I saw her bright reflection
In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
Seemed to lift and bear them away;
As sweeping and eddying through them,
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The seaweed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me
That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, O how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight,
And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, O how often,
I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom,
O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadows over me.
Yet, whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odour of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumber'd men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro;
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!
And for ever and for ever,
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;
The moon and its broken reflection,
And its shadows shall appear
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.
TO BE, or not to be?-that is the question;
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them? To die-to sleep-
No more! and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to-'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die—to sleep-
To sleep?-perchance to dream-ay, there's the rub!
For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.-There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death-
That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns!-puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus, conscience makes cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action!
It was the stalwart butcher man
That knit his swarthy brow,
And said the gentle pig must die,
And sealed it with a vow.
And oh! it was the gentle pig
Lay stretched upon the ground,
And ah! it was the cruel knife
His little heart that found.
They took him there, those wicked men,
They trailed him all along;
They put a stick between his lips,
And through his heels a thong.
And round and round an oaken beam
A hempen cord they flung,
And like a mighty pendulum
All solemnly he swung.
Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,
And think what thou hast done,
And read thy catechism well,
Thou sanguinary one.
For if his sprite should walk by night,
It better were for thee
That thou wert mouldering in the ground,
Or bleaching in the sea.
It was the savage butcher then
That made a mock of sin,
And swore a very wicked oath-
He did not care a pin.
It was the butcher's youngest son-.
His voice was broke with sighs,
And with his pocket-handkerchief
He wiped his little eyes.
All young and ignorant was he,
But innocent and mild,
And in his soft simplicity
Out spoke the tender child:
"Oh! father, father, list to me :
The pig is deadly sick,
And men have hung him by his heels
And fed him with a stick."
It was the naughty butcher then
That laughed as he would die,
Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child,
And bid him not to cry.
"Oh! Nathan, Nathan, what's a pig,
That thou should'st weep and wail?
Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
And thou shalt have his tail."
It was the butcher's daughter then,
So slender and so fair,
That sobbed as if her heart would break,
And tore her yellow hair.
And thus she spoke in thrilling tone--
Fast fell the tear-drops big:
"Ah! woe is me! Alas! alas!
The pig! the pig! the pig!"
Then did her wicked father's lips
Make merry with her woe,
And call her many a naughty name,
Because she whimpered so.
Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed,
Ye cannot wash his crimson hand,
Ye cannot soothe the dead.
The bright sun folded on his breast
His robes of rosy flame,
And softly over all the west
The shades of evening came.
He slept, and troops of murdered pigs
Were busy with his dreams;
Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,
Wide yawned their mortal seams.
The clock struck twelve; the dead hath heard;
He opened both his eyes,
And sullenly he shook his tail
To lash the feeding flies.
One quiver of the hempen cord
One struggle and one bound
With stiffened limbs, and leaden eye,
The pig was on the ground;
And straight towards the sleeper's house
His fearful way he wended;
And hooting owl, and hovering bat,
On midnight wing attended.
Back flew the bolt, uprose the latch,
And open swung the door,
And little mincing feet were heard
Pat, pat, along the floor.
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