Mar. Dost know what ’tis to die?

Soph. Thou dost not, Martius,
And therefore, not what ’tis to live; to die
Is to begin to live.  It is to end
An old, stale, weary work, and to commence
A newer and a better.  ’Tis to leave
Deceitful knaves for the society
Of gods and goodness.  Thou, thyself, must part
At last, from all thy garlands, pleasures, triumphs,
And prove thy fortitude what then ’twill do.

Val. But art not grieved nor vexed to leave thy life thus?

Soph. Why should I grieve or vex for being sent
To them I ever loved best?  Now, I’ll kneel,
But with my back toward thee; ’tis the last duty
This trunk can do the gods.

Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius,
Or Martius’ heart will leap out at his mouth: 
This is a man, a woman!  Kiss thy lord,
And live with all the freedom you were wont. 
O love! thou doubly hast afflicted me
With virtue and with beauty.  Treacherous heart,
My hand shall cast thee quick into my urn,
Ere thou transgress this knot of piety.

Val. What ails my brother?

Soph. Martius, oh Martius, Thou now hast found a way to conquer me.

Dor. O star of Rome! what gratitude can speak Fit words to follow such a deed as this?

Mar. This admirable duke, Valerius,
With his disdain of fortune and of death,
Captived himself, has captived me,
And though my arm hath ta’en his body here,
His soul hath subjugated Martius’ soul. 
By Romulus,[316] he is all soul, I think;
He hath no flesh, and spirit cannot be gyved;
Then we have vanquished nothing; he is free,
And Martius walks now in captivity.”

2.  I do not readily remember any poem, play, sermon, novel, or oration, that our press vents in the last few years, which goes to the same tune.  We have a great many flutes and flageolets, but not often the sound of any fife.  Yet, Wordsworth’s Laodamia, and the ode of “Dion,"[317] and some sonnets, have a certain noble music; and Scott[318] will sometimes draw a stroke like the portrait of Lord Evandale, given by Balfour of Burley.[319] Thomas Carlyle,[320] with his natural taste for what is manly and daring in character, has suffered no heroic trait in his favorites to drop from his biographical and historical pictures.  Earlier, Robert Burns[321] has given us a song or two.  In the Harleian Miscellanies,[322] there is an account of the battle of Lutzen,[323] which deserves to be read.  And Simon Ockley’s[324] History of the Saracens recounts the prodigies of individual valor with admiration, all the more evident on the part of the narrator, that he seems to think that his place in Christian Oxford[325] requires of him some proper protestations of abhorrence.  But if we explore the literature of Heroism, we shall quickly come to Plutarch,[326] who is its Doctor and historian.  To him we owe the Brasidas,[327] the Dion,[328] the Epaminondas,[329] the Scipio[330] of old, and I must think we are more deeply indebted to him than to all the ancient writers.  Each of his “Lives” is a refutation to the despondency and cowardice of our religious and political theorists.  A wild courage, a Stoicism[331] not of the schools, but of the blood, shines in every anecdote, and has given that book its immense fame.