And Massacre seals Rome's eternal

I go; but not to leap the gulf alone.

grave.

I go; but when I come, 't will be the burst
Of ocean in the earthquake,

rolling back

In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well! You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood Shall quench its flame!

REMORSE.

SHAKSPEARE.

O, my offense is rank, it smells to Heaven;
It hath the primal, eaest curse upon 't,
A brother's murder! Pray, can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will;
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And, both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens,
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy,
But to confront the visage of offense?

And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,--
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall,

Or pardoned, being down? Then I'll look up;
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder!
That can not be; since I am still possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder.—

My crown, my own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardoned, and retain the offense?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft 't is seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law. But 't is not so above;
There is no shuffling; there, the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compelled,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? What rests?
Try what repentance can. What can it not?
Yet what can it, when one can not repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O limed soul; that struggling to be free,

Art more engaged! Help, angels, make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart, with strings of stes::
Be soft as sinews of the new born babe;--

All may be well!

PART II.

TABLEAUX VIVANTS,

OR, LIVING PICTURES.

DESIGNED AND ARRANGED BY P. A. FITZGERALD.

TABLEAUX VIVANTS.

NO I. WASHINGTON'S DREAM OF LIBERTY

DESIGNED FOR A FOURTH OF JULY, OR WASHINGTON'S BIRTH-DAY SCHOOL CELEBRATION.

BY P. A. FITZGERALD.

Enter Box, in front of Curtain.

PROLOGUE TO TABLEAU NO. I.

Boy. When War, dread desolator, waves his blood-stained flag,

Till Havoc howls to know her feast is made.

To her, Carnage is beautiful. The agony-fraught groans Of dying men, whose hearts are growing cold, the shrieks The tramp of wounded, rushing steeds, the clang

Of clashing steel, the imprecations dire

Of foes whose only thoughts are how to kill.

The sound of blood-drops pattering, music is to her
More sweet than breathings of the softest lute.
Fearful such sounds, such sights, yet tyrants proud,
Eager in thought to clasp their manacles,
Array and marshal forth their mighty hosts,
And bidding them on speed! the tocsin sound
They fain would make the knell of Liberty!
But He, the God of Hosts, within whose hand
The globe is held, who measures every man
With but a glance, whose fiat none can stay,
Bids ofttimes rise to stem the fierce onslaught,
A chosen champion of all "Human Rights."
Buch was thy mission, Glorious Washington!