England :: :: University of Virginia Library

------ “Never did I hear
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, every region near
Seem'd all one mutual cry: I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.”
Midsummer Night's Dream.

------ “Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall me in the dunnest smoke of Hell!
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes;
Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry Hold, Hold!”------
Macbeth.

The sun shines out, forth from his azure veil,
New waken'd from the arms of blessed sleep;
The wanton breezes, ripe with incense, sail
Among the flowers, and o'er the tree-tops sweep,
And freshest dew-drops from the young blooms weep:
Upon the snow-white temples of the morn
The first streaks lie—the first rays break the deep,
The hills are clad with light—all Nature, worn
By her late toils, now wakes, as if but newly born.

Hark! there is noise of cheer and jubilee;
The court-yard rings with mirth and pleasant sound;

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The gay salute, and merry repartee:
Full cheerfully leaps forth each gallant hound,
And sends his deep-voic'd echo far around:
The horses neigh aloud, and toss the mane,
As their glad masters on the saddle bound:
These merry days will never come again,
When, in the forest depths, the wolf and deer were slain.

They journey forth, a joyous company,
Each worldly feeling banish'd far away;
Delight and rapture light each eagle eye;
The very dogs and horses, on their way,
Are full of gladness, mirth, and wanton play;
The hunters seem e'en now to view the deer,
Whose sport shall wile this whole long summer day:
Each draws his rein, and lifts his hunting spear,
As if the royal game already bounded near.

Oh, many a pleasant morn brings bitter night!
And kings and queens must bow the head to fate!
What, though they dwell in halls and temples bright,
'Mid worshippers, that tremble at their feet—
What, though as gods, they live in lofty state—
What, though they tread on roses—underneath,
Above, around, are shapes of fear and hate.—
There lives a stronger king—that king is Death!—
He watches by their gates, and mingles with their breath.

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Ah, hapless King, how little dost thou know
What serpents revel in the covert shade;
Thou hearest not the distant storm-winds blow,
Nor view'st the clouds of tempest far array'd.
Dark roll those raven locks upon thy head;
The raven plume waves free; and, glancing far,
That eagle eye doth search the cavern'd glade,
Calm, strong, bright, clear as is the morning star—
Alas! that Death, e'en now, doth sharp his spear for war!

Away, o'er hill and dale the hunters go—
O'er river, brook, and hedge! Each mountain side
And cavern'd wood, from out their hollows throw
Loud echoes, that do thunder far and wide:
And many a deer is butcher'd in his pride,
To rear his antlers in the sun no more!
The white foam runs along each charger's hide—
With sweat and dust gay knights are cover'd o'er:
Such glorious cheer as this was never seen before.

The wild sport heightens. Far, and far away
The rapturous glee breaks forth, the princely cheer!—
But who is he that winds along his way,
Alone, when such high transport echoes near?
'Tis Edward!—'stead of hunting for the deer,
Another love takes place of filial pride:
The throne of gold—the cloth of state—the glare
Of glistering gems—the halls, rich tapestried,
Had driven not away, a mother from his side.

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Alas! that ever human hearts should be
All eaten up with sorrow, shame and sin—
That, wandering from our ancient purity,
All shapes uncouth and every hideous thing—
Murder, revenge, lust, death—have entered in:
Love, peace, and friendship, dwelt in Paradise;
Delights most pure, and joys the most serene:
There was no cloud along the azure skies;
No sea-leaf touch'd the tree, no blight the green;
And blessed angels walk'd along each holy scene.

The dove and falcon own'd the same green bough—
The lamb and tiger held the same sweet play:
Fraud, savage hate, existed not as now,
And peaceful Loves held constant holiday,
And gentlest sports beguil'd each summer day.
But Murder shook her wings, and Abel fell!—
The spirit clasp'd its hands o'er human clay:
And joyous shouts rung through the vaults of Hell,
As the red drops of blood did stain life's crystal well!

By his own mother was the monarch slain,
Spite of the cup of hospitality:
The same green path his charger trod again
That felt, among its flowers, the morning sky,
When life and hope lit up each hunter's eye!
Dragg'd wildly on—on—on—without a stay;
None near to catch his last expiring sigh;
And he, who was so glad but yesterday,
Now, mangled—murder'd—dead—they bear in grief away.