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LXIV.—HOTSPUR AND VERNON.
HOTSPUR. My cousin Vernon! Welcome, by my soul.
Hot. No harm: what more?
Ver. And further, I have learned,
Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son
Ver. All furnished, all in arms:
Hot. No more, no more; worse than the sun in March,
LXV— BEAUTY OF THE UNIVERSE.
WE all of us, in a great measure, create our own happiness, which is not half so much dependent upon scenes and circumstances as most people are apt to imagine. And so it is with beauty: Nature does little more than furnish us with materials of both, leaving us to work them out for ourselves. Stars, and flowers, and hills, and woods, and streams, are letters, and words, and voices, vehicles, and missionaries; but they need to be interpreted in the right spirit. We must read and listen for them, and endeavor to understand and profit by them.
2. And when we look around us upon earth, we must not forget to look upward to heaven. "Those who can see God in everything," writes a popular author, "are sure to see good in everything." We may add, with truth, that they are also sure to see beauty in everything and everywhere.
3. When we are at peace with ourselves and the world, it is as though we gazed upon outward objects through a golden-tinted glass, and saw a glory resting upon them all. We know that it cannot long be thus: sin and sorrow, and blinding tears, will dim the mirror of our inmost thoughts; but we must pray and look again, and by and by the cloud will pass away.
4. There is beauty everywhere; but it requires to be sought, and the seeker after it is sure to find it: it may be in some out-of-the-way place, where no one else would think of looking.
5. Beauty is a fairy; sometimes she hides herself in a flower-cup or under a leaf, or creeps into the old ivy and plays hide-and-seek with the sunbeams, or haunts some ruined spot, or laughs out of a bright young face. Sometimes she takes the form of a white cloud, and goes dancing over the green fields or the deep blue sea, where her misty form, marked out in a momentary darkness, looks like the passing shadow of an angel's wing.
6. Beauty is a coquette, and weaves herself a robe of
various hues, according to the season; and it is hard to say
which is the most becoming of all the attitudes and shades
she is wont to assume, as she traces her lineaments on the
broad canvas of Nature.
G. A. Sala.
LXVL—THE RISING IN 1776.
OUT of the North the wild news came,
The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,
The answering tread of hurrying feet;
The church of Berkley Manor stood;
And some esteemed of gentle blood.
In vain their feet with loitering tread
In that republic of the dead.
The vale with peace and sunshine full
Decked in their homespun flax and wool!.
Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom;
A bud whose depths are all perfume;
The pastor came; his snowy locks
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,
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!"
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand,
Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
The other shouted, "Nay, not so,
That frown upon the tyrant foe;
And now before the open door—
The warrior priest had ordered so—
Its long reverberating blow,
The great bell swung as ne'er before:
Was, "war! War! War!"
"Who dares?"—this was the patriot's cry,
"Come out with me, in Freedom's name,