TO A SKYLARK.

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?

Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?

Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond-- Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege, to sing All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

c.u.mNOR HALL.

The dews of summer night did fall; The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silvered the walls of c.u.mnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby.

Now naught was heard beneath the skies, The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady's sighs That issued from that lonely pile.

"Leicester!" she cried, "is this thy love That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove, Immured in shameful privity?

"No more thou com'st with lover's speed Thy once-beloved bride to see; But, be she alive, or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.

"Not so the usage I received When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appall.

"I rose up with the cheerful morn, No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; And like the bird that haunts the thorn So merrily sung the livelong day.

"If that my beauty is but small, Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl! it well was prized?

"But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, Or, 'tis not beauty lures thy vows; Rather, ambition's gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

"Then, Leicester, why,--again I plead, The injured surely may repine,-- Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine?

"Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And oh! then leave them to decay?

Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave to mourn the livelong day?

"The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go; Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have woe.

"How far less blest am I than them!

Daily to pine and waste with care!

Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air.

"My spirits flag--my hopes decay-- Still that dread death-bell smites my ear: And many a boding seems to say, Countess, prepare, thy end is near!"

Thus sore and sad that Lady grieved In c.u.mnor Hall so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear.

And ere the dawn of day appeared, In c.u.mnor Hall so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring; An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped its wing Around the towers of c.u.mnor Hall.

The mastiff howled at village door, The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour--for never more That hapless countess e'er was seen!

And in that manor now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted c.u.mnor Hall.

The village maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient mossgrown wall; Nor ever lead the merry dance Among the groves of c.u.mnor Hall.

Full many a traveler oft hath sighed And pensive wept the countess' fall, As wand'ring onwards they've espied The haunted towers of c.u.mnor Hall.

WILLIAM F. MICKLE.

THE QUALITY OF MERCY.

The quality of mercy is not strained, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown: His scepter shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptered sway; It is enthroned in the heart of kings, It is an attribute to G.o.d himself; And earthly power doth then show likest G.o.d's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_The "Merchant of Venice."_

[Ill.u.s.tration]

HORATIUS.

A SELECTION.

But the Consul's brow was sad, And the Consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, And darkly at the foe.

"Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town?"

Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate: "To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his G.o.ds;

"And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false s.e.xtus That wrought the deed of shame?