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Moonlight Scene. Merchant of Venice. 107

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica : look how the floor of heaven,
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold :
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims :
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

Enter Musicians.
Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn:
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
And draw her home with music.

[Music. Fes. I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive :
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood;
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,
By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and

Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,

And his affections dark as Erebus :
Let no such man be trusted.—Mark the music,

Enter Portia and Nerissa, at a distance.
Por. That light we see is burning in my hall.

How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Ner. When the moon shone, we did not see the

Por. So doth the greater glory dim the less :
A substitute shines brightly as a king,
Until a king be by; and then his state
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook
Into the main of waters.--Music ! hark !

Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house.
Por. Nothing is good, I see, without respect :
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

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 !

(Music ceases


“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.”

“I dare do all that may become a man ;
Who dares do more is none.


THE ENGLISH BOY.—(Mrs. Hemans.)
Look from the ancient mountains down,

My noble English boy ;
Thy country's fields around thee gleam,

In sunlight and in joy.
Ages have rolled since foeman's march

Passed o'er that old, firm sod;
For well the land hath fealty held

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,
Which poured forth to the fields of yore

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,
Or where the minster lifts the cross

High through the air's blue realm.

Martyrs have showered their free heart's blood,

That England's prayer might rise
From those grey fanes of thoughtful years,

Unfettered to the skies.

Along their aisles, beneath their trees,

This earth's most glorious dust,
Once fired with valour, wisdom, song,

Is laid in holy trust.
Gaze on,-gaze farther, farther yet-

My gallant English boy!
Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag,

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,
These knightly halls inviolate,

Those churches unprofaned.
And high and clear their memory's light

Along our shore is set,
And many an answering beacon-fire

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.)
Stand up erect ! thou hast the form

And likeness of thy God :—who more?
A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm

And pure as breast e'er wore.
What then? Thou art as true a man

As moves the human mass among-
As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began

As any of the throng.
Who is thine enemy? the high

In station, or in wealth the chief ;
The great, who coldly pass thee by
With proud step and averted eye?

Nay! nurse not such belief. If true unto thyself thou wast,

What were the proud one's scorn to thee?
A feather, which thou mightest cast
Aside, as lightly as the blast

The light leaf from the tree.
No; uncurbed passions, low desires,

Absence of noble self-respect;
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires

For ever, till thus checked.
These are thine enemies—thy worst :

They chain thee to thy lowly lot ;
Thy labour and thy life accurst.
Oh, stand erect ! and from them burst,

And longer suffer not.

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