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Moonlight Scene. Merchant of Venice. 107
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
[Music. Fes. I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive :
And his affections dark as Erebus :
Enter Portia and Nerissa, at a distance.
Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house.
Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.
Por. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark, When neither is attended : and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season'd are To their right praise and true perfection ! Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion, And would not be awak'd !
HAMLET. ACT I. SCENE V.
THE ENGLISH BOY.—(Mrs. Hemans.)
My noble English boy ;
In sunlight and in joy.
Passed o'er that old, firm sod;
To freedom and to God.
Gaze proudly on, my English boy,
And let thy kindling mind Drink in the spirit of high thought
From every chainless wind.
There, in the shadow of old Time,
The halls beneath thee lie,
Our England's chivalry.
How bravely and how solemnly
They stand, midst oak and yew ! Whence Cressy's yeomen haply framed
The bow, in battle true.
And round their walls the good swords hang,
Whose faith knew no alloy, And shields of knighthood, pure from stain:
Gaze on, my English boy.
Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church
Gleams by the antique elm,
High through the air's blue realm.
Martyrs have showered their free heart's blood,
That England's prayer might rise
Unfettered to the skies.
Along their aisles, beneath their trees,
This earth's most glorious dust,
Is laid in holy trust.
My gallant English boy!
The billows' pride and joy.
Those waves in many a fight have closed
Above her faithful dead; That red-cross flag victoriously
Hath floated o'er their bed.
They perished—this green turf to keep
By hostile tread unstained,
Those churches unprofaned.
Along our shore is set,
Shall there be kindled yet.
Lift up thy heart, my English boy,
And pray like them to stand, Should God so summon thee to guard
The altars of the land.
THE LABOURER. (W. D. Gallagher.)
And likeness of thy God :—who more?
And pure as breast e'er wore.
As moves the human mass among-
As any of the throng.
In station, or in wealth the chief ;
Nay! nurse not such belief. If true unto thyself thou wast,
What were the proud one's scorn to thee?
The light leaf from the tree.
Absence of noble self-respect;
For ever, till thus checked.
They chain thee to thy lowly lot ;
And longer suffer not.