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will he be able to turn the current of compassion backward, and to look with pity on those who have been his judges. If you are about to visit this respondent with a judgment which shall blast this house; if the bosoms of the innocent and the amiable are to be made to bleed under your infliction, I beseech you to be able to state clear and strong grounds for your proceedings.

Prejudice and excitement are transitory, and will pass away. Political expediency, in matters of judicature, is a false and hollow principle, and will never satisfy the conscience of him, who is fearful that he may have given a hasty judgment. I earnestly entreat you, for your own sakes, to possess yourselves of solid reasons, founded in truth and justice, for the judgment you pronounce, which you can carry with you, till you go down into your graves; reasons, which it will require no argument to revive, no sophistry, no excitement, no regard to popular favour, to render satisfactory to your consciences; reasons which you can appeal to, in every crisis of your lives, and which shall be able to assure you, in your own great extremity, that you have not judged a fellow-creature without mercy.

Sir, I have done with the case of this individual, and now leave him in your hands. I hold up before him the broad shield of the constitution; if through that he be pierced and fall, he will be but one sufferer, in a conmon catastrophe.


Shout for the mighty men,

Who died along this shore—

Who died within this mountain's glen!

For never nobler chieftain's head

Was laid on Valour's crimson bed,
Nor ever prouder gore

Sprang forth, than their's who won the day

Upon thy strand, Thermopylae!

Shout for the mighty men,

Who, on the Persian tents,
Like lions from their midnight den
Bounding on the slumbering deer,


Rushed—a storm of sword and spear ;—

Like the roused elements, Let loose from an immortal hand, To chasten or to crush a land!

But there are none to hear;

Greece is a hopeless slave.
Leonid As! no hand is near
To lift thy fiery falchion now;
No warrior makes the warrior's vow

Upon thy sea-washed grave.
The voice that should be raised by men,
Must now be given by wave and glen.

And it is given!—the surge—

The tree—the rock—the sand—
On Freedom's kneeling spirit urge,
In sounds that speak but to the free,
The memory of thine and thee!

The vision of thy band
Still gleams within the glorious dell,
Where their gore hallowed, as it fell!

And is thy grandeur done?

Mother of men like these!
Has not thy outcry gone,
Where Justice has an ear to hear ?—
Be holy! God shall guide thy spear;

Till in thy crimsoned seas
Are plunged the chain and scimitar,
Greece shall be a new-born Star!


There's a cloud in the sky,
There's a cloud in the glen;
But the one is of vapour,
The other of men.

We have sworn by the blood
Which Napoleon hath spilt,
With the arm on the altar,
The han^n the hilt—

We have sworn by that God,
Who can keep us, and save us,
To fight for the land
Which our forefathers gave us.

We have sworn by our love,

By that spell which hath bound us,

To fight for the maids

And the mountains around us.

We have ta'en our last look—
We have ta'en our last kiss—
But let that hour of anguish
Be paid for in this.

Down, down with the rocks
On the hell-hounds below,
And clear let the horn
Of the Tyrolese blow.

Cut away—cut away,
With the stones and the trees,
And let France long remember
The brave Tyrolese!

And wo be to him,
'Mid the thousands beneath,
Whom the Tyrolese marks
From his mountainous heath.

There's a spell in his eye,
There's a spell in his breath,
And the sound of his gun
Is the watchword of death.

Now, now is the time,
While our standard still waves,
To show there are some yet,
Who will not be slaves.




I Come not, Emperor, t'invade thy mercy,
By fawning on thy fortune; nor bring with me
Excuses, or denials.

I profess I was thine enemy:
Thy deadly and vowed enemy; one that wished
Confusion to thy person and estates;
And with my utmost powers and deepest counsels,
Had they been truly followed, furthered it:
Nor will I now, although my neck were under
The hangman's axe, with one poor syllable
Confess, but that I honoured the French king
More than thyself, and all men.

Now, give me leave
(My hate against thyself, and love to him
Freely acknowledged) to give up the reasons,
That made me so affected. In my wants
I ever found him faithful: had supplies
Of men and monies from him: and my hopes,
Quite sunk, were, by his grace, buoyed up again.
He was, indeed, to me as my good angel,
To guard me from all dangers. I dare speak
(Nay must and will) his praise now, in as high
And loud a key, as when he was thy equal.
The benefits he sowed in me, met not
Unthankful ground, but yielded him his own,
With fair increase; and I still glory in it;
And, though my fortunes (poor compared to his,
And Milan, weighed with France, appear as nothing)
Are in thy fury burnt; let it be mentioned,
They served but as small-tapers to attend
The solemn flame at this great funeral;
And with them 1 will gladly waste myself,
Rather than undergo the imputation
Of being base or unthankful.

If that, then, to be grateful
For courtesies received, or not to leave
A friend in his necessities, be a crime
Amongst you Spaniards, Sforza brings his head
To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slave,
Pinioned and fettered, in a squalid weed,

Falling before thy feet, kneeling and howling,

For a forestalled remission: that were poor,

And would but shame thy victory; for conquest

Over base foes, is a captivity,

And not a triumph. I ne'er feared to die,

More than I wished to live. When I had reached

My ends in being a duke, I wore these robes,

This crown upon my head, and to my side

This sword was girt: and witness, truth, that now

'T is in another's power, when I shall part

With them and life together, I'm the same:

My veins did not then swell with pride; nor now

They shrink with fear.—Know, sir, that Sforza stands

Prepared for either fortune.



He is fallen! We may now pause before that splendid prodigy, which towered amongst us like some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance its magnificence attracted.

Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne, a sceptred hermit, wrapt in the solitude of his own originality.

A mind bold, independent, and decisive-^a will, despotic in its dictates—an energy that distanced expedition, and a conscience pliable to every touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary character—the most extraordinary, perhaps, that, in the annals of this world, ever rose, or reigned, or fell.

Flung into life, in the midst of a Revolution, that quick• ened every energy of a people who acknowledged no superior, he commenced his course, a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity!

With no friend but his sword, and no fortune but his talents, he rushed into the lists where rank, and wealth, atid genius had arrayed themselves, and competition fled from him as from the glance of destiny. He knew no motive but interest—he acknowledged no criterion but success— he worshipped no God but ambition, and with an eastern devotion he knelt at the shrine of his idolatry. Subsidiary to this, there was no creed that he did not profess, there was no opinion that he did not prom'ulgate; in the hope of a djnasty, he upheld the crescent; for the sake of a divorce,

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