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How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits

FROM "OTHELLO." Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains !

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, It seems a story from the world of spirits

Is the immediate jewel of their souls : When any man obtains that which he merits,

| Whọ steals my purse, steals trash; 't is something, Or any merits that which he obtains.

nothing;

'T was mine, 't is his, and has been slave to For shame, my friend ! renounce this idle strain !

thousands ; What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain ?

| But he that filches from me my good name Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain,

Robs me of that which not enriches him, Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain ?

And makes me poor indeed. Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends. I

SHAKESPEARE.

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FROM "MERCHANT OF VENICE."

SLUMBER, Sleep, — they were two brothers, serThe quality of mercy is not strained,

vants to the gods above; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Kind Prometheus lured them downwards, ever

filled with earthly love ; Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed,

But what gods could bear so lightly, pressed too It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 'T is mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes

hard on men beneath ;

Slumber did his brother's duty, - Sleep was The throned monarch better than his crown ; His scepter shows the force of temporal power,

deepened into Death.

From the German of GOETHE. The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings : But mercy is above this sceptered sway, — It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

SLEEP. It is an attribute to God himself; .

FROM "NIGHT THOUGHTS." And earthly power doth then show likest God's,

| TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep, When mercy seasons justice.

He, like the world, his ready visits pays
Where fortune smiles : the wretched he forsakes,

And lights on lids unsullied by a tear.
SLEEP. -

SHAKESPEARE,

EDWARD YOUNG.

SLEEP.

WEEP ye no more, sad fountains !

What need you flow so fast ?
Look how the snowy mountains

Heaven's sun doth gently waste.
But my sun's heavenly eyes

View not your weeping,

That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies

Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling, —

A rest that peace begets ;
Doth not the sun rise smiling,

When fair at even he sets ?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes, –

Melt not in weeping,

While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies

Sleeping.

Come, Sleep, 0 Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low,
With shield of proof shield me from outthe prease*
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw;
0, make me in those civil wars to cease :
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed ;
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

JOHN DOWLAND.

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What do we give to our beloved ?
A little faith, all undisproved, -
A little dust to overweep,
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake,
“He giveth his beloved sleep.".

| In cradle of the rude imperious surge,
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafening clamors in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ?
Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ;
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king ? Then, happy low, lie down ;
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

“Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep ;
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
“He giveth his beloved sleep."

() earth, so full of dreary noise !
O men, with wailing in your voice !
O delved gold the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall !
God strikes a silence through you all,
And “giveth his beloved sleep."

FROM "FIRST PART OF HENRY IV.”
GLENDOWER. She bids you on the wanton

rushes lay you down,
And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness ;
Making such difference betwixt wake and sleep
As is the difference betwixt day and night,
The hour before the heavenly-harnessed team
Begins his golden progress in the east.

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap;
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
“He giveth his beloved sleep."

FROM "CYMBELINE.”

Weariness Can snore upon the flint, when restive sloth Finds the down pillow hard.

For me, my heart, that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on his love repose
Who “giveth his beloved sleep.".

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

FROM "MACBETH."
Macbeth does murder sleep, — the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.

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FROM "SECOND PART OF HENRY IV."

We are such stuff

As dreams are made of, and our little life King HENRY. How many thousand of my Is rounded with a sleep. poorest subjects

SHAKESPEARE. Are at this hour asleep!-0 sleep! O gentle

sleep!
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,

HYMN TO NIGHT.
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Yes! bear them to their rest ;
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, The rosy babe, tired with the glare of day,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

The prattler, fallen asleep e'en in his play ; And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy Clasp them to thy soft breast, slumber,

' O night! Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Bless them in dreams with a deep, hushed delight. Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody? Yet must they wake again, O thou dull god ! why liest thou with the vile, Wake soon to all the bitterness of life, In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch The pang of sorrow, the temptation strife, A watch-case, or a common 'larum-bell?

Aye to the conscience pain : Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast

O night! Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock bis brains Canst thou not take with them a longer flight? Canst thou not bear them far

In at the open casement cooling run,
E'en now, all innocent, before they know And round thy lowly bed,
The taint of sin, its consequence of woe, Thy bed of pain,
The world's distracting jar,

Bathing thy patient head,
O night!

Like grateful showers of rain,
To some ethereal, holier, happier height? . They come ;

While the white curtains, waving to and fro, Canst thou not bear them up

Fan the sick air ; Through starlit skies, far from this planet dim

And pityingly the shadows come and go, And sorrowful, e'en while they sleep, to Him

With gentle human care, Who drank for us the cup,

| Compassionate and dumb. O night! The cup of wrath, for hearts in faith contrite ?

The dusty day is done, To Him, for them who slept

The night begun ; A babe all holy on his mother's knee,

While prayerful watch I keep, And from that hour to cross-crowned Calvary,

Sleep, love, sleep! In all our sorrow wept,

Is there no magic in the touch

Of fingers thou dost love so much ?
O night!
That on our souls might dawn Heaven's cheering

Fain would they scatter poppies o'er thee now;

Or, with its mute caress, light.

The tremulous lip some soft nepenthe press Go, lay their little heads

Upon thy weary lid and aching brow ;
Close to that human heart, with love divine While prayerful watch I keep,
Deep-breathing, while his arms immortal twine Sleep, love, sleep!
Around them, as he sheds,
O night!

On the pagoda spire
On them a brother's grace of God's own bound The bells are swinging,
less might.

Their little golden circlet in a flutter Let them immortal wake

With tales the wooing winds have dared to utter,

Till all are ringing, Among the deathless flowers of Paradise,

As if a choir Where angel songs of welcome with surprise

Of golden-nested birds in heaven were singing ; This their last sleep may break,

And with a lulling sound
O night!

The music floats around,
And to celestial joy their kindred souls invite.

And drops like balm into the drowsy ear ;
There can come no sorrow ;

Commingling with the hum
The brow shall know no shade, the eye no tears, Of the Sepoy's distant druin,
Forever young, through heaven's eternal years And lazy beetle ever droning near.
In one unfading morrow,

Sounds these of deepest silence born,
O night!

Like night made visible by morn ; Nor sin nor age nor pain their cherub beauty So silent that I sometimes start blight.

To hear the throbbings of my heart,

And watch, with shivering sense of pain,
Would we could sleep as they,

To see 'thy pale lids lift again.
So stainless and so calm, — at rest with Thee, -
And only wake in immortality !

The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes,
Bear us with them away,

Peeps from the mortise in surprise
O night!

At such strange quiet after day's harsh din ; To that ethereal, holier, happier height.

Then boldly ventures out,
GEORGE W. BETHUNE.

And looks about,

And with his hollow feet
WATCHING.

Treads his small evening beat,

Darting upon his prey SLEEP, love, sleep!

In such a tricky, winsome sort of way,
The dusty day is done.

His delicate marauding seems no sin.
Lo ! from afar the freshening breezes sweep And still the curtains swing,
Wide over groves of balm,

But noiselessly ;
Down from the towering palm,

| The bells a melancholy murmur ring,

As tears were in the sky :

Curling like tendrils of the parasite More heavily the shadows fall,

Around a marble column. Like the black foldings of a pall, Where juts the rough beam from the wall ; A gentle start convulsed lanthe's frame : The candles flare

Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed ; . With fresher gusts of air ;

Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs remained. The beetle's drone

She looked around in wonder, and beheld Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan;

Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch, Night deepens, and I sit, in cheerless doubt, alone. Watching her sleep with looks of speechless love,

EMILY C. JUDSON. | And the bright-beaming stars
That through the casement shone.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
TO IANTHE, SLEEPING.

FROM "QUEEN MAB."
How wonderful is Death !

SLEEPLESSNESS.
Death and his brother Sleep!
One, pale as yonder waning moon,

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by
With lips of lurid blue ;

One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees
The other, rosy as the morn

Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
When, throned on ocean's wave,

Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
It blushes o'er the world :

I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie
Yet both so passing wonderful !

Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies
Hath then the gloomy Power

Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees, Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchers

And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
Seized on her sinless soul ?
Must then that peerless form

And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth :

So do not let ine wear to-night away : Which love and admiration cannot view

Without thee what is all the morning's wealth ? Without a beating heart, those azure veins Which steal like streams along a field of snow,

Come, blesséd barrier between day and day, That lovely outline which is fair

Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
As breathing marble, perish ?

Must putrefaction's breath
Leave nothing of this heavenly sight
But loathsomeness and ruin ?

THE DREAM.
Spare nothing but a gloomy theme,
On which the lightest heart might moralize ?

Our life is twofold ; sleep hath its own world,
Or is it only a sweet slumber

A boundary between the things misnamed
Stealing o'er sensation,

Death and existence : sleep hath its own world, Which the breath of roseate morning

And a wide realm of wild reality,
Chaseth into darkness?

And dreams in their development have breath,
Will Ianthe wake again,

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; And give that faithful bosom joy,

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch

They take a weight from off our waking toils, Light, life, and rapture from her smile?

They do divide our being ; they become

A portion of ourselves as of our time,
Yes! she will wake again,

And look like heralds of eternity ;
Although her glowing limbs are motionless, They pass like spirits of the past, – they speak
And silent those sweet lips,

| Like sibyls of the future; they have power, — Once breathing eloquence

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; That might have soothed a tiger's rage, They make us what we were not, — what they Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror.

will, Her dewy eyes are closed,

| And shake us with the vision that's gone by, And on their lids, whose texture fine The dread of vanished shadows. — Are they so? Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath, Is not the past all shadow ? What are they? The baby Sleep is pillowed :

Creations of the mind ? - The mind can make
Her golden tresses shade

Substances, and people planets of its own
The bosom's stainless pride,

| With being3 brighter than have been, and give

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