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52.-TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name,

Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.
I therefore will begin :-Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, and wonder of our stage!
My Shakspeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off to make thee room;
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee I will not seek
For names, but call forth thundering Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread
And shake the stage; or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but of all time,
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our water yet appear,

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza and our James!

But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there!

Shine forth, thou Star of Poets! and with rage

Or influence chide or cheer the drooping stage,

Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.

BEN JONSON.

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O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,

Majestically calm would go

'Mid the deep darkness white as snow!
But gently now the small waves glide
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side.
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse for ever and aye.

Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast!

-Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last.

Five hundred souls in one instant of dread

Are hurried o'er the deck;

And fast the miserable ship

Becomes a lifeless wreck.

Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,

Her planks are torn asunder,

And down come her masts with a reeling shock,

And a hideous crash like thunder.

Her sails are draggled in the brine

That gladdened late the skies,

And her pendant that kissed the fair moonshine

Down many a fathom lies.

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues

Gleamed softly from below,

And flung a warm and sunny flash

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,
To the coral rocks are hurrying down
To sleep amid colours as bright as their own
Oh! many a dream was in the ship

An hour before her death;

And sights of home with sighs disturbed
The sleepers' long-drawn breath.
Instead of the murmur of the sea,
The sailor heard the humming tree
Alive through all its leaves,

The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his cottage door,
And the swallow's song in the eaves.

His arms enclosed a blooming boy,
Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy
To the dangers his father had passed;
And his wife-by turns she wept and smiled,
As she looked on the father of her child
Returned to her heart at last.

-He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,
And the rush of waters is in his soul.—
Now is the ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;

The ship hath melted quite away,
Like a struggling dream at break of day.
No image meets my wandering eye

But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky.

Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapour dull

Bedims the wave so beautiful;

While a low and melancholy moan

Mourns for the glory that hath flown.

WILSON.

54.-SOLITUDE.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold

Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along, the world's tired denizen,

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!

None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less

Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued; This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

BYRON.

55.-HAPPINESS THE REWARD OF VIRTUE.

BRING then these blessings to a strict account,
Make fair deductions, see to what they 'mount;
How much of other each is sure to cost;
How each for other oft is wholly lost;
How inconsistent greater goods with these;
How sometimes life is risked, and always ease;
Think, and if still these things thy envy call,
Say, wouldst thou be the man to whom they fall?
To sigh for ribbons, if thou art so silly,
Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy!
Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life?
Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife!
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined,
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind!
Or, ravished with the whistling of a name,
See Cromwell, damned to everlasting fame!
If all united thy ambition call,

From ancient story learn to scorn them all.
There, in the rich, the honoured, famed, and great,
See the false scale of happiness complete!
In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay,
How happy those to ruin, these betray:
Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows,
From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose;
In each how guilt and greatness equal ran,
And all that raised the hero, sunk the man.
Alas! not dazzled with their noontide ray,
Compute the morn and evening to the day:
The whole amount of that enormous fame,
A tale, that blends their glory with their shame!
Know then this truth (enough for man to know),
Virtue alone is happiness below!

The only point where human bliss stands still,
And tastes the good without the fall to ill;
The broadest mirth unfeeling Folly wears,

Less pleasing far than Virtue's very tears:

Good, from each object, from each place acquired, For ever exercised, yet never tired;

Never elated, while one man's oppressed;
Never dejected, while another's blest;
And where no wants, no wishes can remain,
Since, but to wish more virtue, is to gain.

POPE.

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OPPRESSION dies; the Tyrant falls;

The golden City bows her walls!
Jehovah breaks the Avenger's rod.

The Son of Wrath, whose ruthless hand

Hurled Desolation o'er the land,

Has run his raging race, has closed the scene of blood.

Chiefs armed around behold their vanquished lord;
Nor spread the guardian shield, nor lift the loyal sword.

He falls, and earth again is free.
Hark! at the call of Liberty,
All Nature lifts the choral song.

The fir-trees, on the mountain's head,
Rejoice through all their pomp of shade;
The lordly cedars nod on sacred Lebanon.
Tyrant! they cry, since thy fell force is broke,

Our proud heads pierce the skies, nor fear the woodman's stroke.

Hell, from her gulf profound,

Rouses at thine approach; and, all around,
Her dreadful notes of preparation sound.
See, at the awful call,

Her shadowy heroes all,

Even mighty kings, the heirs of empire wide,

Rising with solemn state and slow,
From their sable thrones below,
Meet, and insult thy pride.

What, dost thou join our ghostly train,
A flitting shadow light and vain?
Where is thy pomp, thy festive throng,
Thy revel dance, and wanton song?

Proud king! corruption fastens on thy breast,

And calls her crawling brood, and bids them share the feast.

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