Fine as the vaunted nymphs who, poets feigned,
Dwelt long ago in woods of Arcady.
My gentle deity! I'll crown thee with
The whitest lilies and then bow me down
Love's own idolater, and worship thee.
And thou wilt then be mine? my love, love,
How fondly will we pass our lives together;
And wander heart-linked, thro' the busy world
Like birds in eastern story.

Giana. Oh! you rave.

Fred. I'll be a miser of thee; watch thee ever:
At morn, at noon, at eve, and all the night.
We will have clocks that with their silver chime
Shall measure out the moments: and I'll mark
The time, and keep love's pleasant calendar.
To-day I'll note a smile: to-morrow how
Your bright eyes spoke-how saucily; and then
Record a kiss plucked from your currant lip,
And say how long 'twas taking; then, thy voice
As rich as stringed harp swept by the winds
In autumn, gentle as the touch that falls
On serenader's moonlit instrument-
Nothing shall pass unheeded. Thou shalt be
My household goddess-nay, smile not, nor shake
Backwards thy clustering curls, incredulous:

I swear it shall be so: it shall, my love.
Gia. Why thou`rt mad indeed: mad.
Fred. Oh! not so.

There was a statuary once who loved

And worshipped the white marble that he shaped;
Tiil, as the story goes, the Cyprus' queen,
Or some such fine kind-hearted deity,
Touched the pale stone with life, and it became
At last Pygmalion's bride: but thee, on whom
Nature had lavished all her wealth before,
Now love has touched with beauty: doubly fit
For human worship thou, thou-let me pause,
My breath is gone.

Gia. With talking.

Fred. With delight.

But I may worship thee in silence, still.

-Oh! ever while those floating orbs look bright,
Shalt thou to me be a sweet guiding light.
Once, the Chaldean from the topmost tower
Did watch the stars, and then assert their power
Throughout the world: so, dear Giana, I
Will vindicate my own idolatry.

And in the beauty and the spell that lies
In the dark azure of thy love-lit eyes;
In the clear veins that wind thy neck beside,
'Till in the white depths of thy breast they hide,
And in thy polished forehead, and thy hair
Heaped in thick tresses on thy shoulders fair;
In thy calm dignity; thy modest sense;
In thy most soft and winning eloquence;
In woman's gentleness and love (now bent
On me, so poor) shall lie my argument.
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (Barry Cornwall).

FROM "OTHELLO."

REPUTATION.

.OOD name, in man and woman, dear tny lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis some-

thing, nothing;

'T was mine, 't is his, and has been slave to thousands.
But he that filches from me my good name,

Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.

JEALOUSY.
Trifles light as air

Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong
As proofs of holy writ.

OTHELLO'S STORY OF THE HANDKERCHIEF.
That handkerchief

Did an Egyptian to my mother give;

She was a charmer and could almost read

The thoughts of people; she told her, while she kept it, 'Twould make her amiable, and subdue my father Entirely to her love; but if she lost it,

Gia. The evening's dark; now I must go : farewell Or made a gift of it, my father's eye

Should hold her loathly, and his spirits should hunt
After new fancies. She, dying, gave it me;
And bid me, when my fate would have me wived,
To give it her. I did so; and take heed of't,
Make it a darling, like your precious eye;
To lose 't or give 't away, were such perdition,
As nothing else could match.

There's magic in the web of it:
A sibyl, that had numbered in the world
The sun to make two hundred compasses,

In her prophetic fury sewed the work:
The worms were hallowed that did breed the silk;
And it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful
Conserved of maidens' hearts.

OTHELLO'S PATHETIC UPBRAIDING OF HIS WIFE.
Desdemona. Upon my knees, what doth your speech
import?

I understand a fury in your words,
But not your words.

Oth. Why, what art thou?

Des. Your wife, my lord; your true and loyal wife.
Oth. Come, swear it; damn thyself;

Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves
Should fear to seize thee: therefore, be double damned;
Swear thou art honest.

Des. Heaven doth truly know it.

O now, for ever,

Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!

Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,
That make ambition virtue! O farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner; and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats

Oth. Heaven truly knows, that thou art false as Th' immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit, hell.

Des. To whom, my lord? With whom? How am I
false?

Oth. O, Desdemona, away! away! away!
Des. Alas, the heavy day! why do you weep?
Am I the occasion of these tears, my lord?
If, haply, you my father do suspect
An instrument of this your calling back,

Lay not your blame on me; if you have lost him,
Why, I have lost him too.

Oth. Had it pleased Heaven

To try we with affliction; had he rained

All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head;
Steeped me in poverty to the very lips;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience. But, alas! to make me
A fixed figure, for the time of scorn
To point his slow, unmoving finger at-
0!0!

Yet could I bear that too; well, very well,
But there, where I have garnered up my heart;
Where either I must live, or bear no life :
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!
Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads

To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there!
Patience, thou young and rose-lipped cherubim ;
Ay, there, look grim as hell!

Des. I hope, my noble lord esteems me honest.
Oth. O, ay; as summer-flies are in the shambles,
That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed,
Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,

That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er
been born!

Des. Alas! what ignorant sin have I committed?
Oth. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,
Made to write shame upon! what, committed!
Committed! O thou public commoner!
I should make very forges of my cheeks

That would to cinders burn up modesty,

Did I but speak thy deeds.-What, committed!

Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks:

The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets,

Is hushed within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear it.

Her name, that was as fresh

As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black
As mine own face.

Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!
DESDEMONA'S FAITHFULNESS.

Des. O good Iago,

What shall I do to win my lord again?

Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven,
I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel-

[Kneeling

If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,
Either in discourse of thought, or actual deed
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
Delighted them in any other form;

Or that I do not yet, and ever did,

And ever will—though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement-love him dearly,
Comfort, forswear me! Unkindness may do much,
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love.

DESDEMONA IS DISCOVered asleeP IN HER Bed.
[Enter OTHELLO, with a light and sword.]
Oth. It is the cause, it is the cause, iny soul-
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!
It is the cause.-Yet I'll not shed her blood,
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow
And smooth as monumental alabaster.

[Lays down the sword
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light!
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,

I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume.
When I have plucked thy rose,

[Sets down the taper

I cannot give it vital growth again;
It needs must wither: I smell it on the tree.

[Kissing her

O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice herself to break her sword! One more,
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after: one more, and this the last :
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears; this sorrow's heavenly;
It strikes where it doth love.

OTHELLO'S CONFUSION AFTER HAVING MURDERED
HIS WIFE.

Yes 'tis Emilia :-by-and-by-she's dead.
'Tis like, she comes to speak of Cassio's death:

Away she ran-and her friends began
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan:
And young Lovell cried, "O, where dost thou hide?
I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."

They sought her that night, and they sought her next
day,

Amid the darnel, hemlock, and the base weeds,
Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost
Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose-
How from the shade of those ill neighboring plants
Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf
Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace,
She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections

And they sought her in vain when a week passed Might have called back the torpid breast of age

away;

In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly-but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;

And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,
"See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."
At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle-they raised the lid,
And a skeleton form lay mouldering there
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!
O, sad was her fate!-in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
It closed with a spring!—and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasped in her living tomb!

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS' ORATION OVER
THE BODY OF LUCRETIA.

FROM BRUTUS."

To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind
Might have abashed the boldest libertine
And turned desire to reverential love
And holiest affection! O my countrymen !
You all can witness when that she went forth
It was a holiday in Rome; old age
Forgot its crutch, labor its task-all ran,
And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,
"There, there's Lucretia!" Now look ye where she
lies!

That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose,
Torn up by ruthless violence-gone! gone! gone!
Say, would you seek instruction! would ye ask
What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls
Which saw his poisoned brother—

Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 't will cry, revenge!
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, revenge!
Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife,
And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens,

OULD you know why I summoned you to- The gods themselves, shall justify the cry,
gether?

W

Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this
dagger,

Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse!
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!
She was the mark and model of the time,
The mould in which each female face was formed
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue!
Fairer than ever was a form created

By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild,
And never-resting thought is all on fire!
The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks,
And whispered in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her;-the young choir
Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'Tis wonderful

28 J

And swell the general sound, revenge! revenge!
And we will be revenged, my countrymen !
Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name
Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him
Than all the noblest titles earth can boast.
Brutus your king !-No, fellow-citizens !

If mad ambition in this guilty frame
Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one-
By all the gods, this dagger which I hold
Should rip it out, though it intwined my heart.
Now take the body up. Bear it before us
To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches,
And in the blazing conflagration rear

A pile, for these chaste relics, that shall send
Her soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads you!
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE