Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay [Enter MUSICIANS. Come ho, and wake Diana with a hymn; With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, And draw her home with music. JESSICA. I'm never merry when I hear sweet music. [MUSIC. LOP. 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 ; Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, 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 candle. 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 NER. It is your music, madam, of the house. How many things by season season'd are Advice. POLONIUS TO HIS SON ON SETTING FORTH ON HIS TRAVELS. (From "Hamlet," Act I.) GIVE thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act, Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee. [ment. But not express'd in fancy; rich not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man ; And they in France, of the best rank and station, For loan oft loses both itself and friend; ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL. D. BORN 1774. DIED 1843. -0 OTHER WRITINGS:-" Thalaba the Destroyer," an Arabian tale; "Madoc," an epic founded on a Welsh story; "The Curse of Kahama," a tale of Indian superstition; Life of Nelson. Mary the Maid of the Inn. WHO is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildly fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress. No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek; Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak On that wither'd breast, and her weather-worn cheek Hath the hue of a mortal despair. Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, The Traveller remembers who journey'd this way As Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight As she welcomed them in with a smile; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life: But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say That she was too good for his wife. 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And smoking in silence with tranquil delight They listen'd to hear the wind roar. "'Tis pleasant," cried one," seated by the fireside, To hear the wind whistle without." "What a night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied, "Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried Who should wander the ruins about. "I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head; *KIRKSTALL ABBEY, near Leeds. |