* * * * * New power Mounts to the brain like wine. For such disease, Your skilful leech lets blood. RIENZI ON HIS DAUGHTER'S MARRIAGE. A bridal Is but a gilt and painted funeral To the fond father who hath yielded up His one sweet child. Claudia, thy love, thy duty, Thy very name, is gone. Thou are another's; Thou hast a master now; and I have thrown My precious pearl away. Yet men who give A living daughter to the fickle will Of a capricious bridegroom, laugh--the madmen! Laugh at the jocund bridal feast, and weep When the fair corse is laid in blessed rest, Deep, deep in mother earth. Oh, happier far, So to have lost my child! FICKLE GREATNESS. Thou art as one Perched on some lofty steeple's dizzy height, Dazzled by the sun, inebriate by long draughts Of thinner air; too giddy to look down Where all his safety lies; too proud to dare The long descent to the low depths from whence The desperate climber rose. RIENZI'S ORIGIN. There's the sting,-- That I, an insect of to-day, outsoar The reverend worm, nobility! Wouldst shame me With my poor parentage!--Sir, I'm the son Of him who kept a sordid hostelry In the Jews' quarter--my good mother cleansed Linen for honest hire.--Canst thou say worse? _Ang_. Can worse be said? _Rie_. Add, that my boasted schoolcraft Was gained from such base toil, gained with such pain, That the nice nurture of the mind was oft Stolen at the body's cost. I have gone dinnerless And supperless, the scoff of our poor street, For tattered vestments and lean, hungry looks, To pay the pedagogue.--Add what thou wilt Of injury. Say that, grown into man, I've known the pittance of the hospital, And, more degrading still, the patronage Of the Colonna. Of the tallest trees The roots delve deepest. Yes, I've trod thy halls, Scorned and derided midst their ribald crew, A licensed jester, save the cap and bells, I have borne this--and I have borne the death, The unavenged death, of a dear brother. I seemed, I was, a base, ignoble slave. What am I?--Peace, I say!--What am I now? Head of this great republic, chief of Rome-- In all but name, her sovereign--last of all, Thy father. CIVIL WAR. The city's full Of camp-like noises--tramp of steeds, and clash Of mail, and trumpet-blast, and ringing clang Of busy armourers--the grim ban-dog bays-- The champing war horse in his stall neighs loud-- The vulture shrieks aloft. FEAR. Terror, not love, Strikes anchor in ignoble souls. THE CAPITOL BELL.[3] [3] The passage between commas is omitted in the representation, but we know not why.