Paul. Music, awake her; strike! [Music. 'Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach; [Hermione comes down. Start not; her actions shall be holy as You kill her double. Nay, present your hand : Leon. O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating. Pol. She embraces him. Cam. She hangs about his neck: If she pertain to life let her speak too. Pol. Ay, and make't manifest where she has lived, Or how stolen from the dead. Paul. That she is living, Were it but told you, should be hooted at Like an old tale: but it appears she lives, Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. And pray your mother's blessing. Turn, good lady ; Her. You gods, look down And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter's head! Tell me, mine own, Where hast thou been preserved? where lived? how Thy father's court? for thou shalt hear that I, Knowing by Paulina that the oracle Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved Paul. [found There's time enough for that; Lest they desire upon this push to trouble Will wing me to some withered bough and there Lament till I am lost. CCXLV. W. Shakespeare. ELLEN BRINE OF ALLENBURN. N (IN THE DORSET DIALECT.) OO soul did hear her lips complaïn, For she do live in heaven's love; The last time I'd a-cast my zight * Murn, mourn. 404 A Hymn for Christmas Morning. Then woone,* a-stoppen vrom his reäce, Did veel that they mus' murn. September come, wi' Shroton feair, Would never mwore return. W. Barnes. CCXLVI. A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS MORNING. T is the Christmas time, And up and down 'twixt heaven and earth, The shining angels climb. And unto everything That lives and moves, for heaven, on earth, With equal share of grief and mirth,— The shining angels sing : * Woone, one. † Medre, mare. 'Babes new-born, undefiled, In lowly hut, or mansion wide Sleep safely through this Christmas-tide 'O young men, bold and free, In peopled town, or desert grim, 'Poor mothers, with your hoard 'Mourners, half blind with woe, Look up! One standeth in this place; The Man of Sorrows know. 'Wanderers in far countrie, O think of Him who came, forgot, To His own, and they received Him not- 'O all ye who have trod The wine-press of affliction, lay Your hearts before His heart this day Behold the Christ of God!' Anon. CCXLVII. LIFE. IFE! I know not what thou art, Life! we've been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; -Then steal away, give little warning, Say not Good Night,-but in some brighter clime A. L. Barbauld. CCXLVIII. THE BARD. UIN seize thee, ruthless King1! Confusion on thy banners wait; Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state! Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, He wound with toilsome march his long array. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; 1 Ruthless King, Edward I., who is said, after conquering Wales, to have put the native poets to death. 2 Gloucester, son-in-law to Edward. 3 Mortimer, one of the Lords Marchers of Wales. |