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I am not innocent-but are these guiltless?
I perish, but not unavenged; far ages

Float up from the abyss of time to be,

And show these eyes, before they close, the doom
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse

On her and hers for ever!—Yes, the hours
Are silently engendering of the day,

When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark,
Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield
Unto a bastard Attila, without

Shedding so much blood in her last defence
As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her,
Shall pour in sacrifice. She shall be bought
And sold, and be an appanage to those
Who shall despise her !—She shall stoop to be
A province for an empire, petty town

In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates,
Beggars for nobles, panders for a people!
Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces,
The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek
Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his !
When thy patricians beg their bitter bread
In narrow streets, and in their shameful need
Make their nobility a plea for pity!
Then, when the few who still retain a wreck
Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn
Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-gerent,
Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns,
Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign,
Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung
From an adulteress boastful of her guilt

With some large gondolier or foreign soldier,
Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph
To the third spurious generation ;—when
Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being,

Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the victors,
Despised by cowards for greater cowardice,
And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices
As in the monstrous grasp of their conception
Defy all codes to image or to name them;
When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee,
Vice without splendour, sin without relief
Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er,
But in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude,
Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness,
Depraving nature's frailty to an art ;—

When these and more are heavy on thee, when
Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure,
Youth without honour, age without respect,

Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe

'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not murmur, Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts—

Then, in the last gasp of thine agony,

Amidst thy many murders, think of mine!

Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes!
Gehenna of the waters! thou sea Sodom!
Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods!
Thee and thy serpent seed!


(Sardanapalus, Act v. Scene 1.)

To MYRRHA and BALEA, enter Soldiers, bearing in SALEMENES wounded, with a broken Javelin in his Side: they seat him upon one of the Couches which furnish the Apartment.

Myr. Oh, Jove !


Then all is over.


That is false.

Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier.

Myr. Spare him-he's none: a mere court butterfly,

That flutters in the pageant of a monarch.

Sal. Let him live on, then.


So wilt thou, I trust.

Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and the event, But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here?

Sol. By the king's order. When the javelin struck you, You fell and fainted: 'twas his strict command

To bear you to this hall.


'Twas not ill done :

For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance,

The sight might shake our soldiers-but-'tis vain,

I feel it ebbing!


Let me see the wound ;

I am not quite skilless : in my native land

'Tis part of our instruction. War being constant,

We are nerved to look on such things.


The javelin.

Best extract


Hold! no, no, it cannot be.

Sal. I am sped, then!


With the blood that fast must follow

The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life.

Sal. And I not death. Where was the king when you Convey'd me from the spot where I was stricken?

Sol. Upon the same ground, and encouraging With voice and gesture the dispirited troops Who had seen you fall, and falter'd back.


Named next to the command?


Whom heard ye

I did not hear.

Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 'twas my last request
That Zames take my post until the junction,
So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofratanes,
Satrap of Susa. Leave me here: our troops
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence.
Sol. But prince-

Hence, I say!

Here's a courtier and

A woman, the best chamber company.
As you would not permit me to expire
Upon the field, I'll have no idle soldiers

About my sick couch. Hence! and do my bidding!

[Exeunt the Soldiers.

Myr. Gallant and glorious spirit! must the earth So soon resign thee?


Gentle Myrrha, 'tis

The end I would have chosen had I saved

The monarch or the monarchy by this;

As 'tis, I have not outlived them.


You wax paler.

Sal. Your hand; this broken weapon but prolongs

My pangs, without sustaining life enough,

To make me useful: I would draw it forth,

And my life with it, could I but hear how
The fight goes.


Is lost?

Enter SARDANAPALUS and Soldiers.

My best brother!

And the battle

Sar. (despondingly). You see me here.


I'd rather see you thus! [He draws out the weapon from the wound, and dies.


(Two FOSCARI, Act iv. Scene 1.)

To JACOPO FOSCari, Marina, and the DOGE,
enter an Officer and Guards.

Offi. Signor! the boat is at the shore-the wind
Is rising—we are ready to attend you.

Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Your hand!

Once more, father,

Doge. Take it. Alas! how thine own trembles ! Jac. Fos. No-you mistake; 'tis yours that shakes, my father,


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Let me support you-paler-ho! some aid there!

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