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I must myself ascend yon sad tribunal-
if in agony).
BRU. Think that I love thee by my present passion,
Tit. On, hold, thou violated majesty : (rises)
Brú. Embrace thy wretched father. May the gods
Tir. Oh, Brutus! Oh, my father!-
Tit. Wilt thou forgive me?
Bru. Leave her to my care.
Bru. Forever! (re-ascends the Tribunal) Lictors, attend !--conduct your pris'ner forth! „VAL. (rapidly and anxiously). Wither! (all the characters
bend forward in great anxicty.) 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
Tribunal. 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 in
stant, 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 tender flesh that tears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;
The rich man's son inherits cares :
The bank may break, the factory burn,
living that would serve his turn;
What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
Stout muscles, and a sinewy heart,
In every useful toil and art;
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 liis labor sings;
A patience learned by being poor;
A fellow-feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door;
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 hands
This 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;
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled past;
STORY OF A LIFE.
From SHAKSPEARE's play of THE TEMPEST
PROSPERO, Duke of Milan,
(This play is unquostionably the master-piece of the mighty mas. ter's works. It is the product of his mature intellect, and fairly blazes with “the jewels of the mud." The plot of the piece is almost wholly ideal. Prospero, Duke of Milan, is banished from his dominious, 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.
Enter PROSPERO, and MIRANDA.
MIRA. If by your art, my dearest father, you have
PRO. Be collected :
MIRA. O, woe the day!
PRO. No harm.
MIRA. More to know
PRO. 'Tis time
MIRA. You have often
PRO. The hour's now come;
MIRA. Certainly, sir, I can.
Pro. By what? by any other house or person?
MIRA. 'Tis far off:
PRO. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda : but how is it,
MIRA. But that I do not.