Puslapio vaizdai

when the Cambria came in sight, and her boats were heaved into the ruddy glare of the burning ship, hope grew fierce in its doubtfulness; till at last they stood on the deck of the friendly vessel, and, looking back on their short but fearful track, they saw the majestic bark, which had passed over the waters like a conqueror, become a mighty pillar of fire in the vast desert of the ocean.


COME, walk with me, where, o'er the dewy lawn, The fir-tree wafts its incense, and the gale Breathes freshly from the waters; for the dawn Of moon-light brightens o'er the winding dale; And while the startled owlets shriek and wail, One flood of splendour bathes the distant hill, The corn-field bosom'd in the wood, the vale With river mists o'ershadow'd, hush'd and still, Save where in murmurs dies the rushing of the mill.

Soon shalt thou hear, fair moon, a blither greeting
Than poet's invocation, or the cry

Of owlet:-Shout and laugh in chorus meeting,
Where youths and maids their harvest labour ply,
And the slow wain, with dewy sheaves piled high,
And grating wheels, rolls homeward: the shrill song
Of infant gleaner swells the revelry;

And aye, with dying fall the notes among,
Will echo's airy tones the melody prolong.

In the deep stillness of the moonlight grove,
Where trembling leaves a chequer'd shadow made,
Of yore the fairy-people loved to rove;

And soft as that dim light and mellow shade,
Aërial music whisper'd from the glade:

And fays, beneath the drooping violet,
In filmy robes of gossamer array'd,

And moth-wing scarf, and fern-seed coronet,
To list a tale of love, their elfin warriors met.

Roll on, thou pure and lovely orb! roll on, In silent beauty through the cloudless sky; Most lovely when the twilight flush is gone, And thou in brightness art alone on high; Thou art the poet's worship, and his eye More wildly flashes in thy hallow'd ray: To thee the lover, fancy-sick, will sigh; And thy pale beams through ivied casement play, Where patient maiden's cheek in vigils wastes away.

The mourner loves thee; for thy quiet light Sheds beauty o'er grey tower and waving tree, Yet beauty which becomes the solemn night; While day, in mockery, throws o'er all we see, Gay smiles, which win no smile from misery. The mourner loves thee; and, in frenzied tone, Her overflowing passion breathes to thee, Thrill'd with thy loveliness, when all is gone That gave affection birth, and yet the heart yearns on.

How sweetly, by the margin of the lake,

From cottage windows peeps the taper's light!
The trembling waters its reflection break,

As the breeze stoops to kiss them in its flight:
The glow-worm, lamp of little fairy sprite,
On beds of moss is shining in the dew;

And stars are twinkling from the depths of night,
In evening's lingering glimmer, pale and few,
But flashing thick and bright along the darker blue.


In the green covert of some leafy bay,
Stretch'd languidly along my rocking boat,
I love to gaze my inmost soul away,
And watch the silent stars in ether float:
And oft, when distant flute's faint echo smote
On my hush'd senses,-listening with a sigh-
Oh! I have loved to fancy that the note
Had wander'd from the music of the sky,
And woo'd the poet's creed of spheral melody.


Shy. Three thousand ducats,—well?
Bass. Ay, sir, for three months.

Shy. For three months,—well?

Bass. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.

Shy. Antonio shall become bound,-well?

Bass. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? shall I know your answer?

Shy. Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio bound.

Bass. Your answer to that.

Shy. Antonio is a good man?

Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary? Shy. Ho, no, no, no, no;-my meaning, in saying he is a good man, is to have you to understand me, that he is sufficient: yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand moreover upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England;—and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats, and water-rats, land-thieves, and water-thieves-I mean, pirates; and then, there is the peril of waters, winds,

and rocks! The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient:-three thousand ducats;-I think I may take his bond.

Bass. Be assured you may.

Shy. I will be assured I may; and, that I may I will bethink me: May I speak with Antonio? Bass. If it please you to dine with us?

Shy. Yes, to smell pork-to eat of the habitation which your prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into! I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto?-Who is he comes here?

be assured,


Bass. This is signior Antonio.

Shy. How like a fawning publican he looks!
I hate him, for he is a Christian:

But more, for that, in low simplicity,

He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
If I can catch him once upon the hip,

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation; and he rails,
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest! Cursed be my tribe,
If I forgive him!



Shylock, do you hear?

Shy. I am debating of my present store;
And, by the near guess of my memory,
I cannot instantly raise up the gross

Of full three thousand ducats: What of that?
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,

Will furnish me: But soft; How many months
you desire?-Rest you fair, good signior; [To Ant.
Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow,
By taking, nor by giving of excess,

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,
I'll break a custom:-Is he yet possess'd
How much would?

Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.


Ant. And for three months.

Shy. I had forgot,-three months, you told me so. Well then, your bond; and, let me see,—But hear you; Methought you said, you neither lend nor borrow Upon advantage?


I do never use it.

Shy. When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep,— This Jacob from our holy Abraham was (As his wise mother wrought in his behalf) The third possessor; ay, he was the third.

Ant. And what of him? did he tak interest? Shy. No, not take interest; not, as you would say, Directly interest. Mark what Jacob did:— When Laban and himself were compromised, That all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied Should fall to Jacob's hire,

The skilful shepherd peel'd him certain wands,
And, in the doing of the deed of kind,

He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,
Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time
Fall party-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's.
This was a way to thrive, and he was bless'd;
And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.

Ant. This was venture, sir, that Jacob served for

A thing not in his power to bring to pass,

But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven.
Was this inserted to make interest good?
Or, is your gold and silver ewes and rams?

Shy. I cannot tell: I make it breed as fast.

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