I must myself ascend yon sad tribunal

And there behold thee meet this shame of death,
"With all thy hopes, and all thy youth upon thee.-
See thy head taken by the common axe,—

All, if the gods can hold me to my purpose,

Without one groan, without one pitying tear. (turns up as if in agony).

TIT. Die like a felon! Ha! a common felon ! But I deserve it all; yet here I fail:

This ignominy quite unmans me!

Oh, Brutus, Brutus! Must I call you father, (kneels)
Yet have no token of your tenderness,

No sign of mercy? Not even leave to fall

As noble Romans fall, by my own sword?

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

BRU. Think that I love thee by my present passion,
By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here,
These sighs that strain the very strings of life,-
Let these convince you that no other cause
Could force a father thus to wrong his nature.
TIT. Oh, hold, thou violated majesty: (rises)
I now submit with calmness to my fate.
Come forth, ye executioners of justice-

Come, take my life,-and give it to my country?

BRU. Embrace thy wretched father. May the gods
Arm thee with patience in this awful hour.
The sovereign magistrate of injured Rome

A crime, thy father's bleeding heart forgives.
Go-meet thy death with a more manly courage
Than grief now suffers me to show in parting;
And, while she punishes, let Rome admire thee!
Farewell! Eternally farewell!—

TIT. Oh, Brutus! Oh, my father!—
BRO. What would'st thou say, my son?
TIT. Wilt thou forgive me?

When I shall be no more, forget not my Tarquinia.
BRU. Leave her to my care.

TIT. Farewell, forever!

BRU. Forever! (re-ascends the Tribunal)

Lictors, attend!-conduct your pris'ner forth!

VAL. (rapidly and anxiously). Whither! (all the characters bend forward in great anxiety.)

BRU. To death!-(all start) When you do reach the spot, My hand shall wave your signal for the act,

Then let the trumpet's sound proclaim it done!

TITUS is conducted out by the LICTORS, R.-A dead march,—
which gradually dies away as it becomes more distant.
BRUTUS remains seated in a melancholy posture on the

Poor youth! Thy pilgrimage is at an end!
A few sad steps have brought thee to the brink
Of that tremendous precipice, whose depth
No thought of man can fathom. Justice now
Demands her victim! A little moment,

And I am childless.-One effort, and 'tis past !—

He rises and waves his hand, convulsed with agitation, then drops in his seat, and shrouds his face with his toga. Three sounds of the trumpet are heard instantly. All the characters assume attitudes of deep misery. BRUTUS starts up wildly, descends to the front in extreme agitation, looks out on the side by which TITUS departed, for an instant, then, with an hysterical burst, exclaims,

Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free! (BRUTUS falls.—The characters group around him.)



[Every stanza of this capital poem, is as sharply defined as the various pieces in a fine mosaic, and yet harmoniously blended as the colors of the rainbow. There is a good chance by a nice gradation of the voice to convey the idea of the rugged virtue of honest poverty contrasted by the effeminate worthlessness of the class that toil not.]

THE rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold;
And he inherits soft, white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares:

The bank may break, the factory burn,
A breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,

One would not wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles, and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned by being poor;
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it;
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage, it seems to me, 1
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil,
That with all other level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten soft white handsThis is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great:
Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled past;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.




PROSPERO, Duke of Milan,
MIRANDA, his Daughter.

[This play is unquestionably the master-piece of the mighty master's works. It is the product of his mature intellect, and fairly blazes with "the jewels of the mind." The plot of the piece is almost wholly ideal. Prospero, Duke of Milan, is banished from his dominions, and sent to sea in a frail bark-our extract describes the scene, and what followed after, in language unequalled for its majestic beauty. Prospero's speeches should be delivered with quiet dignity, tempered with tenderness; Miranda's words should flow from her lips as gently as "the sweet south breathing on a bank of violets."

COSTUMES.-Prospero may wear any attire such as is seen in pictures and engravings of the time of Raphael; a like costume will suit Miranda. There is no particular time in which the action of the play takes place.]

SCENE.-The Island: before the Cell of PROSPERO.


MIRA. If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them:
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out. Oh, I have suffered

With those that I saw suffer!-a brave vessel,
Who had no doubt, some noble creatures in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. Oh, the cry did knock

Against my very heart! Poor souls! they perish'd.
Had I been any god of power, I would

Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er

It should the good ship so have swallow'd and
The freighting souls within her.

PRO. Be collected :

No more amazement: tell your piteous heart,
There's no harm done,

MIRA. O, woe the day!

PRO. No harm.

I have done nothing but in care of thee,

(Of thee, my dear one! thee, my daughter!) who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am; nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And thy no greater father.

MIRA. More to know

Did never meddle with my thoughts.
PRO. "Tis time

I should inform thee farther, Lend thy hand,

And pluck my magic garment from me. So; (lays down his mantle.)

Lie there, my heart. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd

The very virtue of compassion in thee,

I have with such provision in mine art
So safely order'd, that there is no soul-
No, not so much perdition as an hair,
Betid to any creature in the vessel

Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down;
For thou must now know further.

MIRA. You have often

Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp'd,
And left me, to a bootless inquisition;
Concluding, Stay—not yet.

PRO. The hour's now come;

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear:
Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell?

I do not think thou canst; for then thou wast not
Out three years old.

MIRA. Certainly, sir, I can.

PRO. By what? by any other house or person? Of any thing the image tell me, that

Hath kept with thy remembrance.

MIRA. 'Tis far off:

And rather like a dream than an assurance,

That my remembrance warrants: Had I not

Four or five women once, that tended me?

PRO. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda: but how is it,
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?

If thou remember'st aught, ere thou camest here,
How thou camest here, thou may'st.

MIRA. But that I do not.

PRO. Twelve years since, Miranda, twelve years since, Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and

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