ACT III. SCENE II.

_Ros._ [_Aside to Celia._] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey and under that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester?

_Orl._ Very well: what would you?

_Ros._ I pray you, what is't o'clock?

_Orl._ You should ask me what time o' day: there's no clock in the forest.

_Ros._ Then there is no true lover in the forest; else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock.

_Orl._ And why not the swift foot of Time? had not that been as proper?

_Ros._ By no means, sir: Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.

_Orl._ I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

_Ros._ Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; if the interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.

_Orl._ Who ambles Time withal?

_Ros._ With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout, for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain, the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury; these Time ambles withal.

_Orl._ Who doth he galop withal?

_Ros._ With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

_Orl._ Who stays it still withal?

_Ros._ With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.

_Orl._ Where dwell you, pretty youth?

_Ros._ With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

_Orl._ Are you native of this place?

_Ros._ As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.

_Orl._ Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so remov'd a dwelling.

_Ros._ I have been told so of many: but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.

_Orl._ Can you remember any of the principal evils laid to the charge of women?

_Ros._ There were none principal; they were all like one another as half-pence are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it.

_Orl._ I prithee, recount some of them.

_Ros._ No, I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.

_Orl._ I am he that is so love-shak'd: I pray you, tell me your remedy.

_Ros._ There is none of my uncle's marks upon you: he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not prisoner.

_Orl._ What were his marks?

_Ros._ A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye, and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not; but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue: then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe unti'd and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation; but you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.

_Orl._ Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

_Ros._ Me believe it? you may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does: that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

_Orl._ I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.

_Ros._ But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

_Orl._ Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

_Ros._ Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

_Orl._ Did you ever cure any so?

_Ros._ Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every passion something and for no passion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cur'd him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't.

_Orl._ I would not be cured, youth.

_Ros._ I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo me.

_Orl._ Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is.

_Ros._ Go with me to it, and I'll show it you: and by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

_Orl._ With all my heart, good youth.

_Ros._ Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?

_CHAPTER II._

VITAL SLIDE.

THE RISING IN 1776.

I.

Out of the north the wild news came, Far flashing on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies At midnight through the startled skies. And there was tumult in the air, The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And through the wide land everywhere The answering tread of hurrying feet; While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington; And Concord, roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swelled the discord of the hour.

II.

Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkley Manor stood; There Sunday found the rural folk, And some esteemed of gentle blood. In vain their feet with loitering tread Passed 'mid the graves where rank is naught; All could not read the lesson taught In that republic of the dead.

III.

How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk, The vale with peace and sunshine full Where all the happy people walk, Decked in their homespun flax and wool! Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom, And every maid with simple art, Wears on her breast, like her own heart, A bud whose depths are all perfume; While every garment's gentle stir Is breathing rose and lavender.

IV.

The pastor came; his snowy locks Hallowed his brow of thought and care; And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks, He led into the house of prayer. The pastor rose; the prayer was strong; The psalm was warrior David's song; The text, a few short words of might,-- "The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"

V.

He spoke of wrongs too long endured, Of sacred rights to be secured; Then from his patriot tongue of flame The startling words for Freedom came. The stirring sentences he spake, Compelled the heart to glow or quake, And, rising on his theme's broad wing, And grasping in his nervous hand The imaginary battle-brand, In face of death he dared to fling Defiance to a tyrant king.

VI.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed In eloquence of attitude, Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside. And, lo! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise.

VII.

A moment there was awful pause,-- When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease! God's temple is the house of peace!" The other shouted, "Nay, not so, When God is with our righteous cause; His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers, That frown upon the tyrant foe; In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, There is a time to fight and pray!"

VIII.

And now before the open door-- The warrior priest had ordered so-- The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, Its long reverberating blow, So loud and clear, it seemed the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear. And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life; While overhead, with wild increase, Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, The great bell swung as ne'er before: It seemed as it would never cease; And every word its ardor flung From off its jubilant iron tongue Was, "WAR! WAR! WAR!"

IX.

"Who dares"--this was the patriot's cry, As striding from the desk he came,-- "Come out with me, in Freedom's name For her to live, for her to die?" A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices answered "I!"

T. B. READ.

THE TENT-SCENE BETWEEN BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.

CASSIUS. That you have wronged me doth appear in this: You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein, my letters (praying on his side, Because I knew the man) were slighted off.

BRUTUS. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case.

CAS. At such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment.

BRU. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm; To sell and mart your offices for gold, To undeservers.

CAS. I an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.

BRU. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide its head.

CAS. Chastisement?

BRU. Remember March, the ides of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for justice's sake? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice?--What! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers;--shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes? And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.

CAS. Brutus, bay not me: I'll not endure it. You forget yourself, To hedge me in: I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions.

BRU. Go to; you're not, Cassius.

CAS. I am.

BRU. I say you are not.

CAS. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself: Have mind upon your health: tempt me no further.

BRU. Away, slight man!

CAS. Is't possible!

BRU. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

CAS. Must I endure all this?

BRU. All this? Ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break. Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you: for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth; yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish.

CAS. Is it come to this?

BRU. You say you are a better soldier; Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

CAS. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus; I said an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say better?

BRU. If you did I care not.

CAS. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.

BRU. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him!

CAS. I durst not?

BRU. No.

CAS. What! Durst not tempt him?

BRU. For your life you durst not.

CAS. Do not presume too much upon my love; I may do that I shall be sorry for.

BRU. You have done that which you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats! For I am armed so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me:-- For I can raise no money by vile means: I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions; Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts; Dash him to pieces!

CAS. I denied you not.

BRU. You did.

CAS. I did not: He was but a fool That brought my answer back.--Brutus hath rived my heart, A friend should bear a friend's infirmities; But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

BRU. I do not, till you practice them on me.

CAS. You love me not.

BRU. I do not like your faults.

CAS. A friendly eye could never see such faults.

BRU. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus.

CAS. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come! Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius: For Cassius is a-weary of the world-- Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from my eyes!--There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold: If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth: I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart. Strike, as thou didst at Caesar; for I know, Then thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

BRU. Sheath your dagger; Be angry when you will, it shall have scope: Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger, as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again.

CAS. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him?

BRU. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.

CAS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand

BRU. And my heart, too.

CAS. O Brutus!

BRU. What's the matter?

CAS. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful?

BRU. Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

I.

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now; The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

II.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe; It rises, roars, rends all outright--O Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright; the high sun shines not so: The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show;

III.

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow Sinks on the anvil--all about the faces fiery grow-- "Hurrah!" they shout--"leap out!--leap out!" bang, bang, the sledges go.

IV.

Leap out, leap out, my masters! leap out and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road; The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea, the main-mast by the board;

V.

The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains; But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high. Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing--here am I!"

VI.

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime; But while ye swing your sledges, sing, and let the burden be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we.

VII.

Strike in, strike in; the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery, rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave away, and the sighing seaman's cheer.

VIII.

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last, A shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou had'st life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea!

IX.

O deep-sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plump, plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! Then deep in tanglewoods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn; To leave the subtle sworder-fish, of bony blade forlorn, And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn.

X.

O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line; And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play; But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave; A fisher's joy is to destroy--thine office is to save.

XI.

O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend; O couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst leap within the sea!

XII.

Give honor to their memories, who left the pleasant strand To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland-- Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave So freely for a restless bed amid the tossing wave-- O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!

S. FERGUSON.

SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS.

1. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that in the beginning we aimed not at independence. But there's a divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England has driven us to arms; and, blinded to her own interest for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why, then, should we defer the Declaration?

2. Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life and his own honor? Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you not both already the prescribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws?

3. If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on or give up the war? Do we mean to submit to the measures of Parliament, Boston Port Bill, and all? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust?

4. I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall submit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting before God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives?

5. I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved you that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces raised, or to be raised, for the defence of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him.

6. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And if the war must go on, why put off longer the Declaration of Independence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct towards us has been a course of injustice and oppression.

7. Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things which now predestinates our independence, than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she would regard as the result of fortune; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, do we not as soon as possible change this from a civil to a national war? And since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory?

8. If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies; the cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these colonies, and I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead.

9. Sir, the Declaration will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for the restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities held under a British king, set before them the glorious object of entire independence and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life.

10. Read this Declaration at the head of the army; every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honor. Publish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls; proclaim it there; let them hear it who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon; let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out in its support.

11. Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see clearly through this day's business. You and I, indeed, may rue it. We may not live to the time when this Declaration shall be made good. We may die; die colonists; die slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously, and on the scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a free country.

12. But whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, I see the brightness of the future as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual return, they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy.

13. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it; and I leave off as I began, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment,--independence now, and INDEPENDENCE FOREVER!

DANIEL WEBSTER.

LIFE AND SONG.

I.

If life were caught by a clarionet, And a wild heart throbbing in the reed, Should thrill its joy and trill its fret, And utter its heart in every deed,

II.

Then would this breathing clarionet Type what the poet fain would be; For none o' the singers ever yet Has wholly lived his minstrelsy;

III.

Or clearly sung his true, true thought; Or utterly bodied forth his life, Or out of life and song has wrought The perfect one of man and wife;

IV.

Or lived and sung, that Life and Song Might each express the other's all, Careless if life or art were long Since both were one, to stand or fall.

V.

So that the wonder struck the crowd, Who shouted it about the land: His song was only living aloud, His work, a singing with his hand!

SIDNEY LANIER.

GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.

I.

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Pibroch of Donuil Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war-array, Gentles and commons.

II.

Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlocky. Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one.

III.

Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.

IV.

Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended, Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, Tenant and master.

V.

Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Knell for the onset!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

NUTTING.

I.

It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame-- Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,--and, in truth, More ragged than need was!

II.

O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene!--A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet;--or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope.

III.

Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on Forever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And--with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep-- I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.

IV.

Then up I rose, And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage; and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past; Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky-- Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE DODSON FAMILY.

_From Mill on the Floss._