But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close; where, past the shaft, no trace is found.
As from the wing no scar the sky retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel-
So dies in human hearts the thought of death:
Even when the tender tear which nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.
What then is taste, but these internal powers,
Active, and strong, and feelingly alive
To each fine impulse? A discerning sense
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
From things deform'd, or disarranged, or gross
In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold,
Nor purple state, nor culture, can bestow; /
But God alone, when first his active hand
Imprints the secret bias of the soul.
He, mighty Parent! wise and just in all,
Free as the vital breeze, or light of heaven,
Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain
Who journeys homeward from a summer day's
Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils
And due repose, he loiters to behold
The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds,
O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween,
His rude expression and untutor'd airs,
Beyond the power of language, will unfold
The form of beauty smiling at his heart.
How lovely! how commanding! But though Heaven
In every breast hath sown these early seeds
Of love and admiration, yet in vain,
Without fair culture's kind parental aid,
Without enlivening suns, and genial showers,
And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope
The tender plant should rear its blooming head,
Or yield the harvest promised in its spring.
Nor yet will every soil with equal stores
Repay the tiller's labour; or attend
His will obsequious, whether to produce
The olive or the laurel. Different minds
Incline to different objects: one pursues
The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild;
Another sighs for harmony, and grace,
And gentlest beauty. Hence, when lightning fires
The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground,
When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air,
And ocean, groaning from its lowest bed,
Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky;
Amid the mighty uproar, while below
The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad
From some high cliff superior, and enjoys
The elemental war. But Waller longs,
All on the margin of some flowery stream,
To spread his careless limbs amid the cool
Of plantain shades, and to the listening deer
The tale of slighted vows and loves disdain
Resound soft-warbling all the live-long day:
Consenting Zephyr sighs; the weeping rill
Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves;
And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn,
Such and so various are the tastes of men.
Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The season's difference; as the icy fang.
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say-
This is no flattery; these are counsellors,
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in its head;
And, this our life, exempt from public haunts,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
Still betters what is done. When you speak sweet,
I'd have you do it ever: when you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so, so give alms,
Pray so; and for the ordering your affairs,
To sing them too,
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that; more still-still so,
When do dance, I wish you
And own no other function: each your doing
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.
With mirth and laughter; so let wrinkles come,
And let my liver rather heat with wine,
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,
(I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,)
There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dressed'in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle.
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
I'll tell thee more of this another time;
But fish not with this melancholy bait
For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion.
Come, good Lorenzo, fare you well a while;
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.
A fool, a fool!-I met a fool i' th' forest--
A motley fool;-a miserable varlet !-
As I do live by food, I met a fool,
Who laid him down and basked him in the sun,
And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.
Good-morrow, fool, quoth I: No, sir, quoth he,
Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune:
And then he drew a dial from his poke;
And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says, very wisely, It is ten o'clock:
Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags:
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven ;
And so from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then from hour to hour, we rot and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.
Seems, madam! nay, it is: I know not seems.
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath;
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly: these indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;'
But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
SHAKSPEARE.
Why get thee gone! horror and night go with thee.
Sisters of Acheron, go hand in hand,
Go dance around the bower, and close them in';
And tell them that I sent you to salute them.
Profane the ground, and for the ambrosial rose
And breath of jessamine, let hemlock blacken,
And deadly nightshade poison all the air:
For the sweet nightingale, may ravens croak,
Toads pant, and adders rustle through the leaves:
May serpents winding up the trees let fall
Their hissing necks upon them from above,
And mingle kisses-such as I would give them.
Why have those banished and forbidden legs
Dared once to touch a dust of England's ground?
But more than why-why have they dared to march
So many
miles upon her peaceful bosom ;
Frightening her pale-faced villagers with war,
And ostentation of despised arms?
Comest thou because the anointed king is hence ?
Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind;
Aud in my loyal bosom lies his power.
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