And Brutus', Antony', there were* an Antony [that]
Would ruffle up your spirits', and put a tongue
In every wound of Cesar', that should move
The stones of ROME to rise and mutiny'.
Speech of Henry the Fifth before the battle of Agincourt.
SHAKSPEARE.
WHO's he that wishes more men from England"?
My cousin Westmoreland'? No', my fair cousin':
If we are marked to die', we are enough
To do our country loss'; and if to live',
The fewer men', the greater share of honour'.
No', no', my lord'; wish not a mân from England'.
Rather proclaim it', Westmoreland', throughout my host',
That he who hath no stomach for this fight',
May straight depart'; his passport shall be made',
And crowns', for convoy', put into his purse'.
We would not die in that man's company'.
This day is called the feast of Crispian'.
He that outlives this day', and comes safe home',
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named',
And rouse him at the name of Crispian'.
He that outlives this day', and sees old age',
Will', yearly', on the vigil', feast his neighbours',
And say', To-morrow is St. Crispian':
Then will he strip his sleeve', and show his scars'.
Old men forget', yet shall not all forget';
But they'll remember', with advantages',
What feats they did that day'. Then shall our names',
Familiar in their mouths as household words',
Harry the king', Bedford and Exeter',
Warwick and Talbot', Salisbury and Gloucester',
Be, in their flowing cups', freshly remembered'.
This story shall the good man teach his son',
And Crispian's day shall ne'erd go by',
From this time to the ending of the world',
But we and it shall be remembered';
We few', we happy few', we band of brothers';
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me',
Shall be my brother': be he e'ere so vile',
This day shall gentle his condition';
And gentlemen in England', now abed',
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here';
And hold their manhoods cheap', while any speaks
That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day'.
aTol'båt. Sölz'bêr-rẻ. Glôs'ter. Nåre. eåre.
*Would be, grammatically.
Last Parting of the three Indian Friends.-MOORE.
WHEN shall we three meet again?
When shall we three meet again?
Oft shall glowing hope expire,
Oft shall weary love retire,
Oft shall death and sorrow reign,
Erea we three shall meet again.
Tho' to distant lands we hie,
Parched beneath a burning sky,
Tho' the deep between us rolls,
Friendship still unites our souls;
And, in fancy's wide domain,
Oft shall we three meet again.
When those burnished locks are gray,
Thinned by many a toil-spent day,
When around this youthful pine
Moss shall creep and ivy twine,
Long may this loved hour remain,
Oft may we three meet again.
When the dream of life is fled,
When those wasting lamps are dead,
When, in cold oblivion's shade,
Beauty, wit, and power are laid,
Where immortal spirits reign,
There may we three meet again.
The Sailor-Boy's Dream.-ANONYMOUS.
In slumbers of midnight', the sailor-boy lay';
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind';
But watch-worn and weary', his cares flew away',
And visions of happiness'.. danced o'er his mind'.
He dreamed of his home', of his dear native bowers',
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn';
While memory stood sidewise', half covered with flowers',
And restored every rose', but secreted its thorn'.
Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide',
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise':Now, far', far behind him the green waters glide', And the cot of his forefathers'.. blesses his eyes'.
The jessamine'.. clambers in flowers o'er the thatch',
And the swallow'.. sings sweet from her nest in the wall';
All trembling with transport', he raises the latch',
And the voices of loved ones'.. reply to his call'.
A father bends o'er him with looks of delight';
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear',
And the lips of the boy'.. in a love-kiss unite'
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear'.
The heart of the sleeper'.. beats high in his breast';
Joy quickens his pulse':-all hardships seem o'er',
And a murmur of happiness'.. steals through his rest'
"O God! thou hast blessed me'-I ask for no more'."
Ah! what is that flame which now bursts on his eye"?
Ah'! what is that sound which now larums his ear"?
'Tis the lightning's red glare', painting hell on the sky':
'Tis the crash of the thunder', the groan of the sphere'.
He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck';
Amazement confronts him with images dire'-
Wild winds and mad waves'.. drive the vessel awreck-
The masts fly in splinters'-the shrouds are on fire"!
Like mountains the billows tremendously swell';
In vain the lost wretch'.. calls on Mary to save';
Unseen hands of spirits'.. are ringing his knell',
And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave',
Oh', sailor-bôy'! wô to thy dream of delight!!
In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss-
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright'-
Thy parents' fond pleasures', and love's honeyed kiss'?
Oh', sailor-bôy'! sailor-bôy'! never again'
Shall home', love', or kindred', thy wishes repay': Unblessed and unhonoured', down deep in the main', Full many a score fathom', thy frame shall decay'.
No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee',
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge';
But the white foam of waves'.. shall thy winding-sheet be',
And winds in the midnight of winter', thy dirge'.
On beds of green sea-flowers'.. thy limbs shall be laid';
Around thy white bones'.. the red coral shall grow';
Of thy fair yellow locks'.. threads of amber be made',
And every part suit to thy mansion below'.
Days', years', and ages', shall circle away',
And still the vast waters'.. above thee shall roll':
Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye'
Oh', sailor-bôy'! sailor-bôy'! peace to thy soul'.
Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death.-SHAKSPEARE.
To be or not to be'-that is the question';
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings 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 could bear the whips and scorns of time',
Th' 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',
To groan and sweat under a weary life',
But that the dread of something after death',
(That 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 away',
And lose the name of action'.
Cato's Soliloquy on the Immortality of the Soul.-ADDISON.
Ir must be so-Plato', thou reasonest well'—
Else', whence this pleasing hope', this fönd desire',
This longing after immortality'?
Or', whence this secret dread' and inward horrour',
Of falling into naught'? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself', and startles at destruction'?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us',
'Tis heav'n itself that points out a hereafter',
*Fardel, oppressive burden.
And intimates eternity to man'.
Eternity'!-Thou pleasing', dreadful thought"!
Through what variety of untried being',
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass"!-
The wide', th' unbounded prospect lies before me':
But shadows', clouds', and darkness rest upon it'.
Here will I hold'. If there's a power above us',
(And that there is', all nature cries aloud
Through all her works',) he must delight in virtue';
And that which he delights in', must be happy.
But when? or where'? This world was made for Cesar'.
I'm weary of conjectures-this must end them'.
[Laying his hand on his sword.
Thus I am doubly armed'. My death', and life',
My bane and antidote', are both before me'.
This', in a moment', brings me to an end';
But this informs me I shall never die':
The soul', secured in her existence', smiles
At the drawn dagger', and defies its point'.
The stars shall fade away', the sun himself
Grow dim with age', and nature sink in years';
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth',
Unhurt amidst the war of elements',
The wreck of matter', and the crush of worlds'.
The Dying Christian to his Soul.-POPE.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame',
Quit', oh quit', this mortal frame':
Trembling', hoping', ling'ring', flying',
Oh', the pain', the bliss', of dying"!
Cease', fond nature', cease thy strife',
And let me languish into life'.
Hark! they whisper': angels say',
'Sister spirit', come away'.'
What is this absorbs me quite'?
Steals my senses', shuts my sight',
Drowns my spirit', draws my breath'?
Tell me, my soul', can this be death'?
The world recedes': it disappears"!
Heav'n opens on my eyes"! my ears'
With sounds seraphick ring"!
Lend', lend your wings! I mount"! I fly"!
O grave!! where is thy victory'?
Ŏ death'! where is thy sting"?
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