Upon this overweening traitor's foot,

To prove myself a loyal gentleman

Even in the best blood chambered in his bosom.
In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
Your highness to assign our trial day.

SHAKSPEARE

MARGARET'S CURSE.

HEAR me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out
In sharing that which you have pilfer'd from me;
Which of you trembles not, that looks on me?
If not, that I, being queen, you bow like subjects;
Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels?
Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away!

A husband, and a son, thou owest to me,
And thou, a kingdom; all of you, allegiance;
This sorrow that I have, by right is yours;
And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.
Edward, thy son, that now is prince of Wales,
For Edward, my son, that was prince of Wales,
Die in his youth, by like untimely violence!
Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,
Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!
Long may'st thou live to wail thy children's loss;
And see another, as I see thee now,
Decked in thy rights as thou art stalled in mine!
Long die thy happy days before thy death;
And after many lengthened hours of grief,
Die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen.
If heaven have any grievous plague in store,
Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,
Oh, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe,
And then hurl down their indignation
On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace.
The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul !
Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou livest,
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends;
No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,
Unless it be while some tormenting dream
Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!
Thou elvish-marked, abortive, rooting hog!
Thou that was sealed in thy nativity,
The slave of nature and the son of hell!

SHAKSPEAKE

DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES

SONG, FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

Dream of battle-fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing;
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed's champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here,

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come,
At the day-break, from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guard's nor warder's challenge here,

Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,

Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

While our slumb'rous spells assail ye,

Dream not with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillé.

Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying:
Sleep! nor dream, in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.

THE DEATH-FIRE.

BENEATH the ever dense and leafy gloom
Of the hushed wilderness, a lurid flame
Crept, like a serpent, gorged with kindling blood,
Around the knotted trunk of an old forest oak;
Then upward and abroad it fiercely spread,
Through the dusk pine-tops and the clinging vines,
Till the dark forest crimsoned with the glare.

Strong winds swept through the hot and crackling boughs,
While scintillating sparks

a fiery rain

Fell from the arrowy flames that darted through
The black and smoky air.

In double ranks around that flaming tree,

Sat fierce-browed warriors, like a crowd of fiends
Sent forth to hold their orgies on the earth.
Their shafted arrows, and the sinewy bow,
The tomahawk, and club, and keen-edged knife,
Flashed back the fire, and there all hotly gleamed
In the tall grass, that coiled all crisply back,
Grew stiff and died on the scorched earth.
The sparkling river, flowing with sweet chime,
So cool and tranquil in its verdant banks,
In gentle contrast with the flaming trees,
And the red demons crouching underneath,
Mocked the devoted victims.

One was a girl, so gently fair,

She seemed a being of upper air,
Lured by the sound of the water's swell,
To the haunt of demons dark and fell!
Shackled by many a galling thong,

But in Christian courage firm and strong,
Stood a brave man, with his eye on fire,
As he bent its glance on the funeral pyre ;-
Yet his bosom heaved and his heart beat quick :
His labored breath came fast and thick;
His cheek grew pale, and drops of pain
Sprang to his brow like beaded rain,
As he felt the clasp of his pallid bride,
Where she clung in fear to his pinioned side
A savage shout
-a fierce, deep yell -

Rings through the forest cove and dell;

The wood is alive on either hand

With the rushing feet of that murderous band.