70

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.

His friend, inspirer. guardian, and reward!)
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert:

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.

SHAKESPEARE.

To be, or not to be, that is the question:—
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them. To die—to sleep;
No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die - to sleep;

To sleep! perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect,
That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

HAPPINESS.

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death -
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns — puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of!
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

HAPPINESS.

KEBLE.

THERE are in this rude stunning tide

Of human care and crime,

With whom the melodies abide

Of the everlasting chime,

Who carry music in their heart,

Through dusty lane and wrangling mart,

Plying their daily toil with busier feet,

7

Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.

71

72

THE TRUMPET.

THE TRUMPET.

MRS. HEMANS.

THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land -
Light up the beacon-pyre!

A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire;

A hundred banners to the breeze
Their gorgeous folds have cast;
And hark! was that the sound of seas?
A king to war went past.

The chief is arming in his hall,
The peasant by his hearth;
The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth.

The mother, on her first-born son,

Looks with a boding eye;

They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound

The falchion to his side;

E'en for the marriage altar crowned,

The lover quits his bride,

And all this haste, and change, and fear,

By earthly clarion spread!

How will it be when kingdoms hear

The blast that wakes the dead?

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 73

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

DRYDEN.

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high, "Arise, ye more than dead!"

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began;

From harmony to harmony,

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in man.

What passion cannot music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,

His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a god they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What passion cannot music raise and quell?

74

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger,

And mortal alarms.

The double, double, double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries, "Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat."

The soft, complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hapless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs, and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depths of pain and height of passion,

For the fair, disdainful dame.

But O! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise!
Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees uprooted left their place,

Sequacious of the lyre;

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,

An angel heard, and straight appeared,

Mistaking earth for heaven.