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Hark! to the tolling bells
In echoes dues and slow.
While on the breeze our bannur floats
Draped in the weeds of wee.

L. Huntley Sigaunes.

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"He is coming! he is coming!" Like a bridegroom from his room Came the hero from his prison

To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, And he never walked to battle More proudly than to die. There was color in his visage,

Though the cheeks of all were wan;

And they marvelled as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold,

And he turned him to the crowd; But they dared not trust the people,

So he might not speak aloud. But he looked upon the heavens, And they were clear and blue, And in the liquid ether

The eye of God shone through: Yet a black and murky battlement

Lay resting on the hill,

As though the thunder slept within, All else was calm and still.

The grim Geneva ministers

With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock Around the dying deer.

He would not deign them word nor sign, But alone he bent the knee;

And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace Beneath the gallows-tree.

Then, radiant and serene, he rose,

And cast his cloak away;

For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.

A beam of light fell o'er him,

Like a glory round the shriven,
And he climbed the lofty ladder

As it were the path to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll;
And no man dared to look aloft,

For fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,
A hush, and then a groan;
And darkness swept across the sky,
The work of death was done!

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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!


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;


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


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,
And like it. Once again she raised her voice:
"O father! if the ships are now detained,
And all your vows move not the gods above,
When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer
The less to them; and purer can there be
Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's prayer
For her dear father's safety and success?"
A groan that shook him shook not his resolve.
An aged man now entered, and without
One word stepped slowly on, and took the wrist
Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw
The fillet of the priest and calm, cold eyes.
Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried:
“O father! grieve no more; the ships can sail."



I CHARM thy life,

From the weapons of strife,
From stone and from wood,
From fire and from flood,
From the serpent's tooth,

And the beast of blood.
From sickness I charm thee,
And time shall not harm thee;

But earth, which is mine,
Its fruits shall deny thee;

And water shall hear me,
And know thee and flee thee:
And the winds shall not touch thee
When they pass by thee,
And the dews shall not wet thee
When they fall nigh thee.

And thou shalt seek death,
To release thee, in vain ;
Thou shalt live in thy pain,
While Kehama shall reign,

With a fire in thy heart,
And a fire in thy brain.

And sleep shall obey me,
And visit thee never,

And the curse shall be on thee
Forever and ever.



QUEEN. What have I done, that thou dar'st wag thy tongue

In noise so rude against me?
Such an act,
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty ;
Calls virtue, hypocrite; takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows
As false as dicers' oaths: O, such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul; and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words: Heaven's face doth glow;
Yea, this solidity and compound mass,
With tristful visage, as against the doom,
Is thought-sick at the act.

QUEEN. Ah me, what act, That roars so loud, and thunders in the index? HAM. Look here, upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See, what a grace was seated on this brow; Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself; An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; A combination, and a form, indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man: This was your husband. Look you now, what follows:

Here is your husband; like a mildewed ear,
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it love; for, at your age,
The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment
Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you

Else, could you not have motion: but, sure, that


Is apoplexed for madness would not err;
Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thralled
But it reserved some quantity of choice,
To serve in such a difference. What devil was 't
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, 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 let me wring your heart: for so I shall,
If it be made of penetrable stuff;

And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame
When the compulsive ardor gives the charge,
Since frost itself as actively doth burn,
And reason panders will.

If damnéd custom have not brazed it so,
That it is proof and buiwark against sense.


O Hamlet, speak no more:

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