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and look just of a piece as I grew from it:
my uncomb'd locks, matted like mistletoe,
hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook
runs at my foot. The herd come jumping by me,
and fearless quench their thirst, while I look on,
and take me for their fellow-citizen.

900 I have been a man, Ventidius.
Vent. Yes, and a brave one; but-

I know thy meaning.
But, I have lost my reason, have disgrac'd
the name of soldier, with inglorious ease.
In the full vintage of my flowing honours,
sate still, and saw it press'd by other hands.
Fortune came smiling to my youth, and woo'd it,
and purple greatness met my ripen'd years.
When first I came to empire, I was borne
on tides of people, crowding to my triumphs;
the wish of nations, and the willing world
receiv'd me as its pledge of future peace;
I was so great, so happy, so belov'd,
fate could not ruin me; till I took pains

and work'd against my fortune, chid her from me,
and turn'd her loose; yet still she came again.
My careless days, and my luxurious nights,

at length have wearied her, and now she's gone,
gone, gone, divorc'd for ever.





STAY and hear me yet; hear but a word,
and that my last, it may be; do not spill

the life of him in whom my life subsists;
kill not two lives in one! Remember, sir,

I was your daughter once, once you did love me;
and tell me then, what fault can be so great,
to make a father murderer of his child?

for so you are in taking of his life.

O think not, sir, that I will stay behind him,

whilst there be asps, and knives, and burning coal:


no Roman dame shall in her great example
outgo my love.

Oh where will sorrow stay?
Is there no end in grief? or in my death
not punishment enough for my offence,
but must her grief be added to afflict me?
Dry up those pearls, dearest Leucothoë,
or thou wilt make me doubly miserable.
Preserve that life, that I may after death
live in my better part. Take comfort, dear;
people would curse me if such beauty should
for me miscarry; no, live happy thou,
and let me suffer what the law inflicts.






E must not be too hasty: remember, sir, the wrong and violence you have offer'd us; burnt up our frontier-towns, made prey before you both of our beasts and corn; slain our dear subjects ; opened the fountain-eyes of thousand widows that daily fling their curses on your fury: what ordinary satisfaction can salve this? Duke. I am at your mercy, lady; 'tis my fortune,

my stubborn fate; the day is yours, you have me:
the valour of one single man has cross'd me,
cross'd me and all my hope; for when the battles.
were at the hottest game of all their furies,
and conquest ready then to crown me victor,
one single man broke in one sword, one virtue,
and by his great example thousands follow'd ;-
oh, how I shame to think on't! how it shakes me!
nor could our strongest head then stop his fury,
but, like a tempest, bore the field before him,
till he arriv'd at me: with me he buckled;
a while I held him play; at length his violence
beat me from my saddle, then on foot pursu'd me,
there triumph'd once again, then took me prisoner:
when I was gone, a fear possess'd my people.







'HEN go!



Not so, my king! I cannot part
without thy blessing or in anger from thee.
Banish us not! the sacred right of guests
still let us claim: so not eternally

shall we be severed. Honoured and beloved
as mine own father was, art thou by me:
and this impression in my soul remains.
Should e'en the meanest peasant of thy land
bring to my ear the tones I heard from thee,
or should I on the humblest see thy garb,
I will with joy receive him as a god,
prepare his couch myself, beside our hearth
invite him to a seat, and only ask
touching thy fate and thee.

O may the gods
to thee the merited reward impart

of all thy kindness and benignity!
Farewell! O, do not turn away, but give
one kindly word of parting in return!

so shall the wind more gently swell our sails,
and from our eyes with soften'd anguish flow
the tears of separation. Fare thee well!

and graciously extend to me thy hand

in pledge of ancient friendship.

Fare thee well!

A. SWANWICK from Goethe


ENEATH your leafy gloom, ye waving boughs of this old, shady, consecrated grove,

as in the goddess' silent sanctuary,

with the same shuddering feeling forth I step,
as when I trod it first, nor ever here

doth my unquiet spirit feel at home.

Long as the mighty will, to which I bow,
hath kept me here conceal'd, still, as at first,
I feel myself a stranger. For the sea
doth sever me, alas! from those I love,
and day by day upon the shore I stand,
my soul still seeking for the land of Greece.

But to my sighs, the hollow-sounding waves
bring, save their own hoarse murmurs, no reply.
Alas for him! who friendless and alone,

remote from parents and from brethren dwells;
from him grief snatches every coming joy
ere it doth reach his lip. His restless thoughts
revert for ever to his father's halls,

where first to him the radiant sun unclos'd
the gates of heaven; where closer, day by day,
brothers and sisters, leagued in pastime sweet,
around each other twined the bonds of love.

A. SWANWICK from Goethe





PHIGENEIA, 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? Hear'st thou not me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, listen'd to fondly, and awaken’d me

to hear my voice amid the voice of birds,

when it was inarticulate as theirs,

and the down deadened it within the nest?”
He moved her gently from him, silent still.



HAT, what is virtue, but repose of mind,


a pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm;

above the reach of wild ambition's wind, above the passions that this world deform, and torture man, a proud malignant worm? The best of men have ever loved repose: they hate to mingle in the filthy fray; where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows, embitter'd more from peevish day to day. Even those, whom fame has lent her fairest ray, the most renown'd of worthy wights of yore, from a base world at last have stolen away: so Scipio, to the soft Cumæan shore retiring, tasted joy he never knew before.

But if a little exercise you choose,

some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. Amid the groves you may indulge the Muse, or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year; or, softly stealing with your watery gear, along the brooks, the crimson-spotted fry you may delude: the whilst, amused, you hear now the hoarse stream, and now the Zephyr's sigh, attuned to the birds and woodland melody.


L. M.




UT, damned spot! out, I say!-One, two: why then 'tis time to do't.-Hell is murky!-Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard! What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our powers to account?-Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

Doct. Do you mark that?

L.M. The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?— What will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting.



Go to, go to! you have known what you should not. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known.

L. M. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! Oh! Oh!

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