TACITUS. Through wind and wave, right onward steer, Sail forth into the sea of life, Oh gentle, loving, trusting wife, Upon the bosom of that sea For gentleness, and love, and trust, Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State! Is hanging breathless on thy fate! Fear not each sudden sound and shock; Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee: Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee-are all with thee. TACITUS. T. BABINGTON MACAULAY. N the delineation of character, Tacitus is unrivalled among historians, and has very few superiors among dramatists and novelists. By the delineation of character we do not mean the practice of drawing up epigrammatic catalogues of good and bad qualities, and appending them to the names of eminent men. No writer indeed has done this more skillfully than Tacitus; but this is not his peculiar glory. All the persons who occupy a large space in his works have an individuality of character which seems to pervade all their words and actions. We know them as if we had lived with them. Claudius, Nero, Otho, both the Agrippinas, are masterpieces. But Tiberius is a still higher miracle of art. The historian undertook to make us intimately acquainted with a man singularly dark and inscrutable-whose real disposition long remain CATO ON IMMORTALITY. 391 ed swathed up in intricate folds of factitious virtues, and over whose actions the hypocrisy of his youth and the seclusion of his old age threw a singular mystery. He was to exhibit the specious qualities of the tyrant in a light which might render them transparent, and enable us at once to perceive the covering and the vices which it concealed. He was to trace the gradations by which the first magistrate of a republic, a senator mingling freely in debate, a noble associating with his brother nobles, was transformed into an Asiatic sultan; he was to exhibit a character distinguished by courage, self-command, and profound policy, yet defiled by all "th' extravagancy And crazy ribaldry of fancy." He was to mark the gradual effect of advancing age and approaching death on this strange compound of strength and weakness; to exhibit the old sovereign of the world sinking into a dotage which, though it rendered his appetites eccentric and his temper savage, never impaired the powers of his stern and penetrating mind, conscious of failing strength, raging with capricious sensuality, yet to the last the keenest of observers, the most artful of dissemblers, and the most terrible of masters. The task was one of extreme difficulty. The execution is almost perfect. CATO ON IMMORTALITY. JOSEPH ADDISON. T must be so.-Plato, thou reasonest well! Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and in- Of falling into naught? Why shrinks Back on herself, and startles at destruction? Tis heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, Eternity-thou pleasing, dreadful thought! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a Power above And that there is, all Nature cries aloud virtue; And that which He delights in must be happy, But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar. I'm weary of conjectures,-this must end them. [Laying his hand on his sword.] Drink did it all-drink made him mad when crossed He was a poor man, and they're hard on such. O Nan! that night! that night! And turned, and saw him standing yonder, white And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair! And when I caught his arm and called, in fright, He pushed me, swore, and to the door he passed To lock and bar it fast. "Be still!-the drink-drink did it!-he is dead !" Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn't weep; All I could do was cling to Ned and hark, And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep, But breathing hard and deep. The candle flickered out-the room grew dark And-Nan!—although my heart was true and tried When all grew cold and dim, I shuddered-not for fear of them outside, " Ned! Ned!" I whispered-and he moaned and shook, But did not heed or look! While I clung tighter to his heart, and pressed him, And did not fear him, though my heart was broken, Then down he drops just like a lump of lead, What could I do but scream? He groaned When I could see his face, and it looked old, 394 THE DIVINITY OF POETRY. And Ned leaped up, and knew that they had 64 come. Run, Ned!" I cried, but he was deaf and dumb!" "Hide, Ned!" I screamed, and held him; "hide thee, man!" He stared with bloodshot eyes, and heark- And all the rest is like a dream-the sound A rush of men—a struggle on the ground- For when I got my senses back again, And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo. And turning round, I gazed, and watched Then felt that they were going to see him die, And drew my shawl more tight, and followed slow. More people passed me, a country cart with Stopped close beside me, and two or three Next came a hollow sound I knew full well, There came the solemn tolling of a bell! As if I had been stone, all hard and cold, And the day brightened, and his time had come Till-Nan -all else was silent, but the knell Of the slow bell! And I could only wait, and wait, and wait, Saint Paul's struck "eight "— I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire, and fell! THE DIVINITY OF POETRY. P PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. OETRY is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds. We are aware of evanescent visitations of thought and feeling, sometimes associated with place or person, sometimes regarding our own mind alone, and always arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, but elevating and delightful beyond all expression; so that, even in the desire and the regret |
