Is not thy master with him? who, wer't so,
Would have informed for preparation.
ATT. So please you, it is true: our thane is coming: One of my fellows had the speed of him,
Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
Than would make up his message.
He brings great news. himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake
my fell
purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blankets of the dark,
To cry, 'Hold, hold!'
Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter!
Thy letters have transported me beyond
This ignorant present, and I feel e'en now
The future in the instant.
Duncan comes here to-night.
LADY M.-And when goes hence?
MACBETH.-To-morrow, as he purposes.
Shall sun that morrow see.
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men
May read strange matters; to beguile the time,
May look the time; bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under't. He that's coming
Must be provided for: and you shall put
This night's great business into my despatch;
Which shall to all our nights and days to come
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.-
Weary of myself, and sick of asking,
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me
Forward, forward, o'er the starlit sea.
And a look of passionate desire
O'er the sea and to the stars I send;
"Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!"
"Ah, once more," I cried "ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"
From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,
Over the lit sea's unquiet way,
In the rustling night air came the answer,-
"Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.
"Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.
"And with joy the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul..
"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God's other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see."
O air-born voice! Long since, severely clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:
"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he
Who finds himself loses his misery!"
Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair:
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep,
Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to sleep.
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears-
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain-
Take them and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay-
Weary of flinging my soul wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;
Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to sleep.
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green
Blossomed and faded, our faces between;
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;
Rock me to sleep, Mother-rock me to sleep.
Over my heart in the days that are flown
No love like mother love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures-
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours,
None like a mother can charm away pain,
From the sick soul and the world weary brain.
Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep;
Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to sleep.
Come, let your brown hair just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep-
Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long,
Since I last listened your lullaby song,
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your breast in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep-
Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to sleep.
The Epic is the recital of some great and heroic enterprise, having for its main theme some great hero. It is told in twenty-four cantos or books. There are three or four secular and two sacred epics. The secular are: Homer's "Iliad," and "Odyssey," in Greek, and Milton's "Paradise Lost," in English; and possibly Dante's "Divine Comedy." The sacred epics are the New and Old Testaments. Some others are Virgil's "Aeneid” in Latin; "Cid" in Spanish; "Nibelungen" in German. These epics should be rendered similarly to the narrative poem which is freighted with a heroic spirit and triumphal atmosphere, and should be carried directly to the audience excepting as in the narrative poem, the speeches of the different characters therein represented.
ADAM'S MORNING HYMN IN PARADISE
These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven,
On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
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