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A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM.

217

The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers;
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear;

For that she ever sung, “ In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung;
" Avoid thee, Fiend !—with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand !-
O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;

O think on faith and bliss -
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,

But never aught like this.”
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering, swelled the gale,

And-STANLEY! was the cry:
A light on Marmion's visage spread,

And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted—“ Victory ! -
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.

Sir W. Scott.

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM.

ACT II. SCENE II.

Obe. Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this

grove, Till I torment thee for this injury.My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou remember'st

218

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM.

Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back,
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,
That the rude sea grew civil at her song;
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
To hear the sea-maid's music?

Puck. I remember.
Obe. That very time I saw (but thou could'st

not),
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal throned by the west;
And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts :
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watry moon;
And the imperial vot'ress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell :
It fell upon a little western flower
Before, milk-white; now purple with love's wound-
And maidens call it, love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower; the herb I show'd thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid,
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb: and be thou here again,
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

Puck. I'll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes.

[Exit Puck. Obe. Having once this juice, I'll watch Titania when she is asleep, And drop the liquor of it in her eyes: The next thing then she waking looks upon (Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, On meddling monkey, or on busy ape), She shall pursue it with the soul of love. And ere I take this charm off from her sight

ON TRUE DIGNITY.

219

(As I can take it, with another herb),
Ì'll make her render up her page to me.
But who comes here?

Shakspeare.

ON TRUE DIGNITY.

“Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose !
Can Passion's wildest uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes?
Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes,
And Contemplation soar on seraph-wings.
O Solitude ! the man who thee foregoes,

When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur

springs. “Vain man! is grandeur given to gay attire Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid: To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire ? It is thy weakness that requires their aid : To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid ? They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm : To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade ?

Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm!
Behold what deeds of woe the locust can perform!

“True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind
Virtue has raised above the things below;
Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd,
Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest blow!"
This strain, from 'midst the rocks, was heard to flow
In solemn sounds. Now beam'd the evening star;
And from embattled clouds, emerging slow,

Cynthia came riding on her silver car;
And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar.

Beattie.

THE PATRIOT AND WARRIOR. LET laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, Reward his memory dear to every muse, Who, with a courage of unshaken root, In honour's field advancing his firm foot, Plants it upon the line that justice draws, And will prevail or perish in her cause ! 'Tis to the virtues of such men man owes His portion in the good that Heaven bestows: And when recording history displays Feats of renown, tho' wrought in ancient days; Tells of a few stout hearts that fought and died, Where duty plac'd them at their country's side; The man who is not mov'd with what he reads, That takes not fire at their heroic deeds, Unworthy of the blessings of the brave, Is base in kind, and born to be a slave! But let eternal infamy pursue The wretch to nought but his ambition true; Who, for the sake of filling with one blast The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste ! Think yourself station'd on a tow'ring rock, To see a people scatter'd like a flock; Some bloody mastiff panting at their heels, With all the savage thirst a tiger feels; Then view him self-proclaim'd in a Gazette, Chief monster that has plagu'd the nations yet! The globe and sceptre in such hands misplac'd, Those ensigns of dominion how disgrac'd ! The glass that bids man mark the fleeting hour, And death's own scythe would better speak his power: Then grace the bony phantom in their stead, With the gay shoulder-knot and

gay

cockade; Clothe the twin-brethren in each other's dress, The same their occupation and success!

Cowper.

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SOLITUDE AND ADVERSITY.

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet,
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The season's difference; as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say,
“This is no flattery; these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am."
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head:
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

Shakspeare.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

ACT IV.-SCENE I.

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
Por. Is your name Shylock ?
Shy. Shylock is my name.
Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you

follow;
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.-
You stand within his danger, do you not ?

[TO ANT.
Ant. Ay, so he says.
Por. Do you confess the bond ?
Ant. I do.
Por. Then must the Jew be merciful.

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