In dreadful secrecy impart they did,
And I, with them, the third night kept the watch,
Where, as they had delivered, both in time,
Form of the thing, each word made true and good,
The apparition comes!
HAM. But where was this?
MAR. My Lord, upon the platform where we watch'd. HAM. Did you not speak to it?
But answer made it none: yet once methought,
It lifted up its head, and did address
Itself to motion, like as it would speak :
But even then, the morning cock crew loud;
And at the sound it shrunk in haste away,
And vanished from our sight.
HAM. 12 "Tis very strange!
HOR. As I do live, my honour'd Lord, 'tis true,
And we did think it writ down in our duty
To let you know of it.
HAM. Indeed, indeed, Sirs, but this troubles me.
Hold you the watch to-night?
HOR. We do, my Lord.
HAM. Arm'd, say you?
HOR. Arm'd, my Lord.
HAM. From top to toe?
HOR. My Lord, from head to foot.
HAM. 13Then saw you not his face?
HOR. O yes, my Lord, he wore his beaver up.
HAM. What, looked he frowningly?
HOR. A countenance more
In sorrow than in anger.
Pale or red?
HOR. Nay, very pale.
HAM. And fixed his eyes on you?
HOR. Most constantly.
HAM. I would I had been there.
HOR. It would have much amaz'd you.
HAM. Very like-very like.
Stay'd it long?
HOR. While one with moderate haste
Might tell a hundred.
HAM. His beard was grizzled ? no?
HOR. It was as I have seen it in his life,
A sable silver'd.
HAM. I will watch to-night;
Perchance 'twill walk again.
HAM. 14If it assume my noble father's person
I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,
If you have hitherto conceal'd the sight,
Let it be tenable in your silence still :
And whatsoever else may hap to-night,
Give it an understanding but no tongue :
I will requite your loves. So, fare-you-well.
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve,
I'll visit you.
HOR. Our duty to your honour!
HAM. Your love's, as mine to you.
My father's spirit-and in arms! all is not well;
I doubt some foul play: would the night were come!
Till then, sit still my soul.-Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.
Shakspeare.
MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS FOR
To be annotated by the pupil.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle
This earth of majesty; this seat of Mars;
This other Eden, demi-Paradise ;
This fortress, built by nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war.
This happy breed of men, this little world;
This precious gem set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happy lands.
For England never did, and never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror !
Now that her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue
If England to herself will rest but true.
Great Britain is a power to which, for the purposes of foreign conquest and subjugation, Rome, in the height of her glory, is not to be compared; a power which has dotted over the surface of the whole globe with her possessions and military posts, whose morning drum-beat, following the sun, and keeping company with the hours, circles the earth with one continuous and unbroken strain of the martial airs of England. Daniel Webster.
Happy Britannia! where the Queen of Arts,
Inspiring vigour, Liberty abroad
Walks, unconfined, even to thy furthest cots,
And scatters plenty with unsparing hand.
Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime;
Thy streams unfailing in the summer's drought;
Unmatched thy guardian oaks; thy valleys float
With golden waves; and on thy mountains flocks
Bleat numberless; while, roving round their sides,
Bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves.
Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unequalled
Against the mower's scythe. On every hand
Thy villas shine. Thy country teems with wealth;
And property assures it to the swain,
Pleased and unwearied in his guarded toil.
Full are thy cities with the sons of art;
And trade and joy, in every busy street,
Mingling are heard: even Drudgery himself,
As at the car he sweats, or dusty hews
The palace stone, looks gay. Thy crowded ports,
Where rising masts an endless prospect yield,
With labour burn, and echo to the shouts
Of hurried sailor, as he hearty waves
His last adieu, and, loosening every sheet,
Resigns the spreading vessel to the wind.
Bold, firm, and graceful are thy generous youth,
By hardships sinewed, and by danger fired,
Scattering the nations where they go; and first
Or on the listed plain, or stormy seas.
Mild are thy glories, too, as o'er the plans
Of thriving peace thy thoughtful sires preside;
In genius and substantial learning high;
For every virtue, every worth, renowned;
Sincere, plain-hearted, hospitable, kind;
Yet, like the mustering thunder, when provoked,
The dread of tyrants, and the sole resource
Of those that under grim oppression groan.
Thy Sons of Glory many! Alfred thine,
In whom the splendour of heroic war,
And more heroic peace, when governed well,
Combine; whose hallowed name the Virtues saint,
And his own Muses love; the best of kings!
With him thy Edwards and thy Henrys shine,-
Names dear to Fame; the first who deep impressed
On haughty Gaul the terror of thy arms,
That awes her genius still. In Statesmen thou,
And Patriots, fertile. Thine a steady More,
Who, with a generous though mistaken zeal,
Withstood a brutal tyrant's useful rage;
Like Cato firm, like Aristides just,
Like rigid Cincinnatus nobly poor,-
A dauntless soul erect, who smiled on death.
Frugal and wise, a Walsingham is thine;
A Drake, who made thee mistress of the deep,
And bore thy name in thunder round the world.
Then flamed thy spirit high; but who can speak
The numerous worthies of the Maiden Reign?
In Raleigh mark their ev'ry glory mixed;
Raleigh, the scourge of Spain! whose breast with all
The sage, the patriot, and the hero burned;
Nor sunk his vigour, when a coward-reign
The warrior fettered, and at last resigned,
To glut the vengeance of a vanquished foe.
Then, active still and unrestrained, his mind
Explored the vast extent of ages past,
And with his prison-hours enriched the world;
Yet found no times, in all the long research,
So glorious, or so base, as those he proved,
In which he conquered, and in which he bled.
Nor can the Muse the gallant Sidney pass,
The plume of war! with early laurels crowned,
The lover's myrtle and the poet's bay.
A Hampden too is thine, illustrious land!
Wise, strenuous, firm, of unsubmitting soul.
Bring every sweetest flower, and let me strew
The grave where Russell lies; whose tempered blood,
With calmest cheerfulness for thee resigned,
Stained the sad annals of a giddy reign,
Aiming at lawless power, though meanly sunk
In loose, inglorious luxury. With him
His friend, the British Cassius,* fearless bled;
Of high determined spirit, roughly brave,
By ancient learning to the enlightened love
Of ancient freedom warmed. Fair thy renown
In awful Sages and in noble Bards;
Soon as the light of dawning Science spread
Her orient ray, and waked the Muses' song.
Thine is a Bacon: him for studious shade
Kind Nature formed, deep, comprehensive, clear,
Exact, and elegant,-in one rich soul,
Plato, the Stagyrite, and Tully joined.
The great deliverer he! who, from the gloom
Of cloistered monks and jargon-teaching schools,
Led forth the true Philosophy, there long
Held in the magic chain of words and forms,
And definitions void: he led her forth,
Daughter of Heaven! that slow-ascending still,
Investigating sure the chain of things,
With radiant finger points to Heaven again.
Why need I name thy Boyle, whose pious search, Amid the dark recesses of His works,
The great Creator sought? And why thy Locke,
Who made the whole internal world his own?
Let Newton, pure intelligence ! whom God
To mortals lent to trace His boundless works
From laws sublimely simple, speak thy fame
In all philosophy. For lofty sense,
Creative fancy, and inspection keen
Through the deep windings of the human heart,
Is not wild Shakspere thine and Nature's boast?
Is not each great, each amiable Muse
Of classic ages, in thy Milton met ?—
A genius universal as his theme-
Astonishing as chaos-as the bloom
Of blowing Eden fair-as heaven sublime.
Nor shall my verse that elder bard forget,
The gentle Spenser, Fancy's pleasing son;
Who, like a copious river, poured his song
O'er all the mazes of enchanted ground:
Nor thee, his ancient master, laughing sage,
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