_Caius._ Thou my friend! I am not one To call a villain friend. Let thunders, fraught With fate and death, awake to scatter those Who, bringing liberty through paths of blood, Bring chains!--degrading Freedom’s lofty self Below e’en Slavery’s level! Say thou not, Wretch! that the sentence and the guilt were mine! I wish’d him slain!--’tis so--but by the axe Of high and public justice--that whose stroke On thy vile head will fall. Thou hast disgraced Unutterably my name: I bid thee tremble! _Ful._ Caius, let insult cease, I counsel thee: Let insult cease! Be the deed just or guilty, Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not To utter more. _Caius._ And what hast thou to say? _Ful._ That which I now suppress. _Caius._ How! are there yet, Perchance, more crimes to be reveal’d? _Ful._ I know not. _Caius._ Thou know’st not?--Horror chills my curdling veins; I dare not ask thee further. _Ful._ Thou dost well. _Caius._ What saidst thou? _Ful._ Nothing. _Caius._ On my heart the words Press heavily. Oh! what a fearful light Bursts o’er my soul!--Hast thou accomplices? _Ful._ Insensate! ask me not. _Caius._ I must be told. _Ful._ Away!--thou wilt repent. _Caius._ No more of this, for I _will_ know. _Ful._ Thou wilt? Ask then thy sister. _Caius._ (_alone_.) Ask my sister! What! Is she a murderess? Hath my sister slain Her lord? Oh! crime of darkest dye! Oh! name Till now unstain’d, name of the Gracchi, thus Consign’d to infamy!--to infamy? The very hair doth rise upon my head, Thrill’d by the thought! Where shall I find a place To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains From this dishonour’d brow? What should I do? There is a voice whose deep tremendous tones Murmur within my heart, and sternly cry, “Away!--and pause not--slay thy guilty sister!” Voice of lost honour, of a noble line Disgraced, I will obey thee!--terribly Thou call’st for blood, and thou shalt be appeased. PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS. Whoever has attentively studied the works of the Italian poets, from the days of Dante and Petrarch to those of Foscolo and Pindemonte, must have been struck with those allusions to the glory and the fall, the renown and the degradation, of Italy, which give a melancholy interest to their pages. Amidst all the vicissitudes of that devoted country, the warning voice of her bards has still been heard to prophesy the impending storm, and to call up such deep and spirit-stirring recollections from the glorious past, as have resounded through the land, notwithstanding the loudest tumults of those discords which have made her-- “Long, long, a bloody stage For petty kinglings tame, Their miserable game Of puny war to wage.”