Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff: and still he smiled and talked; And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms
He questioned me; among the rest, demanded My prisoners in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience
Answered neglectingly, I know not what;
He should, or he should not; for he made me mad, To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds (God save the mark!) And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was, That villainous saltpetre should be digged Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed So cowardly; and but for these vile guns He would himself have been a soldier. This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said; And, I beseech you, let not this report Come current for an accusation, Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
WHAT stronger breastplate than a heart untainted? Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just; And he but naked, though locked up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
SHAKESPEARE'S " Henry VI." Part Second.
WORCESTER'S DEFENCE REBELLION.
SHAKESPEARE'S "HENRY IV." First Part.
IT pleased your majesty, to turn your looks Of favour from myself, and all our house; And yet I must remember you, my lord, We were the first and dearest of your friends. For you, my staff of office did I break In Richard's time; and posted day and night To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand, When yet you were in place and in account Nothing so strong and fortunate as I. It was myself, my brother, and his son, That brought you home, and boldly did outdare The dangers of the time. You swore to us,— And you did sware that oath at Doncaster,- That you did nothing purpose 'gainst the state; Nor claim no further than your new-fallen right, The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster: To this we sware our aid. But, in short space, It rained down fortune showering on your head; And such a flood of greatness fell on you,- What with our help; what with the absent king; What with the injuries of a wanton time; The seeming sufferances that you had borne; And the contrarious winds, that held the king So long in his unlucky Irish wars,
That all in England did repute him dead,— And, from this swarm of fair advantages, You took occasion to be quickly wooed To gripe the general sway into your hand: Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster; And, being fed by us, you used us so
As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo's bird, Useth the sparrow; did oppress our nest; Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk, That even our love durst not come near your sight, For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing We were enforced, for safety sake, to fly Out of your sight, and raise this present head; Whereby we stand opposed by such means As you yourself have forged against yourself; By unkind usage, dangerous countenance, And violation of all faith and troth Sworn to us in your younger enterprise.
THE HOME OF LOVE.
LORD LYTTON'S "LADY OF LYONS."
NAY, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint The home to which, could Love fulfil its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen !-a deep vale Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world; Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies, As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, As I would have thy fate!
A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds,
Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why Earth could be unhappy, while the heavens Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we 'd read no books That were not tales of love-that we might smile
To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!
And, when night came, amidst the breathless heavens We'd guess what star should be our home when Love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed lights Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs
Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses!-Dost thou like the picture?
CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY
LORD LYTTON'S "LADY OF LYONS."
PAULINE, by pride Angels have fallen e'er thy time: by pride- That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould- The evil spirit of a bitter love,
And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. From my first years my soul was filled with thee: I saw thee midst the flowers the lowly boy Tended, unmarked by thee-a spirit of bloom, And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape! I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy. And from that hour I grew-what to the last I shall be-thine adorer! Well, this love- Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt-became A fountain of ambition and bright hope; I thought of tales that by the winter hearth Old gossips tell-how maidens sprung from kings
Have stooped from their high sphere; how Love, like Death,
Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! My father died; and I, the peasant-born, Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise Out of the prison of my mean estate;
And, with such jewels as the exploring Mind Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom From those twin gaolers of the daring heart- Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image, Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, And lured me on to those inspiring toils By which man masters men! For thee I grew A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages. For thee I sought to borrow from each Grace, And every Muse, such attributes as lend Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee, And passion taught me poesy,—of thee, And on the painter's canvas grew the life Of beauty-Art became the shadow Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes! Men called me vain-some mad-I heeded not; But still toiled on-hoped on-for it was sweet, If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee! At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And sent them to thee-such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name-appended by the burning heart That longed to show its idol what bright things It had created-yea, the enthusiast's name, That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn! That very hour-when passion, turned to wrath, Resembled hatred most-when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos-in that hour
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