ARTHUR.

Alas! what need you be so boist'rous rough;
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.

For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! Drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ;

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angrily :

Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you
Whatever torment you do put me to.

HUBERT.

Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

ATTENDANT.

I am best pleased to be from such a deed.

ARTHUR.

[Exeunt Attendant.

Alas! then I have chid away my friend,
He hath a stern look but a gentle heart;
Let him come back, that his compassion may

Give life to yours.

HUBERT.

Come, boy, prepare yourself.

ARTHUR.

Is there no remedy?

HUBERT.

None, but to lose your eyes.

ARTHUR,

O heaven that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,

Any annoyance in that precious sense;

Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

HUBERT.

Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue.

ARTHUR.

Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes;
Let me not hold my tongue! Let me not, Hubert.
O Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes; oh spare mine eyes,
Though to no use but still to look on you!
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.

HUBERT.

I can heat it, boy.

ARTHUR.

No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be used

In undeserv'd extremes: see else yourself,
There is no malice in this burning coal,

The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.

HUBERT.

But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

ARTHUR.

And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame at your proceedings, Hubert;
Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes,
And, like a dog that is compelled to fight,
Snatch at his master that doth tarre1 him on;
All things that you should use to do me wrong
Deny their office; only you do lack

That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

HUBERT.

Well, see to live! I will not touch thine eyes
For all the treasure that thine uncle owns ;
Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.

1 Urge.

ARTHUR.

Oh, now you look like Hubert! All this while
You were disguised.

HUBERT.

Peace, no more! Adieu,

Your uncle must not know but you are dead :
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports,
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless' and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend2 thee.

Silence no more.

ARTIIUR.

O Heaven, I thank you, Hubert!

HUBERT.

Go closely in with me,

Much danger do I undergo for thee.

From "King John," SHAKESPEARE.

THE BARONS AT RUNNYMEDE.

1215.

WITH what an awful grace those Barons stood,
In presence of the King at Runnymede;
The silent finger-to that righteous deed,
O'er which, with cheek forsaken of its blood,

He hung-still pointing with stern hardihood,
And brow that spake the unuttered mandate, "Read!
Sign!" He glares round, "Never, though thousands
bleed,"

"He will not! Hush!" Low words, in solemn manner, Are murmured, and he signs.

AUBREY DE VERE.

THE BARD.

1277.

Edward I. was, on very weak grounds, accused of having slaughtered the bards or poets in Wales, because they stirred up the national spirit of resistance. Several English histories copied this story, and Thomas Gray, writing in 1757, supposed the ode that follows to have been spoken by the last of these persecuted bards, prophesying the future history of the descendants of Edward. The innocence of Edward in the matter is quite proved, but the verses are so fine, and give such a grand sketch of the fortunes of our English kings, that they can never be forgotten.

The strange, irregular, symbolical language in which the bard speaks