Arrest yon youth; load him with heaviest irons,
He shall to Cæsar answer for his crime.

Elid. I stand prepar'd to triumph in my crime. Aul Did. 'Tis well, proud boy-Look to the beauteous maid, [To the soldiers. That tranc'd in grief, bends o'er yon bleeding corseRespect her sorrows.

Evel.
Hence, ye barbarous men,
Ye shall not take him welt'ring thus in blood,
To show at Rome, what British virtue was.
Avaunt! the breathless body that ye touch
Was once Arviragus!

Aul. Did.

We reverence the dead.
Druid.

Fear us not, princess,

Would too to Heav'n,

Ye reverenc'd the gods but ev'n enough
Not to debase with slavery's cruel chain
Whom they created free.

Aul. Did.

The Romans fight

Not to enslave, but humanize the world.

Druid. Go to, we will not parley with thee, Roman Instant pronounce our doom.

Aul. Did.

Hear it, and thank us.

This once our clemency shall spare your groves,

If at our call ye yield the British king:

Yet learn, when next ye aid the foes of Cæsar,
That each old oak, whose solemn gloom ye boast,
Shall bow beneath our axes.

Druid.

Be they blasted,

Whene'er their shade forgets to shelter virtue!

Bard. Mourn, Mona, mourn. Caractacus is captive!
And dost thou smile, false Roman? Do not think
He fell an easy prey. Know, ere he yielded,
Thy bravest veterans bled. He too, thy spy,
The base Brigantian prince, hath seal'd his fraud
With death. Bursting thro' arm'd ranks, that hemm'd
The catiff round, the brave Caractacus

Seiz'd his false throat; and as he gave him death
Indignant thunder'd, "Thus is my last stroke

The stroke of justice." Numbers then opprest him.
I saw the slave, that cowardly behind

Pinion'd his arms; I saw the sacred sword

Writh'd from his grasp I saw, what now ye see,
Inglorious sight! those barbarous bonds upon him.
Car. Romans, methinks the malice of your tyrant
Might furnish heavier chains.
Old as I am,
And wither'd as you see these war-worn limbs,
Trust me, they shall support the weightiest load
Injustice dares impose-

Proud crested soldier, [To Didius.
Who seem'st the master-mover in this business,
Say, dost thou read less terror on my brow,
Than when thou met'st me in the fields of war
Heading my nations? No, my free-born soul
Has scorn still left to sparkle through these eyes,
And frown defiance on thee.. -Is it thus!
[Seeing his son's body.
Then I'm indeed a captive. Mighty gods!
My soul, my soul submits: patient it bears
The pond'rous load of grief ye heap upon it.
Yes, it will grovel in this shatter'd breast,
And be the sad tame thing it ought to be,
Coopt in a servile body.

Aul. Did.

Droop not, king.

When Claudius, the great master of the world,
Shall hear the noble story of thy valour,

His pity

Car.

Can a Roman pity, soldier?

And if he can, gods! must a Briton bear it?
Arviragus, my bold, my breathless boy,
Thou hast escap'd such pity; thou art free.
Here in high Mona shall thy noble limbs
Rest in a noble grave; posterity

Shall to thy tomb with annual reverence bring
Sepulchral stones, and pile them to the clouds ;
Whilst mine-

Aul, Did. The morn doth hasten our departure.

Prepare thee, king, to go: a fav'ring gale
Now swells our sails.

Car.

Inhuman, that thou art!
Dost thou deny a moment for a father

To shed a few warm tears o'er his dead son?
I tell thee, chief, this act might claim a lifc,
To do it duly; even a longer life,

Than sorrow ever suffer'd. Cruel man!
And thou deniest me moments. Be it so.
I know you Romans weep not for your children;
Ye triumph o'er your tears, and think it valour;
I triumph in my tears.

Arise, my daughter.
Weep'st thou, my girl? I prithee hoard thy tears
For the sad meeting of thy captive mother:
For we have much to tell her, much to say
Of these good men who nurtur'd us in Mona;
Much of the fraud and malice, that pursued us;
Much of her son, who pour'd his precious blood
To save his sire and sister: think'st thou, maid,
Her gentleness can hear the tale, and live?
And yet she must.

But I'll be mute.

Adieu! ye holy men; Yet one look more-Now lead us hence for ever.

WARTON.

Born 1728-Died 1790.

Dr. Thomas Warton is best known as a poetical antiquary. He wrote a "History of English Poetry," and by his researches and criticisms turned the attention of English readers in his time from the mere perusal of cotemporary poets to the neglected authors of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. Dr. Warton is not memorable for inventive talent, but he was well acquainted with the earlier British writers, he admired the ancient architecture of his country, and he loved the legends of old romance. "His Crusade, and the Grave of Arthur," says Mr. Campbell, "have a genuine air of martial and minstrel enthusiasm. Those pieces exhibit, to the best advantage, the most striking feature of his poetical character, which was a fondness for the recollections of chivalry, and a minute intimacy of imagination with its gorgeous residences, and imposing spectacles. The spirit of chivalry, he may indeed be said to have revived in the poetry of modern times." But a genius above the reach of Warton's, was destined, in a few years after him, to soar beyond the track in which he first essayed his flights. Those who read the Grave of Arthur, must, in order to enhance their estimation of it, remember that it was written before the Lay of the Last Minstrel ;-but, short as it is, and in all respects inferior to the poetry of Scott, it is interesting as the precursor of a style of poetic composition, which, though ancient in its subjects, is altogether new in its present attractiveness and popularity.

PRINCE ARTHUR.

About the beginning of the sixth century, the Romans, who had been masters of Britain during four hundred years, withdrew from that island, and left the government and defence of the country to its native inhabitants. The northern parts of the island belonged to the Scots

and Picts, and these barbarous tribes, soon after the departure of the Romans, invaded and ravaged the more southern territory.

The British were divided into small independent tribes, each governed by its own prince: and these petty sovereigns, in their common danger, had not sufficient wisdom to unite in the common defence; though, in seasons of imminent danger, they, like the ancient Romans, appointed a Dictator invested with supreme power over the collective forces of the nation. The British Dictator was called the Pendragon. He, however, could not prevent discordant counsels and civil warfare among the inferior chiefs, so that the Saxons, who had come over from Germany as helpers of the Britons, easily subjugated them. According to some historians, though in modern times there are others who deny the existence of such a hero, Arthur, the son of Uther, succeeded his father as Pendragon about the year 517. His history, as generally received, whether it be true or false, is the following.

Arthur, prince of the Silures, in conjunction with other chiefs, his countrymen, resisted the Saxons; but, though his prowess has been celebrated by poets and romance-writers, he was not successful against the Saxons. Mordred, a powerful British chief, went over to the enemy, and was victorious against Arthur in the battle of Camlan. Arthur, notwithstanding he was once defeated, renewed the war, and many feats of valour are imputed to him; but, he is said to have been mortally wounded in an engagement with Mordred, and to have died, and been buried at Avalon. The place of his interment is however unknown, and Dr. Warton has founded a pretty poem upon this disputed fact. It is proper here to state, that among the fictions related of Prince Arthur is this, that he created a military order called the Knights of the Round Table. Of his, and their achievements, many marvellous stories are related.

Dr. Warton describes a festival of Henry II. king of England, as he was about embarking for Ireland. Ireland previous to the year 1172 had been divided into five