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his way that comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Begone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Anger pray to the gods to intermit the plagues that needs must light on this ingratitude!





To be ?- -or not to be?-2that is the question:- 2 Doubt whether 'tis nobler, in the mind, to suffer 3the slings Affliction and arrows of outrageous fortune-or, to take arms Courage against a siege of troubles, and, by opposing, end Thoughtfulthem! -To die?-to sleep-no more:-and, by a ness with anisleep, to say we end the heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to-'tis a consum- Joy mation devoutly to be wished!To die-to sleep; ness to sleep?-perchance to dream!-ay, there's the rub! Sad conviction for, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, Apprehension when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give


us pause! There's the respect that makes calamity Conviction of so long life! For, who would bear the whips and Indignation scorns of time, the oppressor'swrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of despised love, 'the law's 5Anguish 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 Contempt would fardels bear, to groan and sweat under a weary life?-but that the dread of something after Deaththat undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns!-puzzles the will; and makes us Resignation rather bear those ills we have, than fly to others Awe that we know not of. Thus, Conscience does make Instruction 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 Solemnity this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action!


PRINCES, potentates, warriors! the flower of heaven, Authority
once yours; now lost, if such astonishment as this
can seize eternal spirits: or, have ye chosen this





place after the toil of battle to repose your wearied virtue, for the ease you find to slumber here as in the vales of heaven? Or, in this abject posture, have yesworn to adore the Conqueror?-who now beholds Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood, with scattered arms and ensigns; till anon his swift pursuers from heaven-gates discern the advantage, and, descending, tread us down thus drooping; or, with linked thunderbolts, transfix us to the bottom of this gulf. Awake! arise! or be for ever fallen!

Sorrowful narrative


Regretful remembrance







Kind pity




THE way was long, the wind was cold, the Minstrel
was infirm and old; his withered cheek, and tresses
gray, seemed to have known a better day: the
harp, his sole-remaining joy, was carried by an
orphan boy: the last of all the bards was he, who
sung of Border chivalry. For, well-a-day! their
date was fled, his tuneful brethren all were dead,
and he, neglected and oppressed, wished to be with
them, and at rest. No more, on prancing palfrey
borne, he carolled, light as lark at morn; no longer,
courted and caressed, high-placed in hall, a welcome
guest, he poured, to lord and lady gay, the unpre-
meditated lay; old times were changed-old manners
gone a stranger filled the Stuarts' throne.
bigots of the iron time had called his harmless art—
a crime: a wandering harper, scorned and poor,
begged his bread from door to door; and tuned, to
please a peasant's ear, the harp, a king had loved
to hear.



He passed, where Newark's stately tower looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: the Minstrel gazed with wishful eye-no humbler resting-place was nigh. With hesitating step, at last, the embattled portal-arch he passed; whose ponderous grate and massy bar had oft rolled back the tide of war, but never closed the iron door against the desolate and poor. The Duchess marked his weary pace, his timid mien, and reverend face; and bade her page the menials tell, that they should tend the old man well; for she had known adversity, though

born in such a high degree; in pride of power, in beauty's bloom, had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb.


When kindness had his wants supplied, and the Pleased old man was gratified, began to rise his minstrel pride; and he began to talk, anon, of good Earl Exultation Francis, dead and gone; and of Earl Walter-rest him, God!—a braver, ne'er to battle rode: and how full many a tale he knew of the old warriors of Buccleugh; and, would the noble Duchess deign to Confident listen to an old man's strain, though stiff is hand, his voice though weak, he thought, even yet,—the sooth to speak,-that, if she loved the harp to hear, he could make music to her ear.


The humble boon was soon obtained; the aged Kindness Minstrel audience gained: but, when he reached the Perplexity room of state, where she, with all her ladies, sat, perchance he wished his boon denied; for, when to tune his harp he tried, his trembling hand had lost Pity the ease which marks security to please; and scenes, long past, of joy and pain, came wildering o'er his vacancy aged brain; he tried to tune his harp, in vain.



Amid the strings his fingers strayed, and an Hesitation uncertain warbling made; and, oft, he shook his hoary head. But when he caught the measure wild, the old man raised his face, and smiled; and lighted up his faded eye, with all a poet's ecstasy! increasing In varying cadence, soft or strong, he swept the sounding chords along; the present cene, the future lot, his toils, his wants, were all forgot; cold diffidence, and age's frost, in the full tide of soul were lost; each blank in faithless memory's void, Rapture the poet's glowing thought supplied; and, while his harp responsive rung, 'twas thus the latest Minstrel sung:



BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, who never Indignation to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!-whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, as Rapture home his footsteps he hath turned from wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go-mark Contempt him well; for him, no minstrel-raptures swell: high though his titles, proud his name, boundless his

wealth, as wish can claim; despite those titles, power, and pelf, the wretch, concentred all in self, living, shall forfeit fair renown, and, doubly dying, shall go down to the vile dust from whence he sprung, unwept, unhonoured, and unsung!

Solemn narrative




SEE yonder hallowed fane! the pious work of names once famed; now, dubious, or forgot, and buried mid the wreck of things that were. The wind is up: hark! how it howls: methinks till now I never heard a sound so dreary. Doors creak, and windows increasing clap, and night's foul bird, rooked in the spire, screams loud; the gloomy aisles black plaistered, and hung round with shreds of scutcheons and tattered coats of arms, send back the sound laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults-the mansions of the dead. Roused from their slumbers, in grim array the grisly spectres rise, grin horrible and obstinately sullen, pass and repass, hushed as the foot of night. Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound! I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.








Remonstrance JACOB! I do not love to see thy nose turned up in scornful curve at yonder pig. It would be well, my friend, if we, like him, were perfect in our kind. And why despise the sow-born grunter? He is obstinate," thou answerest; "ugly; and the filthiest beast that banquets upon offal."

1 Dislike and

2 Disgust

Playful argument

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Now, I pray thee, hear the pig's counsel. Is he obstinate? We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words, by sophist sounds. A democratic beast-he knows that his unmerciful drivers seek their profit and not his. He hath not learned that pigs were made for man, born to be brawned and baconized And for his ugliness-nay, Jacob, look at him; mock gravity those eyes have taught the lover flattery. Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that, the wanton


Appealing with

hop marries her stately spouse. And what is beauty but the aptitude of parts harmonious? Give thy fancy scope, and thou wilt find that no imagined change can beautify the beast. All would but mar his pig perfection.


The last charge, he lives a dirty life. Here I Sarcastic could shelter him with precedents right reverend and noble; and show, by sanction of authority, that 'tis a very honourable thing to thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest, on better ground, the unanswerable Candour defence. The pig is a philosopher, who knows no prejudice. Dirt? Jacob, what is dirt? If matter, expression why, the delicate dish that tempts the o'ergorged epicure is nothing more. And there, that breeze Triumphant pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile that speaks conviction. O'er yon blossomed field of beans it came and thoughts of bacon rise?







ADIEU, adieu!-my native shore fades o'er the melancholy waters blue; the night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, and shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea we follow in his flight: farewell awhile Contempt to him and thee: my native land-Good night! few short hours, and he will rise to give the morrow birth; and I shall hail the main and skies-but not Regret my mother, earth! Deserted is my own good hall, Gloomily its hearth is desolate; wild weeds are gathering on the wall-my dog howls at the gate.

Come hither, hither, my little page: why dost Kindly thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billow's

rage, or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear- Encouraging drop from thine eye; our ship is swift and strong: our fleetest falcon scarce can fly more merrily along. "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear Grief not wave nor wind; yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I am sorrowful in mind: for I have from my father Affection gone, a mother whom I love; and have no friend Sorrow save these alone, but thee-and One above. My Awe father blessed me fervently, yet did not much com- Grief with plain; but sorely will my mother sigh, till I come back again."


Enough, enough, my little lad, such tears become Concern

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