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HOTSPUR. My cousin Vernon! Welcome, by my soul.
Vernon. Pray God, my news be worth a welcome, lord.
The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,
Is marching hitherwards; with him, Prince John.

Hot. No harm: what more?

Ver. And further, I have learned,
The king himself in person is set forth,
Or hitherwards intended speedily,
With strong and mighty preparation.

Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son
The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales,
And his comrades, that daffed the world aside,
And bid it pass?

Ver. All furnished, all in arms:
I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed,
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his seat
As if an angel dropped down from the clouds
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

Hot. No more, no more; worse than the sun in March,
His praise doth nourish agues. Let them come;
They come like sacrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war.
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them:
The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit,
Vp to the ears in blood. I am on fire,
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,
And yet not ours:—Come, let me take my horse,
Who is to bear me, like a thunderbolt.
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales:
Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
Meet, and ne'er part, till one drop down a corse I
But I profess not talking; only this,—
Let each man do his best: and here I draw a sword,
Whose worthy temper I intend to stain
With the best blood that I can meet withal,
In the adventure of this perilous day.
Now,—Esperance!—Percy!—and set on. R


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.


OUT of the North the wild news came,
Far flashing on its wings of flame,
Swift as the boreal light which flies
At midnight through the startled skies.
And there was tumult in the air,

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,
And through the wide land everywhere

The answering tread of hurrying feet;
While the first oath of Freedom's gun
Came on the blast from Lexington;
And Concord, roused, no longer tame,
Forgot her old baptismal name,
Made bare her patriot arm of power,
And swelled the discord of the hour.

Within its shade of elm and oak

The church of Berkley Manor stood;
There Sunday found the rural folk,

And some esteemed of gentle blood.

In vain their feet with loitering tread
Passed 'mid the graves where rank is naught;
All could not road the lesson taught

In that republic of the dead.

How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,

The vale with peace and sunshine full
Whore all the happy people walk,

Decked in their homespun flax and wool!.

Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom;
And every maid with simple art,
Wears on her breast, like her own heart,

A bud whose depths are all perfume;
While every garment's gentle stir
Is breathing rose and lavender.


The pastor came; his snowy locks
Hallowed his brow of thought and care;

And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,
He led into the house of prayer.

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!"

He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for Freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake
Compelled the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on his theme's broad wing,

And grasping in his nervous hand

The imaginary battle-brand,
In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant king.


Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
In eloquence of attitude,
Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;
Then swept his kindling glance of fire
From startled pew to breathless choir;
When suddenly his mantle wide
His hands impatient flung aside,
And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.

A moment there was awful pause,—
When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!
God's temple is the house of peace!"

The other shouted, "Nay, not so,
When God is with our righteous cause;
His holiest places then are ours,
His temples are our forts and towers,

That frown upon the tyrant foe;
In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,
There is a time to fight and pray!"

And now before the open door—

The warrior priest had ordered so—
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,

Its long reverberating blow,
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear
Of dusty death must wake and hear.
And there the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life;
While overhead, with wild increase,
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,

The great bell swung as ne'er before:
It seemed as it would never cease;
And every word its ardor flung
From off its jubilant iron tongue

Was, "war! War! War!"


"Who dares?"—this was the patriot's cry,
As striding from the desk he came,—

"Come out with me, in Freedom's name,
For her to live, for her to die?"
A. hundred hands flung up reply,
A hundred voices answered, "I!"

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