Dublin Bay--Shipwreck-Deserted Passengers.
How beautifully still is all around!
Calm as the couch where slumber seals the eye
Of infant innocence, in deep repose
These sandy ridges and the waters sleep,
Wrapp'd in the golden effluence of day.
Far different the scene, when wintry winds
Rush from their frozen caves, and Eurus rides
On the dark clouds, when by her powerful spell
The attractive moon has call'd around her throne
The congregated floods. Then roars the might
Of ocean, sheeted all in raging foam;
The labouring vessels fly; the thundering surge
Rolls o'er the piers; and mariners thank Heaven,
That they are not at sea.
Yet Memory weeps
That nights sad horrors, when a luckless bark
Was hurl'd upon these sands.
Elate with hope,
Some hundred warriors, who in many a field
Had gathered laurels, in this bark resought
Their native Erin. Nearer as they drew,
Each spell of country, with magnetic power,
Wrought in their souls, and all the joys of home
Rush'd on their fancy. Some, in thought, embraced
Their happy parents, and the lover clasp'd
His fair one to his breast. Another morn,
And all these joys are real! Onward speed,
Thou fleet-wing'd bark! More fleet than sea-bird skims
The floods, she sped. Soon Erin's shores arose :-
Howth glimmer'd in the west, and Wicklow's hills
Were blue in the horizon. Then they hail'd
Their own green island, and they chanted loud
Their patriot gratulations, till the sun
Gave them his last farewell. He sank in clouds
Of red portentous glare; when dreary night
Condensed around them, and a mountain swell
Announced the coming tempest. Wrapp'd in sleet,
And arrowy fire, it came. The cutting blast
Smote sore;-yawn'd the precipitous abyss;-
Roar'd the torn surges. From his slippery stand,
In vain the pilot cast a wistful look,
Some friendly light to spy;-but all was dark;
Nor moor, nor star, nor beacon light, was seen:
While in the yeasty foam, half-buried, toil'd
The reeling ship. At length, that dreadful sound
Which mariners most dread-the fierce, wild din
Of breakers,―raging on the leeward shore,
Appall'd the bravest. On the sands she struck,
Shivering, as in the cold and deadly grasp
Of dissolution. Agonizing screams
Were heard within, which told that hope was fled.
Then might some counsel sage, perchance, have wrought
A great deliverance. But what shipwreck'd crew
E'er list to counsel? Where 'tis needed most,
'Tis most despised. In such a fearful hour,
Each better feeling dies, and cruel self
Sears all of human in the heart of man.
None counsell'd safety-but a fell design
Rose in the captain's breast, above the throng
To close the hatches, while himself and crew
Flee to the boat, and hope or chance to 'scape,
Leave to the captives none. The recreant slaves
Their ship deserting, in the faithful skiff,
For once too faithful, sweep the foaming gulf,
And reach the strand. But ah! the gallant throng,
Lock'd in the dungeon-hold, around them hear
The roaring cataracts;-their shrieks and groans,
With threats and prayers, and mingled curses, speak
Their soul's last agonies. What boots their prayers,
Their groans, or rage to madness by their wrongs
Exasperated high? Will storms grow calm,
Or warring surges hear the suppliant's voice,
When man has steel'd his heart? Oh! now to die
Amid the strife of arms were ecstacy!
Ay-e'en to perish in the conflict rude
With seas and storms, beneath the cope of heaven,
Where their last breath might mingle with the winds!
But thus to die inglorious! thus immured,
They chafe in vain:—
So chafes the lion in the hunter's trap;
So in his coffin turns, with dire dismay,
The wretch unwittingly entomb'd alive.
Now torn and wreck'd-deep-cradled in the sands,
The vessel lies. Through all her yawning sides.
She drinks the flood. Loud o'er her roars the
But all within-is still.
Oh! let me hail thee, as in gorgeous robes
Blooming thou leavest the chambers of the East,
Crown'd with a gemm'd tiara, thick emboss'd
With studs of living light. The stars grow dim
And vanish in thy brightness: but on earth
Ten thousand glories, sparkling into life,
Their absence well repay. The mists, dispersed,
Flit o'er the mountain-tops. Cliffs, glens, and woods,
And lakes, and oceans, now are burnish'd o'er
With scintillating gold. Where'er the eye
Erratic turns, it greets thee: for thy form,
Nature, delighted, multiplies, and makes
Each sand, each dew-drop, the small floret's crown,
The tiny orbit of the insect's eye,
And the rayed texture of the sparry rock,
A mirror for thy glory. Life awakes
From dewy slumber.-Hark! the jocund lark
Awakes her carols; now their morning hymn
The birds are chanting, and the voice of joy
Has fill'd the ethereal vault. Reflection fair
Of thy Creator! strange had heathen worlds
Not paid thee rites divine! Shouldst thou refuse
Thy wonted smile, or stay thy chariot-wheels,
Soon Nature's mighty pulse would cease to beat,
And, all her powers collapsing, might she dread
Sad dissolution. But the Eternal's breath
Has kindled thee with fires that never know
Extinction nor exhaustion. His command
Proud to fulfil, thou measurest days and weeks,
Months, years, and cycles, to the sons of men,
And seest their generations rise and bloom,
Wax old and die;-thyself unchanged by Time.
Ne'er has his hand thy golden tresses shorn,
Nor on thy dazzling forehead has he left
Trace of his wrinkling breath, nor aught thy speed
And juvenile strength abated. Matchless orb!
Roll ever glorious, ever round thee pour
The streams of life and joy, thy Maker's praise
Exalting high, his noblest image thou!
Cardinal Wolsey's Speech to Cromwell.
CROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear.
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.-
Let's dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard; say then, I taught thee~
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways to glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure, and safe one-though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me:
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee:
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still, in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country s,
Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king;
And, pr'ythee, lead me in
There take an inventory of all I have;
To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, are all
I dare now call my own.
O Cromwell: Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not, in mine age,
Have left me naked to mine enemies.
Henry V. to his Soldiers.
ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with the English dead!
In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man,
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then, imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then, lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon!
Now, set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath; and bend up every spirit
To its full height. Now, on, you noblest English!
Whose blood is fetch'd from fathers of war proof;
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument!
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start.-The game's afoot!-
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge,
Cry, God for Harry, England, and St. George!
Marcellus's Speech to the Mob.
WHEREFORE rejoice? that Cæsar comes in triumph!
What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?
You blocks! you stones! you worse than senseless things!
Oh you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome!
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops-
Your infants in your arms-and there have sat
The live-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome?
And, when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made a universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath his banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood
Begone!--
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