"Wretch!" cries the eagle, hold thy tongue, For thou art weak, and I am strong.'

A sportsman saw the eagle fly:

He shot, and brought him from the sky. The dying bird could only groan, "Tyrant, what evil have I done?'

"Wretch!" cries the sportsman, "hold thy tongue For thou art weak, and I am strong."

'Tis thus that man to man behaves: Witness the despot and his slaves. "Wretch!" cries the master,

hold thy tongue,

For thou art weak, and I am strong.'

192. THE BRITISH OAK.

BERNARD BARTON.

Let India boast its spicy trees,
Whose fruit and gorgeous bloom
Give to each faint and languid breeze
Its rich and rare perfume.
Let Portugal and haughty Spain
Display their orange groves;
And France exult her vines to train
Around her trim alcoves.

Old England has a tree as strong,
As stately as them all,

As worthy of a minstrel's song
In cottage and in hall.

'Tis not the yew tree, though it lends

Its greenness to the grave;

Nor willow, though it fondly bends
Its branches o'er the wave;

Nor birch, although its slender tress
Be beautifully fair,

Is graceful in its loveliness

As maiden's flowing hair.

'Tis not the poplar, though its height

May from afar be seen;

Nor beech, although its boughs be dight

With leaves of glossy green.

All these are fair, but they may fling
Their shade unsung by me;

My favorite, and the forest's king,
The British oak shall be!

Its stem, though rough, is stout and sound
Its giant branches throw

Their arms in shady blessings round
O'er man and beast below;

Its leaf, though late in spring it shares
The zephyr's gentle sigh,

As late and long in autumn wears
A deeper, richer dye.

Type of an honest English heart,
It opes not at a breath,

But having opened plays its part
Until it sinks in death.

Its acorns, graceful to the sight,
Are toys to children dear;
Its mistletoe, with berries white,
Adds mirth to Christmas cheer.
And when we reach life's closing stage,
Worn out with care or ill,

For childhood, youth, or hoary age,
Its arms are open still.

But prouder yet its glories shine,
When, in a nobler form,
It floats upon the heaving brine,
And braves the bursting storm;
Or when, to aid the work of love,
To some benighted clime

It bears glad tidings from above,
And news of truth sublime.

193.-A PORTRAIT.

WORDSWORTH.

She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A. spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveler'twixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

194.-ORATION AGAINST CATILINE.

CICERO.

How long, O Catiline, wilt thou abuse our patience! How long shalt thou baffle justice in thy mad career? To what extreme wilt thou carry thy audacity? Art thou nothing daunted by the nightly watch, posted to secure the Palatium? Nothing, by the city guards? Nothing, by the rally of all good citizens? Nothing, by the assembling of the Senate in this fortified place? Nothing, by the averted looks of all here present? Seest thou not that all thy plots are exposed? that thy wretched conspiracy is laid bare to every man's knowledge, here in the Senate? that we are well aware of thy proceedings of last night; of the night before;—the place of meeting, the company convoked, the measures concerted? Alas, the times! Alas, the public morals! The Senate understands all this. The Consul sees it. Yet the traitor lives! Lives? Ay, truly, and confronts us here in council, takes part in our deliberations, and, with his measuring eye, marks out each man of us for slaughter. And we, all this while, strenuous that we are, think we have amply discharged our duty to the State, if we but shun this madman's sword and fury.

Long since, O Catiline, ought the Consul to have ordered thee to execution, and brought upon thine own head the ruin thou hast been meditating against others. There was that virtue once in Rome, that a wicked citizen was held more execrable than the deadliest foe. We have a law still, Catiline, for Think not that we are powerless, because forbearing. We have a decree,-though it rests among our archives like a

thee.

sword in its scabbard,―a decree by which thy life would be inade to pay the forfeit of thy crimes. And should I order

thee to be instantly seized and put to death, I make just doubt whether all good men would not think it done rather too late than any man too cruelly.

But, for good reasons, I will yet defer the blow long since deserved. Then will I doom thee, when no man is found so lost, so wicked, nay, so like thyself, but shall confess that it was justly dealt. While there is one man that dares defend thee, live! But thou shalt live so beset, so surrounded, sc scrutinized, by the vigilant guards that I have placed around thee, that thou shalt not stir a foot against the Republic without my knowledge. There shall be eyes to detect thy slightest movement, and ears to catch thy wariest whisper, of which thou shalt not dream. The darkness of night shall not cover thy treason, the wall of privacy shall not stifle its voice. Baffled on all sides, thy most secret counsels clear as noon. day, what canst thou now have in view? Proceed, plot, con spire, as thou wilt; there is nothing you can contrive, nothing you can propose, nothing you can attempt, which I shall not know, hear, and promptly understand. Thou shalt soon be inade aware that I am even more active in providing for the preservation of the State, than thou in plotting its destruction.

195.-DEATH OF JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

1. E. HOLMES.

Mr. Speaker: The mingled tones of sorrow, like the voice of many waters, have come unto us from a sister state-Massachusetts weeping for her honored son. The state I have the honor in part to represent once endured, with yours, a common suffering, battled for a common cause, and rejoiced in a common triumph. Surely, then, it is meet that in this, the day of your affliction, we should mingle our griefs.

When a great man falls, the nation mourns; when a patriarch is removed, the people weep. Ours is no common bereavement. The chain which linked our hearts with the gifted spirits of former times has been suddenly snapped. The lips from which flowed those living and glorious truths that our fathers uttered are closed in death. Yes, Death has been among us! He has not entered the humble cottage of some unknown, and ignoble peasant; he has knocked audibly at the

palace of a nation! His footstep has been heard in the halls of state! He has cloven down his victim in the midst of the councils of a people. He has borne in triumph from among you the gravest, wisest, most reverend head. Ah! he has taken him as a trophy who was once chief over many statesmen, adorned with virtue, and learning, and truth; he has borne at his chariot wheels a renowned one of the earth.

How often we have crowded into that aisle, and clustered around that now vacant desk, to listen to the counsels of wisdom as they fell from the Mps of the venerable sage, we can all remember, for it was but of yesterday. But what a change! How wondrous! how sudden! 'Tis like a vision of the night. That form which we beheld but a few days since is now cold in death! But the last Sabbath, and in this hall he worshiped with others. Now his spirit mingles with the noble army of martyrs and the just made perfect, in the eternal adoration of the living God. With him, "this is the end of earth." He sleeps the sleep that knows no waking. He is gone-and forever! The sun that ushers in the morn of the next holy day, while it gilds the lofty dome of the Capitol, shall rest with soft and mellow light upon the consecrated spot beneath whose turf forever lies the patriot father and the patriot sage.

196.-FALL OF WOLSEY.

SHAKSPEARE.

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And-when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening-nips his root,
And then he falls as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new opened. O how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,