Sweet mother! you fear while no longer you guide | Thou art not mine-upon thy sweet lip lingers And still, when the chill wing of woe darkens o'er me, I am grateful its shadow extends not to thee; While if praise thrill my heart or if joy smile before me, I sigh-"Could she know it, how glad she would be!" Sweet mother! too fondly your darling you cherish'd, For me to forget you wherever I go; Ah no! not till memory's power has perish'd; I am one who hold a treasure And a gem of wondrous cost; Then spoke the angel of mothers To me in gentle tone, "Be kind to the children of others, And thus deserve thine own." In the deep eyes so trustfully upraising I deem the spirit of thy mother gazing They ask me with their meek and soft beseeching They ask a mother's kind and patient teachingA mother's prayer Not mine-yet dear to me-fair fragrant blossom Who first beholds those everlasting clouds, A sense, a feeling that he loses not, A something that informs him 'tis a moment A herdsman on the lonely mountain top, The whispering air Sends inspiration from the mountain heights. Wordsworth. Above me are the Alps, The palaces of nature, whose vast walls He who first met the highland's swelling blue, On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, Around his waist are forests brac'd, The Avalanche in his hand. Byron's Manfred. Mountains have fallen, Byron's Manfred. Our God, our fathers' God! Thou hast made thy children mighty Mrs. Hemans. All leave ourselves, it matters not where, when, Need lamentation for him? children weep, There is a wakening on the mighty hills, And a soft visionary hue is born On the young foliage worn. By all the embosom'd woods-a silvery green, 'I stand upon my native hills again, With garniture of waving grass and grain, Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie, Here mountain on mountain exultingly throws to the sky; In their shadow the sweets of the valley repose, These mountains, piercing to the sky Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time. Albert Pike. Many, my friend, have mourn'd for thee, And yet shall many mourn, Long as thy name on earth shall be In sweet remembrance borne ; Pope. James Montgomery. Thou art lost to me forever, I have lost thee, Isadore, Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more. Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine, Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine. Thou art dead and gone, loving wife,-thy heart is still and cold, And I at one stride have become most comfortless and old; Of our whole world of love and song, thou wast the only light, A star, whose setting left behind, ah! me, how dark Thou are lost to me, forever, Isadore. That mingleth with the autumn blast All fitfully and low; It is a mother's wailing: Hath earth another tone Like that with which a mother mourns Her lost, her only one? Shaks. Macbeth. One cry'd, God bless us, and Amen, the other; As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands, Listening their fear. I could not say, Amen, When they did say, God bless us. Shaks. Macbeth The bell invites me. Mrs. Sigourney's Poems. Hear it not, Duncan: for it is a knell MURDER. Murder most foul, as in the best it is; Shaks. Hamlet. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand, Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd: Cut off even in the blossom of my sin, Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanneal'd; No reckoning made, but sent to my account, With all my imperfections on my head. Shaks. Hamlet. He took my father grossly, full of bread; With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his credit stands,who knows, save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, "Tis heavy with him. Shaks. Hamlet. This Duncan Shaks. Macbeth, Stept in so far, that, should I wade no more, Shaks. Macbeth. His cloister'd flight; ere, to black Hecate's sum- We'd jump the life to come.-But, in these cases, Stones have been known to move, and trees to I will have blood, they say; blood will have blood: | Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr'd wench! Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it. speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pics, and coughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret'st man of blood. Shaks. Macbeth. Will all Neptune's ocean wash this blood Shaks. Othello. Durst thou have look'd upon him, being awake, Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. The tyrannous and bloody act is done; The great king of kings Hath in the table of his law commanded, Shaks. Richard III. Shaks. Midsummer Night's Dream. Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals! This is the man should do the bloody deed; How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds, Shaks. King John See, his face is black and full of blood; His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodg'd: * Gomersall's Lodovic Sforza. Judgment itself would scarce a law enact Against the murd'rer, thinking it a fact That man 'gainst man would never dare commit; Since the worst things of nature do not it. Goffe's Orestes Murder itself is past all expiation, Goffe's Orestes. Other sins only speak, murder shrieks out. Is there a crime Cibber's Cæsar in Egypt. Twice it call'd, so loudly call'd, With horrid strength, beyond the pitch of nature; And murder! murder! was the dreadful cry. A third time it return'd with feeble strength, But o' the sudden ceas'd, as though the words Were smother'd rudely in the grappl'd throat, And all was still again, save the wild blast Which at a distance growl'dOh! it will never from my mind depart! That dreadful cry, all i' the instant still'd. Joanna Baillie's De Montford. Villains, I know you both, ye are slaves that for a ducat Would rend the screaming infant from the breast, To plunge it in the flames: Yea, draw your keen knives 'cross a father's throat, Aye, heaven and earth do cry, impossible, Effsoons they heard a most melodious sound, But soon the eyes rendered the ears their right; Spenser's Britain's Ida Give me some music; music moody food Shaks. Antony and Cleopatra. If music be the food of love, play on, Shaks. Twelfth Night That strain again; it had a dying fall: Shaks Twelfth Night |