Imatges de pÓgina
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O then began the tempest to my soul!
I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual Night.

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The first that there did greet my stranger-soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick,
Who cry'd aloud-« What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?
And so he vanish'd. Then came wand'ring by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud—
Clarence is Come! false, leeting, perjur'd Cla-

rence,

That stab'd me in the field by Tewksbury;
Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments!»
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me,
and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise
I trembling wak'd; 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. Ah, Brakenbury! I have done those things, That now give evidence against my soul, For Edward's sake! and see how he requits me; O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds, Yet execute thy wrath on me alone :

O spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children! I p'rythee, Brakenbury, stay by me:

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

SHAKESPEARE.

CHA P. XXIII.

Queen Mab.

then I see Queen Mab hath been with you, She is the Fancy's midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone

On the fore-finger of an alderman;
Drawn by a team of little atomies,
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon spokes made of long spinner's leg's;
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers;

The traces of the smallest spider's web;

The collars-of the moonshine's watery beams;
Her whip-of cricket's bone; the lash—of film ;
Her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm,
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid:
Her chariot is an empty hazel nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops, night by night,
Through lover's brains, and then they dream of

love':

On courtier's knees that dream on court'sies

straight:

O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees:
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream;
Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling the parson as he lies asleep;
Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again.
SHAKESPEARE.

CHAP. XXIV.

Apothecary.

I do remember an Apothecary,

And hereabouts he dwells, whom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,

Culling of simples; meagre were his looks;
Sharp Misery had worn him to the bones:
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff'd, and other skins
Of ill-shap'd fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of pack thread, and old cakes of roses
Were thinly scatter'd to make up a shew.
Noting this penury, to myself I said,
And if a man did need a poison now,
Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
Oh, this same thought did but fore-run my need!
And this same needy Man must sell it me—
As I remember, this should be the house.

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SHAKESPEARE.

CHAP. X X V.

Ode to Evening.

Faught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales,

ONymph reserv'd, while now the bright hair'd sun
Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shrieks flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,
Now teach me, maid compos'd,

To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers stealing through thy dark'ning vale,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As musing slow, I hail,

Thy genial, lov'd return!

For when thy folding star arising shews
His paly circlet, as his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in flow'rs the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,

And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car,

Then lead, calm Vot'ress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath or some time-hallowed pile,
Or up-land fallows grey
Reflect its last cool gleam.

But when chill blust'ring winds or driving rain
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side,
Views wilds and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears the simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont,

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light:

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air
Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, sure found beneath the sylvan shade,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science

Health,

Thy gentlest influence own,

rose lip'd

And hymn thy favourite name! COLLINS.

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SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire,

Hoar Winter's blooming child: delightful Spring!
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crown'd;

From the green islands of eternal youth,
(Crown'd with fresh blooms, and ever-springing
shade)

Turn, hither turn thy step,

O thou whose powerful voice

More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed, Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding winds, And thro the stormy deep

Breathe thy own tender calm.

Thee, best belov'd! the virgin train await,

With songs

and festal rites, and joy to rove Thy blooming wilds among,

And vales and dewy lawns,

With untir'd feet; and cull thy earliest sweets To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow Of him the favour'd youth

That prompts their whisper'd sigh.

Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers That drop their sweetness on the infant buds, And silent dews that swell,

The milky ear's green stem,

And feed the flow'ring osier's early shoots;
And call those winds which through the whisp'ring
boughs

With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.

Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale;
And watch with patient eye

Thy fair unfolding charms.

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