And still, when the chill wing of woe darkens o'er me,

I am grateful its shadow extends not to thee; While if praise thrill my heart or if joy smile before me,

I sigh-"Could she know it, how glad she would be!"

Sweet mother! too fondly your darling you cherish'd,

For me to forget you wherever I go;

Ah no! not till memory's power has perish'd;
I love you too dearly to turn from you so!
Mrs. Osgood's Poems.

I am one who hold a treasure

And a gem of wondrous cost;
But I mar my heart's deep pleasure
With the fear it may be lost.
Oh! for some heavenly token,
By which I may be sure
The vase shall not be broken-
Dispers'd the essence pure.

Then spoke the angel of mothers

To me in gentle tone,

"Be kind to the children of others,

And thus deserve thine own."

In the deep eyes so trustfully upraising
Their light to mine-

I deem the spirit of thy mother gazing
To my soul's shrine.

They ask me with their meek and soft beseeching
A mother's care—

They ask a mother's kind and patient teachingA mother's prayer

Not mine-yet dear to me-fair fragrant blossom
Of a fair tree
Crush'd to the earth in life's first glorious summer-
Thou 'rt dear to me,

Who first beholds those everlasting clouds,
Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night,
Still where they were, steadfast, immovable;
Who first beholds the Alps-that mighty chain
Of mountains, stretching on from east to west,
So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,
As to belong rather to heaven than earth-
But instantly receives into his soul

A sense, a feeling that he loses not,

A something that informs him 'tis a moment
Whence he may date henceforward and forever?
Rogers's Italy

A herdsman on the lonely mountain top,
Oh then how beautiful, how bright appear'd
The written promise! Early had he learn'd
To reverence the volume that displays
The mystery, the life that cannot die;
But in the mountains he did feel his faith!
Wordsworth

The whispering air

Sends inspiration from the mountain heights. Wordsworth.

Above me are the Alps,

The palaces of nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacl'd in clouds their snowy scalps,
And thron'd eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche-the thunderbolt of snow.
All that expands the spirit, yet appals,
Gather around these summits, or to show
How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain
man below. Byron's Childe Harold

That mingleth with the autumn blast All fitfully and low;

It is a mother's wailing:

Hath earth another tone

Like that with which a mother mourns

Her lost, her only one?

Shaks. Macbeth.

One cry'd, God bless us, and Amen, the other; As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands, Listening their fear. I could not say, Amen, When they did say, God bless us.

Shaks. Macbeth The bell invites me.

MURDER.

Murder most foul, as in the best it is;
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

Shaks. Hamlet. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand, Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd: Cut off even in the blossom of my sin, Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanneal'd; No reckoning made, but sent to my account, With all my imperfections on my head.

Shaks. Hamlet. He took my father grossly, full of bread; With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his credit stands,who knows, save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, "Tis heavy with him. Shaks. Hamlet.

This Duncan

Shaks. Macbeth,

Stept in so far, that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.

Shaks. Macbeth.
If the assissination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch,
With his surcease, success; that but this blow
Might be the lie-all, and the end-all, here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,

Stones have been known to move, and trees to

speak;

Augurs, and understood relations, have

By magot-pics, and coughs, and rooks, brought forth

The secret'st man of blood.

Shaks. Macbeth.

Will all Neptune's ocean wash this blood

Shaks. Othello.

The tyrannous and bloody act is done;
The most arch deed of pitcous massacre,
That ever yet this land was guilty of.
Dighton, and Forrest, whom I did subborn
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs,
Melting with tenderness, and mild compassion,
Wept like two children, in their death's sad story.
Shaks. Richard III.

The great king of kings

Hath in the table of his law commanded,
That thou shalt do no murder; wilt thou then
Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man's.

Shaks. Richard III.
Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull;-
Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead;
And I would have it suddenly perform'd,
What say'st thou now? speak suddenly, be brief.
Shaks. Richard III.
Your eyes drop mill-stones, when fools' eyes drop

Shaks. Midsummer Night's Dream.

Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals!
How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd!
You have no children, butchers! if you had,
The thought of them would have stirr'd up remorse
Shaks. Henry VI. Part III.

This is the man should do the bloody deed;
The image of a wicked heinous fault
Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his
Does show the mood of a much-troubled breast.
Shaks. King John,

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds,
Makes deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by,
A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,
Quoted and sign'd, to do a deed of shame,
This murder had not come into my mind.

Shaks. King John

See, his face is black and full of blood;
His eye-balls further out, than when he liv'd;
Staring full-ghastly, like a strangled man;
His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with strug.
gling:

His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd
Look on the sheets; his hair, you see is sticking;
And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdu'd.
His well-proportion'd beard, made rough and rug-
ged,

Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodg'd:
It cannot be, but he was murder'd here:
The least of all these signs are probable.
Shaks. Henry VI. Part II
Blood, though it sleep a time, yet never dies:
The gods on murd'rers fix revengeful eyes.
Chapman's Widow's Tears
Blood hath strange organs to discourse withal;
It is a clam'rous orator, and then
Ev'n nature will exceed herself, to tell
A crime, so thwarting nature.

*

Gomersall's Lodovic Sforza. Judgment itself would scarce a law enact Against the murd'rer, thinking it a fact That man 'gainst man would never dare commit; Since the worst things of nature do not it. Goffe's Orestes

Murder itself is past all expiation,
The greatest crime that nature doth abhor.

Goffe's Orestes.

Other sins only speak, murder shrieks out.
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.
Webster.

Is there a crime
Beneath the roof of heaven, that stains the soul
Of man, with more infernal hue, than damn'd
Assassination.

Cibber's Cæsar in Egypt.

Twice it call'd, so loudly call'd, With horrid strength, beyond the pitch of nature; And murder! murder! was the dreadful cry. A third time it return'd with feeble strength, But o' the sudden ceas'd, as though the words Were smother'd rudely in the grappl'd throat, And all was still again, save the wild blast Which at a distance growl'dOh! it will never from my mind depart! That dreadful cry, all i' the instant still'd. Joanna Baillie's De Montford. Villains,

I know you both, ye are slaves that for a ducat Would rend the screaming infant from the breast, To plunge it in the flames:

Yea, draw your keen knives 'cross a father's throat,
And carve with them the bloody meal ye earn'd.
Maturin's Bertram.

Aye, heaven and earth do cry, impossible,
The shuddering angels round the eternal throne,
Veiling themselves in glory, shriek, impossible,
But hell doth know it true.

Effsoons they heard a most melodious sound,
Of all that might delight a dainty ear,
Such as at once might not on living ground,
Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere:
Right hard it was for wight which did it hear,
To rede what manner of music that might be;
For all that pleasing is to living ear,
Was there consorted in one harmony;
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree
Spenser's Fairy Queen

But soon the eyes rendered the ears their right;
For such strange harmony he seem'd to hear,
That all his senses flock'd into his ear,
And every faculty wish'd to be seated there.

Spenser's Britain's Ida

Give me some music; music moody food
For us that trade in love.

Shaks. Antony and Cleopatra.
This music mads me, let it sound no more;
For though it have help'd mad men to their wits,
In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.
Shaks. Richard II

If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Shaks. Twelfth Night

That strain again; it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing, and giving odour.

Shaks Twelfth Night