Then, like the billow in his course,
That far to seaward finds his source,
And flings to shore his mustered force,
Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse,
"Woe to the traitor, woe!"
Ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew,
The joyous wolf from covert drew,
The exulting eagle screamed afar-
They knew the voice of Alpine's war.
LXXXI-SOLILOQUY OF RICHARD III.
WAS ever woman in this humor woo'd?
Was ever woman in this humor won?
I'll have her,—but I will not keep her long.
What! I, that killed her husband, and his father,
To take her in her heart's extremest hate;
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,
The bleeding witness of her hatred by;
With God, her conscience, and these bars against me, And I no friends to back my suit withal
But the plain devil and dissembling looks,
And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!
Hath she forgot already that brave prince,
Edward, her lord, whom I some three months since,
Stabb'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury?
A sweeter, and a lovelier gentleman,―
Framed in the prodigality of nature,
Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right loyal,-
The spacious world cannot again afford :
And will she yet abase her eyes on me,
That cropp'd the golden prime of this sweet prince,
And made her widow to a woful bed?
On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety?
On me, that halt, and am misshapen thus ?
My dukedom to a beggarly denier,
I do mistake my person all this while :
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.
I'll be at charges for a looking-glass,
And entertain a score or two of tailors,
To study fashions to adorn my body;
Since I am crept in favor with myself,
I will maintain it with some little cost.
But, first, I'll turn yon fellow in his grave;
And then return lamenting to my love.—
Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,
That I may see my shadow as I pass.
WHO's sitting on that long, black ledge,
Which makes so far out in the sea;
Feeling the kelp-weed on its edge?
Poor, idle Mathew Lee!
So weak and pale? A year and little more,
And bravely did he lord it round this shore!
And on the shingles now he sits,
And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands; Now walks the beach; then stops by fits,
And scores the smooth, wet sands;
Then tries each cliff, and cove, and jut, that bounds
The isle; then home from many weary rounds.
He views the ships that come and go,
Looking so like to living things.
O! 'tis a proud and gallant show
Of bright and broad-spread wings,
Making it light around them as they keep
Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.
And where the far-off sand-bars lift
Their backs in long and narrow line The breakers shout, and leap, and shift, And send the sparkling brine
Into the air; then rush to mimic strife
Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life
But not to Lee. He sits alone;
No fellowship or joy for him.
Borne down by woe, he makes no moan,
Though tears will sometimes dim
That asking eye. O, how his worn thoughts crave—
Not joy again, but rest within the grave.
The rocks are dripping in the mist
That lies so heavy off the shore;
Scarce seen the running breakers ;-list
Their dull and smother'd roar !
Lee hearkens to their voice." I hear, I hear
Your call.-Not yet!-I know my time is near!"
A sweet, low voice, in starry nights,
Chants to his ear a plaining song;
Its tones come winding up the heights,
Telling of woe and wrong;
And he must listen, till the stars grow dim,
The song that gentle voice doth sing to him.
In thick dark nights he'd take his seat
High up the cliffs, and feel them shake,
As swung the sea with heavy beat
Below-and hear it break
With savage roar, then pause and gather strength,
And then, come tumbling in its swollen length.
But he no more shall haunt the beach,
Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown,
Nor go the round of all that reach,
Nor feebly sit him down,
Watching the swaying weeds;-another day,
And he'll have gone far hence that dreadful way.
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits, and their entrances ;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms :
And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school: And then, the lover;
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow: Then, a soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the justice;
His fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
WHAT is ambition? 'Tis a glorious cheat!
Angels of light walk not so dazzlingly
The sapphire walls of Heaven. The unsearch'd mine
Earth's constellated thrones
Have not such pomp of purple and of gold.
It hath no features. In its face is set
A mirror, and the gazer sees his own.
It looks a god, but it is like himself!
It hath a mien of empery, and smiles
Majestically sweet-but how like him!
It follows not with fortune. It is seen
Rarely or never in the rich man's hall.
It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy,
And lifts his humble window, and comes in.
The narrow walls expand, and spread away
Into a kingly palace, and the roof
Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work
The ceiling with rich blazonry, and write
His name in burning letters over all.
And ever, as he shuts his wilder'd eyes,
The phantom comes and lays upon his lids
A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear
Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain
Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay.
He is its slave henceforth! His days are spent
In chaining down his heart, and watching where
To rise by human weakness. His nights
Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours.
His kindred are forgotten or estranged;
Unhealthful fires burn constant in his eye;
His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd
Half to scorn-till the bright, fiery boy,
That was a daily blessing but to see,
His spirit was so bird-like and so pure,
Is frozen, in the very flush of youth,
Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man!
A LAKE is slumbering in the wild-wood depths,
Picturing naught upon its polish'd glass
But the long stretching and contracting shades
That change as change the hours its sullen tones
Blending but with the forest's daylight songs
And midnight howlings o'er the leafy waste,
Curls a light thread of smoke—a hunter's fire;
And 'mid the lilies' floating golden globes,
Spangling the margin, where the ripples play
And melt in the silver, rocks his bark canoe.
A few years circle by. The talisman
Of toil has waved above this forest-scene.
Rich meadows, spotted with dense waving woods,
Slope to the sun-lit surface of the lake,
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