And you, my sinews, grow not instant old! Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, To SHAKESPEARE. CHA P. X X X. Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death. o 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 sleepNo more and by a sleep, to say, we end : The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, For who would bear the whips and scorns o' th' time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's con tumely, The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay, With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear To Το groan and sweat under a weary life; Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; SHAKESPEARE. CHA P. X X X I. Soliloquy of the King in Hamlet. On! my offence is rank, it smells to heav'n, H It hath the primal, eldest curse upon't; A brother's murder-Pray I cannot : Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill, My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent: And like a man to double business bound I stand in pause, where I shall first begin, -And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood? Is there not rain enough in the sweet heav'ns To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy, But to confront the visage of offence? And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force • To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon'd being down ?-Then I'll look up: That cannot be, since I am still possess'd Q Book viij. Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice; And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself Buys out the laws. But 'tis not so above. There is no shuffling: there the action lies In its true nature, and we ourselves compell'd Ev'n to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? what rests? Try what repentance can: What can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent? Oh wretched state! oh bosom black as death! Oh limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engag'd! Help, angels! make assay! Bow, stubborn knees and heart, with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new born babe! All may be well. SHAKESPEARE. С НА Р. X X X I I. Ode on St. Cecilia's day. 1. DESCEND, ye Nine! descend and sing, In a sadly-pleasing strain Let the warbling lute complain : The shrill echoes rebound: While in more lengthen'd notes and slow Now louder and yet louder rise, And fill with spreading sounds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats! Till, by degrees, remote and small, The strains decay, 1 And melt away In a dying, dying fall. 2. By Music, minds an equal temper know, Warriors she fires with animated sounds: Morpheus rouses from his bed, 3. rage. But when our country's cause provokes to arms, 4. But when thro' all th' infernal bounds, What scenes appear'd, O'er all the dreary coasts? Dreadful gleams, Dismal screams, Fires that glow, Sullen moans And cries of tortur'd ghosts! But hark! he strikes the golden lyre; Thy stone, O Sysiphus, stands stil, And the pale spectres dance! The furies sink upon their iron beds, And snakes uncurl'd hang list'ning round their heads. 5. By the streams that ever flow, He sung, To hear the Poet's prayer: And gave him back the fair: Thus song could prevail A conquest how hard, and how glorious! Yet music and love were victorious. But soon, too soon 6. the lover turns his eyes : Again she falls, again she dies, she dies! |