And then they bound him where he fell, and bore Until they reached some galliots, placed in line; On board of one of these, and under hatches, They stowed him, with strict orders to the watches. The last sight Haidee saw was Juan's gore, And he himself o'ermastered and cut down : His blood was running on the very floor, Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own; Thus much she viewed an instant and no more, Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan; On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held Her, writhing, fell she, like a cedar felled. A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ; And her head drooped, as when the lily lies O'ercharged with rain: her summoned handmaids bore Their lady to her couch, with gushing eyes ; Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, But she defied all means they could employ, Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. To be so being; in a gushing stream The tears rushed forth from her o'erclouded brain, Days lay she in that state, unchanged, though Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. chill, With nothing livid, still her lips were red; She had no pulse, but death seemed absent still ; No hideous sign proclaimed her surely dead; Corruption came not, in each mind to kill All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred Short solace, vain relief!-thought came too quick, And whirled her brain to madness; she arose, As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, And flew at all she met, as on her foes; But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, Purple the sails, and so perfuméd, that Although her paroxysm drew towards its The winds were love-sick with them; the oars close; Hers was a frenzy which disdained to rave, She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; Availed for either; neither change of place, Twelve days and nights she withered thus; at last, were silver; Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, AGRIPPA. And they who watched her nearest could not And made their bends adornings: at the helm know The very instant, till the change that cast Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, A second principle of life, which might In vain the dews of heaven descend above Thus lived, thus died she; nevermore on her, Its dwellings down, its tenants passed away; No stone is there to show, no tongue to say, What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. A seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackle It should be better he became her guest; Being barbered ten times o'er, goes to the feast; AGR. Royal wench! Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale SHAKESPEARE. BYRON. NOT only we, the latest seed of Time, ENOBARBUS. The barge she sat in, like a bur- Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, And loathed to see them overtaxed; but she Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Did more, and underwent, and overcame, nished throne, The woman of a thousand summers back, Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity: And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, The fatal byword of all years to come, Boring a little auger-hole in fear, Peeped - but his eyes, before they had their She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode Were shrivelled into darkness in his head, Whereat he stared, replying, half amazed, He laughed, and swore by Peter and by Paul: Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity: Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait noon Was clashed and hammered from a hundred towers, ALFRED TENNYSON. THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS. And certainly she was of great disport, And took much pains to imitate the air Full seemely her wimple pinched was; glass, Her mouth full small, and thereto soft and red: It was almost a span broad I trow, Full handsome was her cloak, as I was 'ware Another NUN also with her had she That was her chaplain, and of PRIESTS three. A good man there was of religion, That was a poor PARSONE of a town ; But rich he was in holy thought and work, He was also a learned man, a clerk, That Christ's gospel truely would preach. His parishens devoutly would he teach, Benigne he was and wondrous diligent, And in adversity full patient: And such he was yproved often times; Full loth were he to cursen for his tithes, But rather would he given, out of doubt, Unto his poor parishioners about, Of his offering, and eke of his substance; He could in little thing have suffisance. Wide was his parish, and houses far asunder, But he nor felt nor thought of rain or thunder, In sickness and in mischief to visit The farthest in his parish, much and oft, Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff. This noble ensample to his sheep he gave. That first he wrought, and afterward he taught, Out of the gospel he the words caught, And this figure he added yet thereto, That if gold rust, what should iron do? And if a priest be foul, on whom we trust, No wonder if a common man do rust; Well ought a priest ensample for to give, By his cleanness, how his sheep should live. He set not his benefice to hire, Or left his sheep bewildered in the mire, And ran unto London, unto Saint Paul's, To seeken him a chanterie for souls, Or with a brotherhood to be withold: But dwelt at home, and kept well his fold, So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry. He was a shepherd and no mercenarie, And though he holy were, and virtuous, He was to sinful men not dispiteous, Nor of his speech dangerous nor high, But in his teaching discrete and benigne. To draw his folk to heaven, with fairness, By good ensample, was his business : But if were any person obstinate, Whether he were of high or low estate, Him would he reprove sharply for the nones, A better priest I trow that nowhere is. He waited after neither pomp ne reverence, Nor maked him no spiced conscience, THE VICAR. SOME years ago, ere time and taste Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, CHAUCER. Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle, And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlor steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, "Our master knows you; you 're expected." Up rose the reverend Doctor Brown, Up rose the doctor's "winsome marrow"; The lady laid her knitting down, Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow. Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed, And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reached his journey's end, With no new light on love or liquor, His talk was like a stream which runs It passed from Mahomet to Moses; The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep For dressing eels or shoeing horses. He was a shrewd and sound divine, Of loud dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line, He 'stablished truth or startled error, The Baptist found him far too deep, The Deist sighed with saving sorrow, And the lean Levite went to sleep And dreamt of eating pork to-morrow. His sermon never said or showed That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road, From Jerome or from Athanasius; And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and head that penned and planned them, For all who understood admired, And some who did not understand them. He wrote too, in a quiet way, Small treatises, and smaller verses, And sage remarks on chalk and clay, And hints to noble lords and nurses; True histories of last year's ghost; Lines to a ringlet or a turban; He did not think all mischief fair, Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear, Although he had a taste for smoking; And when religious sects ran mad, He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning. And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit, And share the widow's homelier pottage. At his approach complaint grew mild, And when his hand unbarred the shutter The clammy lips of fever smiled The welcome that they could not utter. He always had a tale for me Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus; From him I learned the rule of three, Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus. I used to singe his powdered wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in, And make the puppy dance a jig When he began to quote Augustine. Alack, the change! In vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled! The church is larger than before, You reach it by a carriage entry; It holds three hundred people more, And pews are fitted for the gentry. Sit in the vicar's seat; you'll hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose voice is clear, Whose tone is very Ciceronian. " FROM MERCHANT OF VENICE." I'LL hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutred like young men, I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, And wear my dagger with the braver grace; And speak between the change of man and boy, With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride; and speak of frays, Like a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies, How honorable ladies sought my love, Which I denying, they fell sick and died, I could not do withal; - then I'll repent, And wish, for all that, that I had not killed them. And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell ; That men shall swear I have discontinued school Above a twelvemonth: I have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise. THE TOILET. SHAKESPEARE. FROM THE RAPE OF THE LOCK," AND now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed, Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. A heavenly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; The inferior priestess, at her altar's side Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here The various offerings of the world appear; |