He that outlives this day, and fees old age,
Will, yearly on the vigil, feaft his neighbours,
And fay-To-morrow is Saint Crifpian :
Then, will he ftrip his fleeve, and fhew his fcars.
Old men forget, yet fhall not all forget,
What feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as houfhold-words,
Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'fter,
Be, in their flowing cups, freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his fon :
And Crifpian's day fhall 'ne'er go by,
From this time to the ending of the world,
But we in it fhall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:
For, he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me,
Shall be my brother: be he e'er so vile,
This day fhall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here;
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any fpeaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crifpian's day.
PRIAM'S APPLICATION TO ACHILLES FOR THE
BODY OF HECTOR.
Α'
H! think, thou favour'd of the powers divine! Think of thy father's age, and pity mine! In me, that father's rev'rend image trace, Those filver hairs, that venerable face;
His trembling limbs, his helpless person, see!
In all my equal-but in mifery!
Yet now, perhaps fome turn of human fate`
Expels him, helplefs, from his peaceful state:
Think, from fome powerful foe thou feeft him fly,
And beg protection with a feeble cry.
Yet, ftill, one comfort in his foul may rife;
He hears his fon ftill lives to glad his eyes:
And, hearing, still may hope a better day
May fend him thee, to chase that foe away.
No comfort to my griefs, no hopes remain ;
The beft, the braveft of my fons are flain!
Yet, what a race, ere Greece to Ilion came!
The pledge of many a lov'd, and loving dame.
Nineteen one mother bore! -Dead! all are dead!
How oft, alas! has wretched Priam bled?
Still one was left their lofs to recompenfe ;
His father's hope, his country's laft defence.
Him, too, thy rage has flain! beneath thy steel,
Unhappy! in his country's caufe he fell!
THINK of thy father, and this face behold!
See him in me, as helpless, and as old—
Tho' not fo wretched there, he yields to me,
The firft of men-in fov'reign mifery:
Thus forc'd to kneel, thus grov'ling to embrace
The fcourge and ruin of my realm and race:
Suppliant, my childrens' murd'rer to implore,
And kiss those hands- yet reeking with their gore.
XXVIII.
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.
T
O be or not be? -that is the question.— Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to fuffer The flings and arrows of outrageous fortune; Or to take arms against a fea of troubles, And, by oppofing, end them ?-To die-to fleepNo more-and, by a fleep, to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural fhocks That flesh is heir to-'tis a confummation Devoutly to be wifh'd. To die-to fleep
To fleep-perchance to dream-ay, there's the rub.-
For, in that fleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have fhuffled off this mortal coil,
Muft give us paufe.-There's the respect
That makes calamity of fo long life.
For, who would bear the whips and fcorns of time,
Th' oppreffor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pang of defpis'd love, the law's delay,
The infolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life?
But that the dread of fomething after death
(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns) puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear thofe ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus, confcience does make cowards of us all:
And, thus, the native hue of refolution
Is fickly'd o'er with the pale caft of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lofe the naine of action.
M
EAN-TIME, the village rouzes up the fire:
While, well attefted, and as well believ'd,
Heard folemn, goes the goblin-story round;
Till fuperftitious horror creeps o'er all.
Or, frequent, in the founding hall, they wake
The rural gambol. Ruftic mirth goes round.
The fimple joke, that takes the shepherd's heart,
Eafily pleas'd; the long loud laugh, fincere;
The kifs, fnatch'd hafty from the fide-long maid,
On purpose guardless, or pretending fleep;
The leap, the flap, the haul; and shook to notes
Of native music, the refpondent dance.
Thus, jocund, fleets, with them, the winter-night.
THE city fwarms intenfe. The public haunt, Full of each theme, and warm with mix'd discourse, Hums indiftinct.. The fons of riot flow Down the loofe ftream of falfe-inchanted joy, To fwift deftruction. On the rankled foul, The gaming fury falls; and, in one gulph Of total ruin, honour, virtue, peace, Friends, families, and fortune, headlong fink. Up fprings the dance along the lighted dome,
Mix'd and evolv'd, a thousand sprightly ways.
The glittering court effufes every pomp.
The circle deepens. Beam'd from gaudy robes,
Tapers, and sparkling gems, and radiant eyes,
A foft efulgence o'er the palace waves:
While, a gay infect, in his fummer-shine,
The fop, light fluttering, spreads his mealy wings.
DREAD o'er the scene, the ghost of Hamlet stalks ;
Othello rages; poor Monimia mourns ;
And Belvidera pours her foul in love.
Terror alarms the breaft. The comely tear
Steals o'er the cheek. Or elfe, the comic muse ›
Holds to the world a picture of itself,
And raises. fly, the fair impartial laugh.
Sometimes, the lifts her ftrain, and paints the scenes
Of beauteous life; whate'er can deck mankind,
Or charm the heart, in generous Bevil fhew'd.
T must be fo- Plato, thou reafon'ft well!-
Elfe, whence this pleafing hope, this fond defire,
This longing after immortality?
Or, whence this fecret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why fhrinks the foul
Back on herself, and startles at deftruction ?
"Tis the divinity that ftirs within us:
'Tis heav'n itself, that points out-an hereafter,
And intimates-eternity to man.
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