Like a machine, they whirl thee to thy fate.
It seems as if the gods had preördain'd it,
To fix the reeling spirits of the people,

And settle the loose liberty of Rome.

'Tis fix'd; oh, therefore let not fancy dupe thee! So fix'd thy death, that 'tis not in the power

Of gods or men to save thee from the ax.

Titus. The ax! O Heaven! must I, then, fall so basely! What! shall I perish by the common hangman ?

Brutus. If thou deny me this, thou givest me nothing.

Yes, Titus, since the gods have so decreed

That I must lose thee, I will take the advantage

Of thy important fate; cement Rome's flaws,
And heal her wounded freedom with thy blood.
I will ascend myself the sad tribunal,
And sit upon my son-on thee, my Titus;
Behold thee suffer all the shame of death,
The lictor's lashes, bleed before the people;

Then, with thy hopes and all thy youth upon thee,
See thy head taken by the common ax,

Without a groan, without one pitying tear

(If that the gods can hold me to my purpose),

To make my justice quite transcend example.

Titus. Scourged like a bondman! Ha! a beaten slave'

But I deserve it all: yet, here I fail;

The image of this suffering quite unmans me.

O Sir! O Brutus! must I call you father,
Yět have no token of your tenderness-
No sign of mercy? What! not bate me that?
Can you resolve on all the extremity

Of cruel rigor? To behold me, too—

To sit, unmoved, and see me whipp'd to death-
Is this a father?

Ah, Sir, why should you make my heart suspect
That all your late compassion was dissembled?
How can I think that you did ever love me?

Brutus. Think that I love thee, by my present passion,
By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here;
These sighs, that twitch the very strings of life;

Think that no other cause on earth could move me
To tremble thus, to sob, or shed a tear,
Nor shake my solid virtue from her point,
But Titus' death. Oh, do not call it shameful
That thus shall fix the glory of the world.
I own thy suffering ought to unman me thus,
To make me throw my body on the ground,
To bellow like a beast, to gnaw the earth,
To tear my hair, to curse the cruel fates
That force a father thus to kill his child!

Titus. O, rise, thou viölated majesty!
I now submit to all your threaten'd vengeance.
Come forth, ye executioners of justice!

Nay, all ye lictors, slaves, and common hangmen,
Come, strip me bare, unrobe me in his sight,
And lash me till I bleed! Whip me, like furies!
And, when you've scourged me till I foam and fall,
For want of spirits, grovelling in the dust,

Then take my head, and give it to his justice:

By all the gods, I greedily resign it?

LEE.

NATHANIEL LEE, an English dramatic writer, was born in Hertfordshire in 1651. He received a classical education at Westminster school, and at Trinity College, Cambridge. He tried the stage both as an actor and author; was four years in bedlam from wild insanity; but recovered his reason, resumed his labors as a dramatist, and though subject to fits of partial derangement, continued to write till the end of his life. He was the author of eleven tragedies, besides assisting DRYDEN in the composition of "Edipus" and "The Duke of Guise." His best tragedies are the "Rival Queens," "Mithridates," "Theodosius," and "Lucius Junius Brutus." He possessed no small degree of the fire of genius, excelling in tenderness and genuine passion; but his style often degenerates into bombast and extravagant phrensy, in part caused by his mental malady. He died in London on the 6th of April, 1692.

ONCE

187. THE RAVEN.

I.

NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lōre,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door.

""Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber-doorOnly this, and nothing more."

II.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wish'd the morrow: vainly I had sought to bōrrōw From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here forevermore.

III.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain,
Thrill'd me-fill'd ine with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door,—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door ;
That it is, and nothing more."

IV.

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I," or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I open'd wide the door:
Darkness there, and nothing more.

V.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word, "Lenore!"

This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word, "LENORE!" Merely this, and nothing more.

VI.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window-lattice; Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore,— Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;— 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

VII.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yōre.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopp'd or stay'd he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-door,-
Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door-
Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more.

VIII.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shōrn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure

no craven;

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shōre,

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !"

IX.

Much I marvel'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
For we can not help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber-door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door,
With such name as "Nevermore!"

X.

But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he utter'd-not a feather then he flutter'd-
Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown
before-

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore !"

XI.

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken,

66

Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore,— Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,

Of" Never-nevermore!"

XII.

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bira, and bust, and door,

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yōre— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore !"

XIII.

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet viölet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'e
She shall press-ah! nevermore!

XIV.

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen

censer

Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite-respite and nepenthe' from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind uepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

XV.

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil !—prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, 1 implore-
Is there is there balm in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

'Ne pên' the, a drug or medicine that relieves pain and exhilarates.