“What’s that?” he cries.  “Oh, nothing but a speck.” 
  “A speck?”—­“Ay, ay:  ’tis not enough to pain me: 
  Perhaps the collar’s mark by which they chain me.” 
    “Chain! chain you!  What! run you not, then,
        Just where you please and when?”
      “Not always, sir; but what of that?”
      “Enough for me, to spoil your fat! 
      It ought to be a precious price
      Which could to servile chains entice;
      For me, I’ll shun them while I’ve wit.” 
      So ran Sir Wolf, and runneth yet.

From the French of JEAN DE LA FONTAINE.

Translation of ELIZUR WRIGHT.

* * * * *

RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.

FROM “RIENZI.”

                                     Friends! 
  I come not here to talk.  Ye know too well
  The story of our thraldom.  We are slaves! 
  The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
  A race of slaves! he sets, and his last beam
  Falls on a slave!  Not such as, swept along
  By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
  To crimson glory and undying fame,
  But base, ignoble slaves!—­slaves to a horde
  Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords
  Rich in some dozen paltry villages,
  Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great
  In that strange spell,—­a name!  Each hour, dark fraud,
  Or open rapine, or protected murder,
  Cries out against them.  But this very day
  An honest man, my neighbor (pointing to PAOLO),
      —­there he stands,—­
  Was struck—­struck like a dog—­by one who wore
  The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth,
  He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
  Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
  At sight of that great ruffian!  Be we men,
  And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not
  The stain away in blood?  Such shames are common. 
  I have known deeper wrongs.  I, that speak to ye,
  I had a brother once, a gracious boy,
  Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
  Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
  Of Heaven upon his face which limners give
  To the beloved disciple.  How I loved
  That gracious boy! younger by fifteen years,
  Brother at once and son!  He left my side;
  A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
  Parting his innocent lips.  In one short hour
  The pretty, harmless boy was slain!  I saw
  The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
  For vengeance!  Rouse ye, Romans!  Rouse ye, slaves! 
  Have ye brave sons?—­Look in the next fierce brawl
  To see them die!  Have ye fair daughters?—­Look
  To see them live, torn from your arms, distained. 
  Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice,
  Be answered by the lash!  Yet this is Rome,
  That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne
  Of beauty ruled the world!  Yet we