Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub

THE COUNTRY BUMPKIN AND THE RAZOR-SELLER.

So, home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling in heart, and soul content,

And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze:

'Twas a vile razor!-then the rest he tried-
All were impostors "Ah," Hodge sighed !
"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose his ruff,

So kept it, laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,
Vowing dire vengeance, with clenched claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
"Razors! a base, confounded bog,
Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow-found him, and began-
"Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
That people flay themselves out of their lives;
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster-knives:

Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, “I'm no knave;
As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my word, I never thought

That they would shave."

89

"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wonder

ing eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries;

"Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile-"to sell.”

Peter Pindar.

KING PHILIP, PANDULPH, AND CONSTANCE.

Pand.
Const.

LADY, you utter madness, and not sorrow,
Thou art not holy, to bely me so;

I am not mad: this hair I tear, is mine;
My name is Constance, I was Geoffry's wife;
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost:
I am not mad;-I would to heaven, I were!
For then, 'tis like, I should forget myself:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget!-
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, cardinal;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be delivered of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself:
If I were mad, I should forget my son;
Or madly think a babe of clouts were he:
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.

Phil.

Bind up those tresses:-O, what love I note In the fair multitude of those her hairs!

Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends
Do glue themselves in sociable grief;

Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,

Sticking together in calamity.

Const. (madly.) To England if you will,

THE SAME CONTINUED.

Phil. BIND up your hairs.

Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it? I tore them from their bonds; and cry'd aloud,

O, that these hands could so redeem my son,

As they have given these hairs their liberty!

KING PHILIP, PANDULPH, AND CONSTANCE.

But now I envy at that liberty;

And will again commit them to their bonds,
Because my poor child is a prisoner.—
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say,

That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:
If that be, I shall see my boy again:

For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday respire,

There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker sorrow end my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost,
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit,
And so he'll die; and rising so again,

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

91

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. Const. He talks to me that never had a son. Phil. You are as fond of grief as of your child. Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks and down with me;

up

Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give you better comfort than you do.-
I will not keep this form upon my head

(Throwing away her head-dress.)

When there is such disorder in my wit.
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all, the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure!

Shakspeare.

THE COMMON LOT.

ONCE in the flight of ages past

There liv'd a man-and who was he?
Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee!

Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown, His name hath perish'd from the earth, This truth survives alone

That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast,
His bliss and woe, a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall,
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd-but his pangs are o'er,
Enjoy'd but his delights are fled,
Had friends-his friends are now no more,
And foes-his foes are dead.

He loved

but whom he lov'd, the grave

Hath lost in its unconscious womb;

O she was fair? but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,

Ere while his portion, life and light,

To him exist-in vain.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

He saw whatever thou hast seen,
Encounter'd all that troubles thee,
whatever thou hast been,

He was

He is what thou shalt be!

The clouds and sunbeams o'er his

eye

That once their shade and glory threw,

Have left, in yonder silent sky,

No vestige where they flew!

The annals of the human race,

Their ruin since the world began,

Of him afford no other trace,

Than this-THERE LIV'D A MAN.

Montgomery.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

SWEET Scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear,
To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow,

And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flow'r, who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me,
Beneath the lowly alder tree,

93

« AnteriorContinuar »