I would not give them for it! Mark me, Duke! And on the head-stone read my father's name! nor had returned, At cost of my dear soul! I have done thy work, The point of noon, the breadth of but a hair, As can my eye discern The steel is in thy heart! - and, that unsigned, I speak no more! 17 WILLIAM TELL ON SWITZERLAND. - Adaptation from J. S. Knowles ONCE Switzerland was free! With what a pride I used to walk these hills, look up to Heaven, How happy was I in it, then! I loved In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake, You know the jutting cliff, round which a track And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Have wished me there;- the thought that mine was free 18. WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.-J. S. Knowies. YE crags and peaks, I'm with you once again! I'm with you once again! I call to you With all my voice! - I hold my hands to you, -Scaling yonder peak, I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow Of measuring the ample range beneath And round about; absorbed, he heeded not The death that threatened him. I could not shoot! 'T was liberty! I turned my bow aside, And let him soar away! 19. THE FRACTIOUS MAN.-Original Translation from Brueys. Monsieur Grichard. Blockhead! Would you keep me knocking two hours at the door? Lolive. I was at work, Sir, in the garden. At the first sound of the knocker, I ran to answer it with such haste, as to fall down on the way. M. Gri. A great pity it was you didn't break your neck, booby' Why did n't you leave the door open ? Lot. Why, Sir, you scolded me, yesterday, because I did sc When it is open, you storm about it. When it is shut, you storm about it just the same. I should like to know what to do. M. Gri. What to do, sirrah? What to do, did you say? Lol. O, come now, master, how would you have it? Do you wish me to leave the door open ? M. Gri. No. Lol. Do you wish me to keep it shut? M. Gri. No! Lol. But, Sir, it must be either open or — M. Gri. What, rascal, what ! Do you presume to argue the point? Lol. But does n't it hold to reason M. Gri. Silence! Lol. I say, Sir, that a door must be either open or shut. how will you have it? Now, M. Gri. I have told you, a thousand times, you scoundì l, — I have told you, I wished it-wished it—but confound your impudence, Sir! Is it for you to ask questions? Let me only lay hands on you, I'll show you how I wish it! Have you swept the stair Lol. If you find a bit of dirt there big as a filbert, I'll forfeit my wages. M. Gri. You have n't watered the mule ? Lol. Ask the neighbors, who saw me pass, if I have n't. M. Gri. Have you given him his oats? Lol. Yes, Sir. Ask William if I have n't. He saw me do it. M. Gri. But you have n't taken those bottles of Peruvian bark where I ordered you? Lol. Pardon me, Sir; I took them, and brought back the empty bottles. M. Gri. And my letters? Did you take them to the Post Office? Hah? Lol. Did n't I, though? I took good care to do that! M. Gri. You villain, you ! A hundred times I have forbidden you to scrape your infernal violin. Now, I heard you, this morn ing Lol This morning? Don't you remember you smashed it all to piece for me, yesterday 2 M Gri. Humph! I'll lay a wager that those two cords of wood Lol. The wood is all sawed, split, and housed, Sir; and since putting it in, I have helped William get a load of hay into the barn, I have watered all the trees in the garden, dug over three of the beds and was digging another when you knocked. M. Gri. O, I must get rid of this fellow! Was there ever such a provoking scamp? He will kill me with vexation. Away with you, Sir! Out of my sight! 20 BALTHAZAR AND THE QUACK.-John Tobin. Born, 1770; died, 1804 Balthazar. And now, thou sketch and outline of a man' Thou thing, that hast no shadow in the sun! Thou eel in a consumption, eldest born Of Death on Famine! thou anatomy Of a starved pilchard! Quack. I do confess my leanness. I am spare, Quack. For my patients' sake! Balt. I'll send you to the major part of them. I may hurt some one in the street. Balt. Why, then, I'll rattle thee to pieces in a dice-box. 'Or grind thee in a coffee-mill to powder: For thou must sup with Pluto;-so, make ready! Let thy starved spirit out, for blood thou hast none, And nail thee to the wall, where thou shalt look Like a dried beetle with a pin stuck through him. Balt. Thy wife! Quack. My wife, Sir. Balt. Hast thou dared to think of matrimony, too? No conscience, and take a wife! Quack. I have a wife, and three angelic babes, Who, by those looks, are well-nigh fatherless! Balt. Well, well, your wife and children shall plead for you. Come, come, the pills! where are the pills? produce them. Balt. Were it Pandora's, and each single pill Had ten diseases in it, you should take them. Quack. What, all? Balt. Ay, all; and quickly, too; - come, Sir, begin That's well; - another. Quack. One's a dose ! Balt. Proceed, Sir. Quack. What will become of me? I do beseech you let me have some drink, Some cooling liquid, Sir, to wash them down' Balt. O, yes-produce the vial! Quack. Mercy on me! Balt. Come, Sir, your new invented patent draught Quack. May I entreat to make my will first? 1 Balt. No; you have naught but physic to bequeath, Quack. Let me go home and set my shop to rights, Balt. Away, and thank thy lucky star I have not Quack. Would I were one! for they can feed on air. I'll be more wise, at least! [Exit.] [Exit.] 21. BRUTUS AND TITUS. - Nathaniel Lee. There are some noble touches in the following dialogue, from Lee's tragedy of “Lucius Junius Brutus," although from the pen of a poet who mingled the extravagance of a madman with the inspirations of genius. Lee was born in Hertfordshire, England, in 1651, and died in 1692. He was for some time confined in a mad-house, being for nearly four years a raving maniac. Brutus. Well, Titus, speak; how is it with thee now? I would attend a while this mighty motion, Wait till the tempest were quite overblown, So hushed a stillness, as if all the gods Looked down and listened to what we were saying: 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, 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 All those affronts which I, in life, must look for; |