Pagina-afbeeldingen
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[Supposed to be written in India, while the plague was raging, and playing havoc among the British residents and troops stationed there. This has been attributed to Alfred Domett and to Bartholomew Dowling, but was written by neither of them. It first appeared in the New York Albion, but the author is absolutely unknown.]

WE meet 'neath the sounding rafter,
And the walls around are bare;

As they shout to our peals of laughter,
It seems that the dead are there.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
We drink to our comrades' eyes;
Quaff a cup to the dead already
And hurrah for the next that dies!

Not here are the goblets glowing,
Not here is the vintage sweet;
"T is cold, as our hearts are growing,
And dark as the doom we meet.

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Macbeth, Act i. Sc. 7.

SHAKESPEARE.

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As life were in 't. I have supped full with hor

I have almost forgot the taste of fear. The time has been, my senses would have quailed Put out the light, and then - put out the light. To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir, I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me; but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat, That can thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose

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rors:

Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts,
Cannot once start me.

Macbeth, Act v. Sc. 4.

All mankind

SUICIDE.

Is one of these two cowards;
Either to wish to die

SHAKESPEARE.

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PERSONAL POEMS

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