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A Belove

Hare! to the telling bells
In echoes dues and slow.
Meile on the breeze our bansur floats

in the wads of wee.
L. Huntley Sigany.

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Naught save the crucifix and rosary,
And the gray habit lying by to shroud
Her beauty and grace.

When on her knees she fell,
Entering the solemn place of consecration,
And from the latticed gallery came a chant
Of psalms, most saint-like, most angelical,
Verse after verse sung out, how holily!
The strain returning, and still, still returning,
Methought it acted like a spell upon her,
And she was casting off her earthly dross;
Yet was it sad and sweet, and, ere it closed,
Came like a dirge. When her fair head was shorn,
And the long tresses in her hands were laid,
That she might fling them from her, saying, -

Thus I renounce the world and worldly things!"
When, as she stood, her bridal ornaments
Were one by one removed, even to the last,
That she might say, flinging them from her,

To wither like the blossom in the bud,
Those of a wife, a mother; leaving there
A cheerless void, a chill as of the grave,
A languor and a lethargy of soul,
Death-like, and gathering more and more, till

Comes to release thee. Ah! what now to thee,
What now to thee the treasures of thy youth?
As nothing!



IPHIGENEIA, when she heard her doom
At Aulis, and when all beside the king
Had gone away, took his right hand, and said:
"O father! I am young and very happy.
I do not think the pious Calchas heard
Distinctly what the goddess spake; old age
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew
My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood,
While I was resting on her knee both arms,
And hitting it to make her mind my words,
And looking in her face, and she in mine,
Might not he, also, hear one word amiss,
Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?"
The father placed his cheek upon her head,
And tears dropt down it; but the king of men
Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more:
"O father sayest thou nothing? Hearest thou


Like a dream the whole is fled;
And they that came in idleness to gaze
Upon the victim dressed for sacrifice
Are mingling with the world; thou in thy cell
Forgot, Teresa! Yet among them all
None were so formed to love and to be loved,
None to delight, adorn; and on thee now
A curtain, blacker than the night, is dropped
Forever! In thy gentle bosom sleep
Feelings, affections, destined now to die;

Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour,
Listened to fondly, and awakened me
To hear my voice amid the voice of birds,
When it was inarticulate as theirs,

Thus I renounce the world!" When all was And the down deadened it within the nest?"


And as a nun in homeliest guise she knelt,
Veiled in her veil, crowned with her silver crown,
Her crown of lilies as the spouse of Christ,
Well might her strength forsake her, and her knees
Fail in that hour! Well might the holy man,
He at whose foot she knelt, give as by stealth
('T was in her utmost need; nor, while she lives,
Will it go from her, fleeting as it was)
That faint but fatherly smile, that smile of love Whether, since both my parents willed the change,
And pity!

He moved her gently from him, silent still;
And this, and this alone, brought tears from her,
Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs :
"I thought to have laid down my hair before
Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed
Her polished altar with my virgin blood;
I thought to have selected the white flowers
To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each
By name, and with no sorrowful regret,

I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow;
And (after these who mind us girls the most)
Adore our own Athene, that she would
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes,
But, father, to see you no more, and see
Your love, O father! go ere I am gone!"
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back,
Bending his lofty head far over hers;
And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst.
He turned away, not far, but silent still.
She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh,


So long a silence seemed the approach of death, QUEEN. What have I done, that thou dar'st And like it. Once again she raised her voice :

wag thy tongue O father! if the ships are now detained, In noise so rude against me ? And all your vows move not the gods above, НАМ.

Such an act, When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer That blurs the grace and blush of modesty; The less to them ; and purer can there be Calls virtue, hypocrite ; takes off the rose Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's prayer From the fair forehead of an innocent love, For her dear father's safety and success ? ?" And sets a blister there ; makes marriage vows A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. As false as dicers' oaths : 0, such a deed An aged man now entered, and without

As from the body of contraction plucks One word stepped slowly on, and took the wrist The very soul; and sweet religion makes Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw A rhapsody of words : Heaven's face doth glow; The fillet of the priest and calm, cold eyes. Yea, this solidity and compound mass, Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried: With tristful visage, as against the doom, “O father ! grieve no more ; the ships can sail." Is thought-sick at the act.


Ah me, what act, That rouls so loud, and thunders in the index? Ham. Look here, upon this picture, and on


The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. I CHARM thy life,

See, what a grace was seated on this brow; From the weapons of strife,

Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove himself ; From stone and from wood,

An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
From fire and from flood,

A station like the herald Mercury
From the serpent's tooth,

New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ;
And the beast of blood.

A combination, and a form, indeed,
From sickness I charm thee,

Where every god did seem to set his seal,
And time shall not harm thee; To give the world assurance of a man :
But earth, which is mine,

This was your husband. Look you now, what
Its fruits shall deny thee ;

follows: And water shall hear me,

Here is your husband ; like a mildewed ear, And know thee and flee thee : Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes ? And the winds shall not touch thee Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, When they pass by thee,

And batten on this moor? Ha ! have you eyes ? And the dews shall not wet thee

You cannot call it love ; for, at your age,
When they fall nigh thee.

The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And thou shalt seek death,

And waits upon thejudgment: and whatjudgment To release thee, in vain ;

Would step from this to this ? Sense, sure, you Thou shalt live in thy pain,

While Kehama shall reign,

Else, could you not have motion : but, sure, that
With a fire in thy heart,
And a fire in thy brain.

Is apoplexed : for madness would not err;
And sleep shall obey me,

Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thralled
And visit thee never,

But it reserved some quantity of choice,
And the curse shall be on thee To serve in such a difference. What devil was 't
Forever and ever.

That thus hath cozened you at hoodman-blind !
Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,

Or but a sickly part of one true sense

O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK."

If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones, HAMLET. Leave wringing of your hands : To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, peace ! sit you down,

And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame And let me wring your heart : for so I shall, When the compulsive ardor gives the charge, If it be made of penetrable stuff ;

Since frost itself as actively doth burn,
If damned custom have not brazed it so, And reason panders will.
That it is proof and buiwark against sense. QUEEN.

O Hamlet, speak no more :




Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots,
As will not leave their tinct.

O, speak to me no more;
These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears;
No more, sweet Hamlet!
A murderer, and a villain;
A slave, that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord; a Vice of kings;
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole,
And put it in his pocket!

No more.
HAM. A king of shreds and patches,

Enter Ghost.

Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,
You heavenly guards! What would your gra-

cious figure?
QUEEN. Alas, he's mad!

HAM. Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by
The important acting of your dread command?
O, say!

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GHOST. Do not forget this visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
But look, amazement on thy mother sits:
O, step between her and her fighting soul,
Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works, —
Speak to her, Hamlet.

HAM. O, throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.
Good night but go not to mine uncle's bed;
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.

Once more, good night :

And when you are desirous to be blessed,
I'll blessing beg of you.


I must be cruel, only to be kind : HAM. How is it with you, lady? Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. QUEEN. Alas, how is 't with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy, And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep; And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, Your bedded hair, like life in excrements, Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look? HAM. On him! on him! Look you, how pale he glares!


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QUEEN. This is the very coinage of your brain: This bodiless creation ecstasy

Is very cunning in.

HAM. Ecstasy!

My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful music: it is not madness
That I have uttered: bring me to the test
And I the matter will re-word; which madness
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,
That not your trespass, but my madness, speaks:
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,
Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;
Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;
And do not spread the compost on the weeds,
To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue;
For in the fatness of these pursy times,
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg,
Yea, curb and woe, for leave to do him good.
QUEEN. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart
in twain !


It was a dreary day in Padua.
The Countess Laura, for a single year
Fernando's wife, upon her bridal bed,
Like an uprooted lily on the snow,
The withered outcast a festival,

Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill,
That struck her almost on her wedding day,
And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down,
Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips,
Till, in her chance, it seemed that with a year
Full half a century was overpast.


Lest with this piteous action you convert
My stern effects: then, what I have to do
Will want true color; tears, perchance, for blood.
QUEEN. To whom do you speak this?
Do you see nothing there?
QUEEN. Nothing at all; yet all, that is, I see.
HAM. Nor did you nothing hear?
No, nothing, but ourselves.
HAM. Why, look you there! look, how it steals

My father, in his habit as he lived!
Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal!
[Exit Ghost.

In vain had Paracelsus taxed his art,
And feigned a knowledge of her malady ;
In vain had all the doctors, far and near,
Gathered around the mystery of her bed,
Draining her veins, her husband's treasury,
And physic's jargon, in a fruitless quest
For causes equal to the dread result.
The Countess only smiled when they were gone,
Hugged her fair body with her little hands,
And turned upon her pillows wearily,

As though she fain would sleep no common sleep,
But the long, breathless slumber of the grave.

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