory of Mackintosh. His features, (which are always grave) assume the very depth of solemnity; and his voice (which is always solemn) falls into that under soprano, (that visionary tone between speech and whisper) which men employ when they speak of their own 65 graves, and coffins. You would imagine it not audible, and yet its lowest syllable runs through the house like wild-fire. You would think it meant only for the ear of him who is the subject of it, yet it comes immediately, and powerfully, and without the possibility of being for70 gotton, to every one within the walls. You would think it the fond admonition of a sainted father to the errors of a beloved son; and yet, it has in reality more of that feeling which the Devil is said to exercise, when he acts as the accuser of the brethren.-You may push aside 75 the bright thing which raises a laugh; you may find a cover from the wit which ambles to you on antithesis, or quotation; but, against the home reproof of Brougham there is no defence; its course is so firm that you cannot dash it aside. EXERCISE 97. Character of Mr. Wilberforce.-ANONYMOUS. The speeches of Mr. Wilberforce, are among the very few good things now remaining in the British Parliament: his diction is elegant, rich, and spirited; his tones are so distinct and so melodious, that the most hostile ear 5 hangs on them delighted. Then his address is so insinuating, that if he talked nonsense, you would feel yourself obliged to hear him. I recollect when the House had been tired night after night, with discussing the endless questions relating to Indian Policy, when the 10 commerce and finances and resources of our oriental empire had exhausted the lungs of all the speakers, and the patience of all the auditors-at that period, Mr. Wilberforce, with a just confidence in his powers, ventured to broach the hackneyed subject of Hindoo con15 version. He spoke three hours, but nobody seemed fatigued: all, indeed, were pleased, some with the ingenious artifices of his manner, but most with the glowing language of his heart. Much as I differed from him in opinion, it was impossible not to be delighted with his 20 eloquence: and though I wish most heartily that the Hindoos might be left to their own trinity, yet I felt disposed to agree with him, that some good must arise to the human mind, by being engaged in a controversy which will exercise most of its faculties. Mr. Wilber25 force is now verging towards age,* and speaks but seldom; he, however, never speaks without exciting a wish that he would say more; he maintains, like Mr. Grattan, great respectability of character, by disdaining to mix in the daily paltry squabbles of party: he is no 30 hunter after place. * * * * * I confess I always look with equal respect and pleasure on this eloquent veteran, lingering among his bustling, *Written in 1814 or 1815. |
