“We care not for thy houses three,
We live but for the present,
And merry will we make it yet,
And quaff our bumpers pleasant."
Loud laughed the fiend to hear them speak,
And, lifting high his bicker,
Body and soul are mine," he said;
"I'll have them both for liquor."
PORTIA'S SPEECH ON MERCY.
THE quality of mercy is not strain'd ;
It droppeth as the gentle dew 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 thronéd 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 of 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.
THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY."
HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden it-ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened, without delay
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits-
Have you heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive-
Snuffy old woman from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on that terrible earthquake day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot-
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace-lurking still.
Find it somewhere you must and will-
Above or below, or within or without;
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.
But the Deacon swore (as deacons do,
With an "I dew vum or an "I tell yeou”)—
He would build one shay to beat the town
'N' the keounty 'n' the kentry raoun';
It should be built so that it couldn't break daown : "Fur," said the Deacon, "'tis mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'N' they way 't' fix it, uz I maintain,
To make that place uz strong uz the rest.”
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke—
That was for spokes, and floor, and sills;
He sent for lancewood, to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs from logs from the "Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber-they couldn't sell 'em-
Never an axe had seen the chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide,
Found in the pit where the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."
"There," said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away;
Children and grandchildren-where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay,
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED-it came, and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred, increased by ten-
"Hahnsum Kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came-
Running as usual-much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive;
And then came fifty-and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
Sofar as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large:
Take it you're welcome-no extra charge.)
FIRST OF NOVEMBER-the Earthquake day-
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay-
A general flavour of mild decay-
But nothing local, as one may say,
There couldn't be, for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And the spring and axle, and hub encore;
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt,
In another hour it will be worn out.
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Hiddup!" said the parson-off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday text-
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what, in the world, was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n' house on the hill :
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill ;
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n' house clock-
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
What do you think the parson found
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once-
All at once, and nothing first-
Just as bubbles do when they burst—
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is Logic. That's all I say.
WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs,
Ye children young and gay?
Your locks, beneath the blast of cares,
Will bleach as white as they.
I had a mother once, like you,
Who o'er my pillow hung,
Kissed from my cheek the briny dew,
And taught my faltering tongue.
She, when the nightly couch was spread,
Would bow my infant knee,
And place her hand upon my head,
And, kneeling, pray for me.
But, then, there came a fearful day :
I sought my mother's bed,
Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead.
That eve, I knelt me down in woe,
And said a lonely prayer ;
Yet still my temples seemed to glow
As if that hand was there.
Years fled, and left me childhood's joy,
Gay sports and pastimes dear;
I rose, a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorned the curb of fear.
Fierce passions shook me like a reed,
In youth, yet, ere I slept,
That soft hand made my bosom bleed,
And down I fell and wept.
In foreign lands I travelled wide,—
My pulse was bounding high;
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
And pleasure lured my eye ;
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