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Thou canst not?--and a king his dust be mountains on
He loosed the steed, his slack hand fell-upon the silent
face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from
that sad placeHis hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial
strain His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of
CLARENCE AND BRAKENBURY.
Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?
Clar. O, I have passed a miserable night,
Brak. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me.
Clar. Methought that I had broken from the tower, And was embarked to cross to Burgundy,And in my company my brother Glo'ster; Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches. Thence we looked toward England, And cited up a thousand heavy times, During the wars of York and Lancaster, That had befallen us. As we passed along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought that Glo'ster stumbled, and, in falling, Struck me (that sought to stay him) overboard, Into the tumbling billows of the main. Oh! Heaven! methought what pain it was to drown! What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears! What sights of ugly death within mine eyes! I thought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks; A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon: Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels;
Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death,
Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive
Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony?
Clar. No, no; my dream was lengthened after life; O then began the tempest of my soul: I passed, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger-soul, Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, Who cried aloud- - What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?' And so he vanished. Then came wandering by A shadow like'an angel; with bright hair Dabbled in blood, and he shrieked out aloudClarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury: Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments!'. With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends Environed me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that with the very noise I, trembling, waked; and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell: Such terrible impression made my dream.
Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you; I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.
Clar. I pray thee, Brakenbury, stay by me: My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.
SOLILOQUY OF WALLENSTEIN.
Translated from the German of Schiller.
truth, and conscious innocence Did prompt-all, all rise up against me-all
Must seem the links of some dark, grasping scheme By years of treacherous ambition wrought:And from the tongues of mine own countrymen,Tongues, that were wont to bless and honour meCurses, both loud and deep, peal on mine ear; Before which, I must needs be dumb. Ah! wo to him, that tramples, in his course, The loved and honoured heirlooms of his fathers! There is a consecrating power in time; And what is gray with years, to man is godlike. With ancient and anointed majesty I've striven. I've wrenched the bonds strong custom wreathes About the hearts of men-and in their hearts I've reared a foe, that ever fights against me.
T'hy Country's love is lost—and that—the force Which called thee Lord, enflamed thy pride, seduced Thy fancy, blinded reason--till, by the aid Of treacherous confidants, and watchful foes, Thou 'rt come to this,--thine army, Wallenstein!Deserted thee, when thou deserted'st duty. Thy Prince-Prince!-Am I not a rebel, traitor?Thy friend-Gone, gone!-Wretch, died he not for thee?
Dug not thy guilt his early grave?-Alas!
High o'er the vulgar paths of men-high up
The steps of life, thy godlike arm of love
THE HIGHLANDER TO HIS SON.-Scott.
KENNETH, said the old outlaw, hear the last words of the sire of thy father. A Saxon soldier, and Allan of the Redhand, left this camp within these few hours, to travel to the country of Caber-foe. Pursue them as the blood-hound pursues the hurt deer-swim the lake-climb the mountain -thread the forest-tarry not until you join them.
They will ask thee news from the camp-say to them that Annot Lyle of the Harp is discovered to be the daughter of Duncan of Ardenvohr; that the thane of Menteith is
to wed her before the priest; and that you are sent to bid guests to the bridal. Tarry not their answer, but vanish like the lightning when the black cloud swallows it. And now depart, beloved son of my best beloved! I shall never more see thy face, nor hear the light sound of thy footstep yet tarry an instant, and hear my last charge-remember the fate of our race, and quit not the ancient manners of the Children of the Mist.
We are now a straggling handful, driven from every vale by the sword of every clan, who rule in the possessions where their forefathers hewed the wood, and drew the water to ours. But in the thicket of the wilderness, and in the mist of the mountain, Kenneth, son of Erocht, keep thou unsoiled the freedom which I leave thee as a birthright. Barter it not, neither for the rich garment, nor for the stone roof, nor for the covered board, nor the couch of down-on the rock or in the valley, in abundance or in famine-in leafy summer or in the days of the iron winter-Son of the Mist! be as free as thy forefathers.
Own no lord-receive no law-take no hire-give no stipend—build no hut-enclose no pasture-sow no grain; -let the deer of the mountain be thy flocks and herds-if these fail thee, prey upon the goods of our oppressors—of the Saxons and of the Gael who are Saxons in their souls, valuing herds and flocks more than honour and freedom. Well for us that they do so—it affords the broader scope for our revenge. Remember those who have done kindness to our race, and pay their services with thy blood, should the hour require it. If a Mac Ian shall come to thee with the head of the king's son in his hand, shelter him, though the avenging army of the father were behind him; for in Glencoe and Ardnamurchan, we have dwelt in peace in the years that have gone by.
The sons of Diarmid-the race of Darnlinvarach-the riders of Menteith--my curse on thy head, Child of the Mist, if thou spare one of those names, when the time shall offer for cutting them off! and it will come anon, for their own swords shall devour each other, and those who are scattered shall fly to the Mist, and perish by its children. Once more begone--shake the dust from thy feet against the habitations of men, whether banded together for peace or for war—Farewell, beloved! and mayst thou die like thy forefathers, ere infirmity, disease, or age shall break thy spirit-begone, begone! - live free-requite kindnessavenge the injuries of thy race.