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In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man,

Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains.
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,

Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms.
I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd
With reverence and with pity. Mild he spake,
And entʼring on discourse, such stories told,
As made me oft revisit his sad cell.
For he had been a soldier in his youth;
And fought in famous battles, when the
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,
Against th' usurping infidel display'd
The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land.
Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire

peers

His speech struck from me, the old man would shake
His years away, and act his young encounters.
Then, having show'd his wounds, he'd sit him down,
And all the live-long day discourse of war.
To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf,
He cut the figures of the marshall'd host:
Describ'd the motions and explain'd the use
Of the deep column, and the lengthen'd line,
The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm:
For all that Saracen, or Christian knew
Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known.
-Unhappy man!
Beturning homewards, by Messina's port,
Loaded with wealth and honours, bravely won,
A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea
Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought;
The stranger fell; and, with his dying breath,
Declar'd his name and lineage. Mighty God!
The soldier cry'd, my brother! Oh! my brother!
-They exchang'd forgiveness,
And happy, in my mind, was he that died;
For many deaths has the survivor suffered.
In the wild desert on a rock he sits,

Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks,
And ruminates, all day, his dreadful fate.

At times, alas! not in his perfect mind;
Holds dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost;
And oft, each night, forsakes his sullen couch,
To make sad orisons for him he slew.

Home.

9.-Othello's Apology.

MOST potent, grave, and reverend Signiors,
My very noble and approv'd good masters;
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech,
And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years pith,
Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action in the tented field;

And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battles;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your patience,
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver,

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceedings I am charg'd withal)

I won his daughter with

Her father lov'd me, oft invited me,

Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have past.

I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances;
Of moving accidents, by flood and field;

Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach ;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And with it, all my travel's history;

Wherein of antres vast, and deserts wild,

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Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch It was my hint to speak.-All these to hear

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Would Desdemona seriously incline.

But still the house-affairs would draw her thence,
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate;
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not distinctively. I did consent,
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs,

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She swore, 'twas strange, indeed, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful

She wish'd she had not heard it-yet she wish'd
That Heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me,
And bade me, If I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake :
She lov'd me for the dangers I had past;

And I lov'd her, that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have us'd. Shakespeare.

10.-Cassius against Cæsar.

I CANNOT tell what you and other' men
Think of this life; but for my single self",
I had as lief not' be, as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself.
I' was born free as Cæsar'; so were you';
We both have fed' as well; and we can both
Endure the winter's cold' as well as he.

For once upon a raw and gusty' day,

The troubled Tiber chafing with his shores',
Cæsar says to me, Dar'st thou, Cassius, nōw
Leap in with me into this angry flood,
And swim to yonder point'?-Upon the word',
Accouter'd' as I was, I plunged in',

And bade him follow'; so indeed he did'.

The torrent roar'd', and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews'; throwing it aside',
And stemming it with hearts of controversy.
But ere we could arrive' the point propos'd,
Cæsar cry'd, Help' me, Cassius, or I sink'.
I', as Æneas', our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy', upon his shoulder
The old Anchises' bear; so from the waves of Tiber
Did I' the tired Cæsar': and this' man

Is now become a god'; and Cassius' is
A wretched creature', and must bend his body',
If Cæsar carelessly but nod' on him.

He had a fever' when he was in Spain',
And when the fit' was on him, I did mark

How he did shake'. 'Tis true', this gôd did shake;
His coward lips did from their colour fly,

And that same eye', whose bend does awe the world',
Did lose its lustre': I did hear him groan';
Ay, and that tongue' of his, that bade the Romans
Mărk him, and write his speeches' in their books,
Alas! it cry'd-Give me some drink', Titinius-
As a sick girl. Ye Gods', it doth amaze' me,
A man of such a feeble' temper, should
So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone'.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus'! and we petty' men

Walk under his huge legs', and peep about',
To find ourselves dishonourable graves'.

Men at some' times are masters' of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars',
But in ourselves', that we are underlings.

Brutus/-and Cæsar-what should be in that Cæsar1?
Why should that' name be sounded more than yours?
Write' them together; yours is as fair' a name:
Sound' them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy'; conjure' with 'em,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar!
Now, in the name of all the Gods at once',
Upon what meat does this our Cæsar' feed,
That he is grown so great? Age', thou art sham'd':

Rome', thou hast lost the breed of noble' bloods.
When went there by an age, since the great flood',
But it was fam'd with more than with one' man?
When could they say, till now', that talk'd of Rome,
That her wide walls encompass'd but one' man?
Oh! you and I have heard our fathers' say,
There was a Brutus once', that would have brook'd
Th' eternal devil' to keep his state in Rome,
As easily as a king'.

Shakespeare.

11.-Alfred's Address to the Saxon Troops.
My Subjects! I have long

Endured a weighty burden; I have lived
Goaded with cares, that filled my mind by day,
And when night came, assumed a character

Ten-fold more fearful. What have I sustain'd
These ills for? to support a crazy crown?
For what have I defied the elements,

And bar'd my head, and 'mid the hottest strife
Mix'd evermore? to guard the name of king?
Thou know'st, oh heart! that now art beating high,
Thou know'st it was not! No; these feet have toil'd,
This mind hath ponder'd, and this head endur'd
Life's crushing cares for nobler purposes !-
Whom have you dar'd the fight for? for your king?
To save yourselves? or hurl destruction's brand
Fierce on the Danes? No; nobler minds were yours!
You fought for liberty! you fought to save
All that is dear in life!-your peaceful homes,
Your helpless sires, your wives, your innocents!
And not for these alone, but distant heirs-
For generations yet unborn, the race
Of future Saxons, down to farthest time!
Who, oft as they shall hear what we endur'd
To guard their rights, the precious blood we shed
To makes their lives secure, and bid the form
Of holy freedom rise, engirt with flowers

That dare the breath of time, shall look to heaven,
And with no common fervour bless the names
Of us their great forefathers, who for them

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