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From “Brutus”
WOULD you know why I summoned you together? | |
| Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger, | |
| Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse! | |
| See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death! | |
| She was the mark and model of the time, | 5 |
| The mould in which each female face was formed, | |
| The very shrine and sacristy of virtue! | |
| Fairer than ever was a form created | |
| By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild, | |
| And never-resting thought is all on fire! | 10 |
| The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph | |
| Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks, | |
| And whispered in his ear her strains divine, | |
| Can I conceive beyond her;—the young choir | |
| Of vestal virgins bent to her. ’T is wonderful | 15 |
| Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds, | |
| Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost | |
| Spread o’er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,— | |
| How from the shade of those ill-neighboring plants | |
| Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf | 20 |
| Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace, | |
| She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections | |
| Might have called back the torpid breast of age | |
| To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind | |
| Might have abashed the boldest libertine | 25 |
| And turned desire to reverential love | |
| And holiest affection! O my countrymen! | |
| You all can witness when that she went forth | |
| It was a holiday in Rome; old age | |
| Forgot its crutch, labor its task,—all ran, | 30 |
| And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried, | |
| “There, there ’s Lucretia!” Now look ye where she lies! | |
| That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose, | |
| Torn up by ruthless violence,—gone! gone! gone! | |
| Say, would you seek instruction? would ye ask | 35 |
| What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls, | |
| Which saw his poisoned brother,— | |
| Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove | |
| O’er her dead father’s corse, ’t will cry, Revenge! | |
| Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple | 40 |
| With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge! | |
| Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife, | |
| And the poor queen, who loved him as her son, | |
| Their unappeasèd ghosts will shriek, Revenge! | |
| The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens, | 45 |
| The gods themselves, shall justify the cry, | |
| And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge! | |
| And we will be revenged, my countrymen! | |
| Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name | |
| Which will, when you ’re revenged, be dearer to him | 50 |
| Than all the noblest titles earth can boast. | |
| Brutus your king!—No, fellow-citizens! | |
| If mad ambition in this guilty frame | |
| Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one,— | |
| By all the gods, this dagger which I hold | 55 |
| Should rip it out, though it intwined my heart. | |
| Now take the body up. Bear it before us | |
| To Tarquin’s palace; there we ’ll light our torches, | |
| And in the blazing conflagration rear | |
| A pile, for these chaste relics, that shall send | 60 |
| Her soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads you! | |
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