“Rome, with her palaces and towers,
    By us unwished, unreft,
  Her homely huts and woodland bowers
    To Britain might have left;
  Worthless to you their wealth must be,
  But dear to us, for they were free!

  “I might have bowed before, but where
    Had been thy triumph now? 
  To my resolve no yoke to bear
    Thou ow’st thy laurelled brow;
  Inglorious victory had been thine,
  And more inglorious bondage mine.

  “Now I have spoken, do thy will;
    Be life or death my lot,
  Since Britain’s throne no more I fill,
    To me it matters not. 
  My fame is clear; but on my fate
  Thy glory or thy shame must wait.”

  He ceased; from all around upsprung
    A murmur of applause,
  For well had truth and freedom’s tongue
    Maintained their holy cause. 
  The conqueror was the captive then;
  He bade the slave be free again.

BERNARD BARTON.

* * * * *

SEMPRONIUS’ SPEECH FOR WAR.

FROM “CATO,” ACT II.  SC. 1.

    My voice is still for war. 
  Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
  Which of the two to choose, slavery or death? 
  No; let us rise at once, gird on our swords,
  And at the head of our remaining troops
  Attack the foe, break through the thick array
  Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. 
  Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest,
  May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. 
  Rise!  Fathers, rise! ’tis Rome demands your help: 
  Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens,
  Or share their fate!  The corpse of half her senate
  Manures the fields of Thessaly, while we
  Sit here deliberating, in cold debate,
  If we should sacrifice our lives to honor,
  Or wear them out in servitude and chains. 
  Rouse up, for shame! our brothers of Pharsalia
  Point at their wounds, and cry aloud,—­“To battle!”
  Great Pompey’s shade complains that we are slow,
  And Scipio’s ghost walks unrevenged amongst us.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS.

  It was the wild midnight,—­
    A storm was on the sky;
  The lightning gave its light,
    And the thunder echoed by.

  The torrent swept the glen,
    The ocean lashed the shore;
  Then rose the Spartan men,
    To make their bed in gore!

  Swift from the deluge ground
    Three hundred took the shield;
  Then, silent, gathered round
    The leader of the field!

  He spake no warrior word,
    He bade no trumpet blow,
  But the signal thunder roared,
    And they rushed upon the foe.

  The fiery element
    Showed, with one mighty gleam,
  Rampart, and flag, and tent,
    Like the spectres of a dream.