MERCY.

MERCHANT OF VENICE. ACT IV. SCENE I.

The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

TO A SKYLARK.—(Shelley.)

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven or near it,
Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher,

From the earth thou springest

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever,

singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,

O'er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven,

In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,

Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.

Like a high-born maiden.
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower.

Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

Its aerial hue

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view.

Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavywingèd thieves.

Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,

All that ever was

Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine;

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chant,

Matched with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt—

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be :

Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee:

Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught:

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest

thought.

Yet if we could scorn

Hate and pride and fear;

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever could come near.

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground.

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

TO A BEE.-(Robert Southey.)

Thou wert out betimes, thou busy, busy bee!
As abroad I took my early way,
Before the cow, from her resting-place,
Had risen up and left her trace

On the meadow, with dew so grey,
Saw I thee, thou busy, busy bee!

Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy bee!
After the fall of the cistus flower;

When the primrose of evening was ready to burst,
I heard thee last, as I saw thee first.
In the silence of the evening hour
Heard I thee, thou busy, busy bee!

Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy bee!
Late and early at employ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,

Thy summer in keeping and hoarding is spent
What thy winter will never enjoy.

Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy bee!

Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy bee,
What is the end of thy toil!

When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And all thy work for the year is done,
Thy master comes for the spoil;

Woe, then, for thee, thou busy, busy bee!