2. Whereto serves mercy,

But to confront the visage of offense?

And what's in prayer but this twofold force,
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,

Or pardoned being down? then I'll look up.
My fault is past. But oh, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder !
That can not be, since I am still possest

Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, my own ambition, and my queen.

3 May one be pardoned, and retain the offense?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft 't is seen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law; but 't is not so above;
There is no shuffling, there the action lies
In its true nature, and we ourselves compelled
E'en to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence.

4. What then? what rests?

Try what repentance can. What can it not?
Yet what can it when one can not repent?
O wretched state! O bosom, black as death!
O limëd soul, that struggling to be free,

Art more engaged! help, angels, make essay !
Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!

All may be well.

SHAKSPEARE

CXLIII.-VARIETIES.

1.-MALICE.

How like a fawning publican he looks!
I hate him, for he is a Christian,
But more, for that, in low simplicity,
He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rates of usance, here with us in Venice.
If I can catch him once upon the hip,
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation, and he rails-

Even there where merchants most do congregate-
On my bargains, and my well-won thrift;

Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe,

If I forgive him.

SHAKSPEARE

2.-EXPECTATION.

I AM giddy: expectation whirls me round.
The imaginary relish is so sweet

That it enchants my sense: what will it be,
When that the watery palate tastes indeed
Love's thrice reputed nectar? Death, I fear me;
Swooning destruction; or some joy too fine,
Too subtle potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness,
For the capacity of my ruder powers;

I fear it much; and I do fear, besides,
That I shall lose distinction in my joys;
As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps
The enemy flying.

My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse;
And all my powers do their bestowing lose,
Like vassalage at unawares encountering
The eye of majesty.

3.-PASSION.

SHAKSPEARE

PASSION, when deep, is still-the glaring eye,
That reads its enemy with glance of fire;
The lip, that curls and writhes in bitterness;
The brow contracted, till its wrinkles hide
The keen fixed orbs that burn and flash below;
The hand firm clenched and quivering, and the foot
Planted in attitude to spring and dart

Its vengeance, are the language it employs.
While passions glow, the heart, like heated steel,
Takes each impression, and is worked at pleasure

4.-PROFOUND DESPAIR.

No change, no pause, no hope! yet I endure!
I ask the earth, have not the mountains felt?
I ask yon heaven, the all-beholding sun,
Has it not seen? The sea, in storm or calm,
Heaven's ever changing shadow, spread below,-
Have its deaf waves not heard my agony?

Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, forever!
The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears
Of their moon-freezing crystals: the bright chains
Eat with their burning cold into my bones:
Heaven's wing-ed hound, polluting from thy lips,
His beak in poison not his own, tears up

My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by,
The ghastly people of the realm of dream,

Mocking me: and the earthquake's fiends are charged
To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds,
When the rocks split and close again behind:
While from their loud abysses howling throng
The genii of the storm, urging the rage

Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail.

SHELLRY.

CXLIV. SOLILOQUY OF A DRUNKARD'S WIFE.

1. TIME was, when much he loved me;
When we walked out, at close of day, t' inhale
The vernal breeze. Ah, well do I remember,
How, then, with careful hand, he drew my mantle
Round me, fearful lest the evening dews
Should mar my fragile health. Yes, then his eye
Looked kindly on me when my heart was sad.
How tenderly he wiped my tears away,
While from his lips the words of gentle soothing
In softest accents fell!

2. How blest my evenings too, when wintery blasts Were howling round our peaceful dwelling! Oh, it was sweet, the daily task performed, By the sweet hearth and cheerful fire, to sit With him I loved; to view with glistening eye, And all a parent's fondness, the budding graces Of our little ones.

3. Then ye had a father,

My lovely babes, my more than helpless orphans.
Your mother more than widowed grief has known:
Yes, sharper pangs than those who mourn the dead,
Seized on my breaking heart, when first I knew
My lover, husband-oh, my earthly all—
Was dead to virtuo; when I saw the man

My soul too fondly loved, transformed to brute.
Oh, it was then I tasted gall and wormwood!

4. Then the world looked dreary; fearful clouds
Quick gathered round me; dark forebodings came:
The grave, before, was terror; now it smiled:
I longed to lay me down in peaceful rest,
But I lived,

There to forget my sorrows.

And, oh, my God! what years of woe have followed!

I feel my heart is broken. He who vowed

To cherish me-before God's altar vowed

Has done the deed. And shall I then upbraid him—
The husband of my youthful days-the man

To whom I gave my virgin heart away?
Patient I'll bear it all.

5. Peace, peace, my heart!

"Tis almost o'er. A few more stormy blasts, And then this shattered, broken frame will fall, And sweetly slumber where

The wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

CXLV. CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.

1. CONSCRIPT Fathers,

I do not rise to waste the night in words;
Let that plebeian talk; 'tis not my trade;
But here I stand for right—let him show proofs—
For Roman right; though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there!
Cling to your master, judges,' Romans, slaves!
His charge is false;-I dare him to his proofs.
You have my answer. Let my actions speak!

2. But this I will avow, that I have scorned,
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong!
Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword,
Or lays the bloody scourge uron my back,
Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts
The gates of honor on me-turning out
The Roman from his birthright; and, for what?
To fling your offices to every slave!

Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb,
And, having wound their loathsome track to the top,

Of this huge, moldering monument of Rome,
Hang hissing at the nobler man below!

Come, consecrated Lictors, from your thrones;
Fling down your scepters; take the rod and axe,
And make the murder as you make the law!

3. Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free From daily contact with the things I loathe? "Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this? Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?

4. Banished! I thank you for't. It breaks my chain! I held some slack allegiance till this hour;

But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords!
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,

I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.

But here I stand and scoff you! here, I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face!
Your Consul 's merciful-for this all thanks:
He dares not uch a hair of Catiline!

5. "Traitor!" I go; but I return. This trial? Here I devote your senate! I've had wrongs To stir a fever in the blood of age,

Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.

This day's the birth of sorrow! This hour's work
Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my lords!
For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus!-all shames and crimes!
Wan treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup;
Naked rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Till anarchy comes down on you like night,
And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave!

6. I go; but not to leap the gulf alone.
I go; but, when I come, 't will be the burst
Of ocean in the earthquake-rolling back

In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well!
You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood

Shall quench its flame! Back, slaves! I will return!

KIDD.-27

CROLY