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How wild the crowd goes swaying along, To be heard in the streets of the crazy town,
"OH, THAT THIS TOO, TOO SOLID Over the crust of the beautiful snow; Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
FLESH WOULD MELT." To be trampled in mud by the crowds rush
(From "Hamlet, Act I, Scene 2.) ing by,
AM. Oh that this too, too solid flesh To be trampled and tracked by thousands of would melt, feet,
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Till it blends with the filth in the horrible Or, that the Everlasting had not fix'd street.
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O
God! Once I was pure as the snow-but I fell!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, Fell like the snowflakes, from heaven to hell! Seem to me all the uses of this world ! Fell to be trampled as filth in the street, Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on and beat; That grows to seed; things rank, and gross in Pleading,
Possess it merely. That it should come to Dreading to die,
this! Selling my soul to whoever would buy, But two months dead !nay, not so much, not Dealing in shame for morsels of bread,
two: Hating the living and fearing the dead. So excellent a king ; that was, to this, Merciful God! have I fallen so low ?
Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother, And yet I was once as the beautiful snow.
That he might not beteem the winds of heav
Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! With an eye like a crystal, a heart like its Must I remember? why, she would hang on glow;
him, Once I was loved for my innocent grace As if increase of appetite had grown Flattered and sought for the charms of my By what it fed on: And yet, within a month,face.
Let me not think on’t;—Frailty, thy name is Father,
A little month; or ere those shoes were old, Sisters, all,
With which she follow'd my poor father's God, and myself, I've lost by my fall;
body, The veriest wretch that goes shivering by, Like Niobe, all tears ;—why she, even she,Will make a wide sweep lest I wander too O heaven! a beast, that wants discourse of nigh;
reason, For all that is on or about me, I know
Would have mourn'd longer!—Married with There is nothing that's pure like the beautiful snow.
My father's brother, but no more like my fath
er, How strange it should be that this beautiful Than I to Hercules; within a month,
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go? Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, How strange it would be when the night She married. O most wicked speed, to post comes again,
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! Fainting,
It is not, nor it cannot come to good;
But break, my heart, for I must hold my
tongue! Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan
“ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY LINES WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.”
TOIVER, BEING YOUNG AND MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 220, 1824.
CONDEMNED TO DIE. 'TIS time this heart should be unmoved, [The following poem is made up entirely of mono
syllables: a fact which we do not remember ever seeing Since others it has ceased to move:
noted elsewhere.] Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
MY prime of youth is but a frost of cares. Still let me love!
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain ; My days are in the yellow leaf;
My crop of corn is but a field of tares, The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
And all my good is but vain hope of gain; The worm, the canker, and the grief
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done! The fire that on my bosom preys
The Spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are Is lone as some volcanic isle ; Nor torch is kindled at its blaze
green; A funeral pile.
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen; The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun; The exalted portion of the pain
And now I live, and now my life is done! And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.
I sought my death, and found it in my womb;
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade ; But 'tis not thus-aud 'tis not here,
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb; Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor
And now I die, and now I am but made; NOW,
The glass is full, and now my glass is run; Where glory decks the hero's bier,
And now I live, and now my life is done! Or binds his brow.
JULIET TAKING THE OPIATE. Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead;
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd, (From "Romeo and Juliet," Act IV., Scene 3.)
Because he married me before to Romeo ? UL. meet again.
For he hath still been tried a holy man: I have a faint cold fear thrills through my I will not entertain so bad a thought.veins,
How if, when I am laid into the tomb,
“The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place." That almost freezes up the heat of life : I wake before the time that Romeo I'll call them back again to comfort me; Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point! Nurse!-What should she do here?
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, My dismal scene I needs must act alone. To whose foul mouth no healthsome air Come, phial.
breathes in, What if this mixture do not work at all? And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes ? Must I of force be married to the county ? Or, if I live, is it not very like, No, no;-this shall forbid it;—lie thou there.— The horrible conceit of death and night,
[Laying down a dagger. Together with the terror of the place, What if it be a poison, which the friar As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,
Where, for these many hundred years, the The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed, bones
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd;
head; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, Lies fest’ring in his shroud; where, as they An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.
say, At some hours in the night spirits resort;
Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover Alack, alack! is it not like, that I,
there, So early waking—what with loathsome smells, O’hands that wont kindly to kame his dark And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth,
But morning brings clutches, a' reckless and That living mortals, hearing them, run mad;
stern, 0! if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn. Environed with all these hideous fears ? And madly play with my forefathers'joints? Yon sister, that sang oer his saftly rocked
bed, And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his
Now rests in the mools where her mammy is shroud ? And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn bone, As with a club, dash out my desperate brains? An’kens na the wrangs o’his mitherless bairn. 0, look! methinks, I see my cousin's ghost
Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on Upon a rapier's point:-Stay, Tybalt, stay!
earth, Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn [She throws herself on the bed. Wha couthilie deal wi’ the mitherless bairn. WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.
Oh! speak na him harshly—he trembles the
while, THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.
He bends to your bidding, an' blesses your (HEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to
smile; their hame
In their dark hours o' anguish, the heartless By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grandame,
shall learn, Wha stands last an'lanely, an' naebody carin'? That God deals the blow for the mitherless 'Tis the puir dolted loonie—the mitherless bairn! bairn.
DESOLATION OF BALCLUTHA.
(From "Fingal.'') HAVE seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head;
the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows; the rank grass of the wall waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina; silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourning, O bards ! over the land of strangers. They have but fallen before us; for one day we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day: yet a few years and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the desert come! we shall be renowned in our day! The mark of my arm shall be in battle ; my name in the song of bards. Raise the song, send round the shell; let joy be heard in my hall. When thou, sun of heaven, shalt fail! if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light! if thy brightness is but for a season, like Fingal, our fame shall survive thy beams. Such was the song of Fingal in the day of his joy.