Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home;

And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest-
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend

The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set,—but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!


From ADDISON'S Tragedy of "CATO."

[ADDISON has founded this great play upon the historical facts of the incorruptible Cato refusing all the blandishments of wealth and power, and resisting to the death all attempts to enslave his country. The “ noblest Roman of them all,” finally despairing of successfully resisting the might of Cæsar, contemplates suicide. This extract gives his reasoning for and against “ shuffling off this mortal coil.”

Cato while delivering this Soliloquy is usually represented as in a sitting attitude, dressed in the Roman toga and mantle. In his left hand he holds a roll of Manuscript, to which he alludes when he ex. claims, “ This informs me I shall never die.")

It must be so-Plato, thou reason'st well-
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality ?
Or, whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought ?- Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction ?
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;
"Tis Heav'n itself, that points out an hereafter,
And intimates Eternity to man.
Eternity !—thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass !
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us--

And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works-He must delight in virtue;
And that which He delights in, must be happy.
But when !-or where! This world was made for Cæsar!
I'm weary of conjectures—This must end them.

(laying his hand on his sword.
Thus am I doubly arın'd. My death, my life,
My bane and antidote are both before me.
This—in a moment, brings me to an end;
Whilst this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds.

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[The opening paragraph of this fine passage, should be delivered in a rather quiet, slightly satirical tone ; but as the orator warms with his subject, voice, action, attitude should all express the greatness of the sentiments enunciated.)

There is a sort of courage, which, I frankly confess it, I do not possess—a boldness to which I dare not aspire, a valor which I can not covet. I can not lay myself down in the way of the welfare and happiness of my country. That, I can not-I have not the courage to do. I can not interpose the power with which I may be invested-a power conferred, not for my personal benefit, nor for my aggrandizement, but for my country's good—to check her onward march to greatness and glory. I have not courage enough. I am too cowardly for that. I would not, I dare not, in the exercise of such a threat, lie down, and place my body across the path that leads my country to prosperity and happiness. This is a sort of courage widely different from that which a man may display in his private conduct and personal relations. Personal or private courage is totally distinct from that higher and nobler courage which prompts the patriot to offer himself a voluntary sacrifice to his country's good.

Apprehensions of the imputation of the want of firmness

sometimes impel us to perform rash and inconsiаerate acts. It is the greatest courage to be able to bear the imputation of the want of courage.

But pride, vanity, egotism, só unamiable and offensive in private life, are vices which partake of the character of crimes in the conduct of public affairs. The unfortunate victim of these passions cannot see beyond the little, petty, contemptible circle of his own personal interests. All his thoughts are withdrawn from his country, and concentrated on his consistency, his firmness, himself! The high, the exalted, the sublime emotions of a patriotism which, soaring toward heaven, rises far above all mean, low, or selfish things, and is absorbed by one soul-transporting thought of the good and the glory of one's country, are never felt in his impenetrable bosom. That patriotism which, catching its inspiration of the immortal God, and, leaving at an immeasurable distance below all lesser, groveling, personal interests and feelings, animates and prompts to deeds of self-sacrifice, of valor, of devotion, and of death itself—that is public virtue; that is the noblest, the subblimest of all public virtue !

From the Drama of the "Fool's REVENGE,” by Tom TAYLOR.

BERTUCCIO, the Duke's Jester,

FIORDELISA, Daughter of Bertuccio. [The motive of this fine drama is derived from the determination of Bertuccio to avonge himself upon the proud noble who had ruined his domestic happiness, tarnished his family honor, and partially disordered his intellect. To gain his object he counterfeits insanity, and becomes a buffoon on whom courtly gallants whet their wit. In ac. cordance with his plan he brings op bis only daughter in seclusion, ignorant of his history and private wrongs.

Our extract gives the meeting of the jester and his daughter.

COSTUMES.-Bertuccio should wear a dress of motley, similar to that worn by a Shaksperian Clown in a Circus. Fiordelisa's dress should be a plain white robe, with her hair gathered in a silk net.]

BERTUCCIO and FIORDELISA in conversation.


No; though she urged me
So hard to come to her; and asked my name ;
And who my parents were: and where I lived.

BER. You did not tell her ?


Who my parents were !
How could I, when I must not know myself?

BER. Patience, my darling; trust thy father's love,
That there is a reason for this mystery !
The time may come when we may live in peace,
And walk together free, under free heaven;
But that cannot be here—nor now!

Oh, when-
When shall that time arive ?
BER. (bitterly).

When what I live for
Has been achieved !
Fio. (timidly).

What you live for ?
BER. (with sudden ferocity).


[father! Fio. (averting her eyes with horror). Oh, do not look so,

BER. Listen, girl, You asked me of your mother ;-it is time You should know why all questioning of her Racks me to madness. Look upon me, child; Mishapen as I am, there once was one, Who seeing me despised, mocked, lonely, poorLov'd me, I think, most for my misery : Thy mother, like thee-just so pure-so sweet. I was a public notary in Cesena; Our life was humble, but so happy; thou Wert in thy cradle then, and many a night Thy mother and I sate hand in hand together, Watching thy innocent smiles and building up Long plans of joy to come! (his voice falters- he turns away.) Fio.

Alas! she died ! BER. Died ! There are deaths 'tis comfort to look back on: Her's was not such a death. A devil came Across our quiet life, and marked her beauty, And lusted for her; and when she scorned his offers, Because he was a noble-great and strong, He bore her from my side-by force—and after I never saw her more: they brought me news That she was dead ! Fio.

Ah, me! BER.

And I was mad,
For years and years, and when my wits came back,
If e'er they came,—they brought one haunting purpose,
That since has shaped my life—to have revenge !
Revenge upon her wronger and his order;
Revenge in kind; to quit him-wife for wife!

Fio. Father, 'tis not for me to question with you:
But think ?-revenge belongeth not to man,
It is God's attribute-usurp it not!

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BER. Preach abstinence to him that dies of hunger,
Tell the poor wretch who perishes of thirst,
There's danger in the cup his fingers clutch :
But bid me not forswear revenge. No word !
Thou know'st now, why I mew thee up so close
Keep thee out of the streets; shut thee from eye
And tongues of lawless men—for in these days
All men are lawless—'Tis because I fear
To lose thee, as I lost thy mother.

I'll pray for her.

Do—and for me; good night!
I bear for all but thee. Come, sit beside me.
With thy pure hand in mine-and tell me still,
“ I love you,” and “ I love you”-only that.
Smile on me—so !—thy smile is passing sweet!
Thy mother used to smile so once-oh, God !
I cannot bear it. Do not smile-it wakes
Memories that tear my heart-strings. Do not look
So like thy mother, or I shall go mad!

F10. Oh, tell me of my mother! .
Ber. (shuddering).

No, no, no!
FIO. She's dead ?
BER. Yes.

Fio. Oh, not so soon-with all these sad, dark thoughts,
These bitter memories. You need my love :
I'll touch lute for you, and sing to it.
Music, you know, chases all evil angels.

BER. I must go : 'tis grave business calls me hence(aside) 'Tis time that I was at my post. My own, Sleep in thine innocence. Good ! good night?

Fio. But let me see you to the outer door. BER. Not a step further, then. God guard this place, That here my flower inay grow, safe from the blight Of look, or word impure, a holy thing Consecrate to my service, and my love!


From the Tragedy of “Fazio,” by Rev. H. H. MILMAN.

Fazio, an Alchemist,

BIANCA, Fazio's Wife. [The tragedy of Fazio is one of the few dramatic pieces that shino with undimmod lustre even beside the brilliant gems of Shakspero.

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