Were some strange joy for us. Death, Come, obscure | O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword! One more, one And wind me in thine all-embracing arms! PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. OTHELLO'S DESPAIR. FROM "OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE." THE LAMENTATION. O, NOW, forever Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! Farewell the pluméd troop, and the big wars, That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit, Farewell! Othello's occupation 's gone! Had it pleased Heaven To try me with affliction; had he rained THE MURDER. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, thy rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither:-I'll smell it on the tree. [Kissing her. more: Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, THE REMORSE. Behold, I have a weapon; A better never did itself sustain Be not afraid, though you do see me weaponed; THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 'T WAS in the prime of summer time, Came bounding out of school; There were some that ran, and some that leapt Like troutlets in a pool. Away they sped with gamesome minds And souls untouched by sin; To a level mead they came, and there Like sportive deer they coursed about, But the usher sat remote from all, His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, So he leaned his head on his hands, and read Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside, For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide ; Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the ponderous tome; Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took, Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook, And, lo he saw a little boy That pored upon a book. "My gentle lad, what is 't you read, Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable ?" The young boy gave an upward glance, "It is "The Death of Abel.'" The usher took six hasty strides, And talked with him of Cain; "My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, A dozen times I groaned, the dead "And now, from forth the frowning sky, And hide it from my sight!' "And I took the dreary body up, And cast it in a stream, - "Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanished in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, That evening, in the school. "O Heaven! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim ! I could not share in childish prayer, 'Mid holy cherubim ! "And Peace went with them, one and all, And drew my midnight curtains round In anguish dark and deep; "One stern tyrannic thought, that made Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave! 'Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky, "Merrily rose the lark, and shook But I never marked its morning flight, For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. "With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran; There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began, In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murdered man! "And all that day I read in school, But my thought was otherwhere; As soon as the midday task was done, In secret I was there, And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And first began to weep, That earth refused to keep, Or land or sea, though he should be And trodden down with stones, "O God! that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake! Again again, with dizzy brain, The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake. "And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mould allow ; The horrid thing pursues my soul, That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin's eyelids kissed, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist. THOMAS HOOD. The Wants of Man, Man wants but little here below: My wants are many, and if toks, Would muster many a score: Washington 21. August 1841 John Quincy Adams. |