When parents, brothers, husband, die, ...
And desolation only

At every step meets her dim eye,

Inspiring visions lonely :-
Love's last and longest root below,
Which widowed mothers only know,
Watered by each successive grief,
Puts forth a fresher greener leaf.
Divided streams unite in one,
And deepen round her only son;
And when her early friends are gone,
She lives and breathes in him alone.

MELANCHOLY REFLECTIONS.

-Shakespeare.

Poor lord! is't I

That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the none-sparing war? and is it I

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

Of smoky muskets? Ő you leaden messengers,

That ride upon the violent speed of fire,

Fly with false aim; move the still-piercing air,
That sings with piercing... Do not touch my lord!
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;
Whoever charges on his forward breast,

I am the caitiff that do hold him to it;
And, though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected. Better 'twere

I met the raven lion- when he roar'd

With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere
That all the miseries which nature owes,
Were mine at once... I will be gone,

My being here it is that holds him hence;
Shall I stay here to do't? No, no, although
The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels officed all! I will be gone.

MERCY.-Shakespeare.

The quality of mercy is not strain'd;

It droppeth, as the gentle rain [from heaven
Upon the place beneath : | It is twice bless'd ;-
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,-
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;-
But mercy is above this scepter'd sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;

It is an attribute of God himself:

And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice.

MISERY IN ROYALTY.

Shakespeare.

Of comfort... no man speak :

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write Sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let's choose executors, and talk of wills...
And yet not so,- for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all... are Bolingbroke's;
And nothing can we call our own... but death,
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings:-
How some have been deposed,-
- some slain in war
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;-
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd ;—
All murder'd; for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps Death his court: and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,

To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,-
As if... this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable: and humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his castle wall, and... farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away... respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,—
For you have but mistook me all this while.
I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
Need friends :- subjected thus,

How can you say to me I am a king?

MUSIC.

Shakespeare.

Note but a wild and wanton herd,

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,

Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, [Which is the hot condition of their blood;

If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound,

Or any air of music touch their ears.

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,

By the sweet power of music.-Therefore, the poet

Did feign, that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;—
Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music, for the time, doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;—
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus:

Let no such man be trusted.

MUTABILITY OF LOVE.- Moore.

Alas! how light a cause may move

Dissension between hearts that love!

Hearts that the world in vain had tried,

And sorrow but more closely tied!

That stood the storm-when waves were rough—
Yet, in a sunny hour fall off;—

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity!
A something, light as air—a look,

A word... unkind, or wrongly taken-
Oh! Love, that tempests never shook,

A breath, a touch like this, hath shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in,
To spread the breach that words begin;—
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;—
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said...
Till,—fast declining—one by one,
The sweetnesses of Love are gone :-
And hearts. so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds,- or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain's brow,

As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet-ere it reach the plains below-
Breaks... into floods that part for ever.

NATURAL FREEDOM.

Cowper.

But slavery! virtue dreads it as her grave,
Patience itself is meanness in a slave:
Or, if the will and sovereignty of God
Bid suffer it awhile, and kiss the rod.-
Wait for the dawning of a brighter day,
And snap the chain the moment that you may.
Nature imprints upon whate'er we see
That has a heart and life in it—be free!

PERVERSITY. COURTING A SHREW.

Shakespeare.

• I will attend her here,

And woo her with some spirit when she comes.

Say, that she rail... why, then, I'll tell her plain,
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale.

Say, that she frown... I'll say she looks as clear
As morning roses newly wash'd with dew.
Say, she be mute, and will not speak a word, . .
Then I'll commend her volubility,—

...

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence.
If she do bid me pack... I'll give her thanks,—
As though she bid me stay by her a week
If she deny to wed, . . . I'll crave the day

When I shall ask the bans, and when be married.

What cutting blast! and he can scarcely crawl:
He freezes as he moves,- he dies if he should fall!
With cruel fierceness drives this icy sleet...
And must a Christian perish... in the street,
In sight of Christians? There! at last, he lies,—
Nor, unsupported, can he ever rise.—

He cannot live.-In pity do behold

The man affrightened, weeping, trembling, cold:
Oh! how those flakes of snow their entrance win

Through the poor rags, and keep the frost within!
His very heart seems frozen, as he goes
Leading that starved companion of his woes.
He tried to pray—his lips, I saw them move,
And he so turned his piteous eyes above;
But the fierce wind the willing heart opposed,
And, ere he spoke, the lips in misery closed.
Poor suffering object, yes, for ease you prayed,
And God will hear.-He only, I'm afraid.
When reached his home, to what a cheerless fire
And chilling bed will those cold limbs retire!
Yet ragged, wretched as it is, that bed
Takes half the space of his contracted shed.
I saw the thorns beside the narrow grate,
With straw, collected in a putrid state :

There will he, kneeling, strive the fire to raise,
And that will warm him, rather than the blaze;
The sullen, smoky blaze, that cannot last
One moment after his attempt is past:
And I, so warmly and so purely laid,
To sink to rest!... indeed, I am afraid!

POVERTY.-Hartley Coleridge.

'Tis sweet to see

The day-dawn creeping gradual through the sky:

The silent sun at noon is bright and fair,
And the calm eve is lovely; but 'tis sad
To sink at eve on the dark dewy turf,

And feel... that none in all that countless host
Of glimmering stars, beholds one little spot,
One humble home of thine. The vast void sky,
In all its trackless leagues of azure light,
Has not one breath of comfort for the wretch
Whom houseless penury enfranchises;

A brother freeman of the midnight owl
A sworn acquaintance of the howling winds,
And flaggy pinion'd rain.

More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats,
That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer,

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so, the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

Shakespeare.

PROUD INDEPENDENCE.-
Your grace shall pardon me,-- I will not back;
I am too high born to be propertied;
To be a secondary-- at control,

Or useful serving-man and instrument

To any sovereign state throughout the world.
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of war
Between this chastised kingdom and myself,
And brought in matter that should feed this fire :-
And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out
With that same weak wind that enkindled it.
You taught me how to know the face of right,
Acquainted me with interest to this land:
Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart;
And come ye now to tell me John hath made
His peace with Rome? What is that to me?
I, by the honour of my marriage-bed,
After young Arthur, claim this land for mine;
And, now it is half conquered, must I back, . . .

Because that "John hath made his peace with Rome?"

Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome borne,-What men provided,—what munition sent,

To under-prop this action? Is't not I

That undergo this charge! Who else but I,—
And such as to my claim are liable,

Sweat in this business, and maintain this war?
Have I not here the best cards for the game,
To win this easy match played for a crown?
And shall I now give o'er the yielded set?—
No, no, my soul; it never shall be said.