Evolution of Expression Volume Ii Part 4

_Orl._ Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

_Ros._ Me believe it? you may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does: that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

_Orl._ I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.

_Ros._ But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

_Orl._ Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

_Ros._ Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

_Orl._ Did you ever cure any so?

_Ros._ Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every pa.s.sion something and for no pa.s.sion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cur'd him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't.

_Orl._ I would not be cured, youth.

_Ros._ I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo me.

_Orl._ Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is.

_Ros._ Go with me to it, and I'll show it you: and by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

_Orl._ With all my heart, good youth.

_Ros._ Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?

_CHAPTER II._

VITAL SLIDE.

THE RISING IN 1776.

I.

Out of the north the wild news came, Far flas.h.i.+ng on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies At midnight through the startled skies.

And there was tumult in the air, The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And through the wide land everywhere The answering tread of hurrying feet; While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington; And Concord, roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swelled the discord of the hour.

II.

Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkley Manor stood; There Sunday found the rural folk, And some esteemed of gentle blood.

In vain their feet with loitering tread Pa.s.sed 'mid the graves where rank is naught; All could not read the lesson taught In that republic of the dead.

III.

How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk, The vale with peace and suns.h.i.+ne full Where all the happy people walk, Decked in their homespun flax and wool!

Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom, And every maid with simple art, Wears on her breast, like her own heart, A bud whose depths are all perfume; While every garment's gentle stir Is breathing rose and lavender.

IV.

The pastor came; his snowy locks Hallowed his brow of thought and care; And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks, He led into the house of prayer.

The pastor rose; the prayer was strong; The psalm was warrior David's song; The text, a few short words of might,-- "The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"

V.

He spoke of wrongs too long endured, Of sacred rights to be secured; Then from his patriot tongue of flame The startling words for Freedom came.

The stirring sentences he spake, Compelled the heart to glow or quake, And, rising on his theme's broad wing, And grasping in his nervous hand The imaginary battle-brand, In face of death he dared to fling Defiance to a tyrant king.

VI.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed In eloquence of att.i.tude, Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside.

And, lo! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise.

VII.

A moment there was awful pause,-- When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!

G.o.d's temple is the house of peace!"

The other shouted, "Nay, not so, When G.o.d is with our righteous cause; His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers, That frown upon the tyrant foe; In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, There is a time to fight and pray!"

VIII.

And now before the open door-- The warrior priest had ordered so-- The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, Its long reverberating blow, So loud and clear, it seemed the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear.

And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life; While overhead, with wild increase, Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, The great bell swung as ne'er before: It seemed as it would never cease; And every word its ardor flung From off its jubilant iron tongue Was, "WAR! WAR! WAR!"

IX.

"Who dares"--this was the patriot's cry, As striding from the desk he came,-- "Come out with me, in Freedom's name For her to live, for her to die?"

A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices answered "I!"

T. B. READ.

THE TENT-SCENE BETWEEN BRUTUS AND Ca.s.sIUS.

Ca.s.sIUS. That you have wronged me doth appear in this: You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein, my letters (praying on his side, Because I knew the man) were slighted off.

BRUTUS. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case.

CAS. At such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment.

BRU. Let me tell you, Ca.s.sius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm; To sell and mart your offices for gold, To undeservers.

CAS. I an itching palm?

You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the G.o.ds, this speech were else your last.