Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II

But sweeten'd the joys of the morrow.

She thought of the cot and the rustic gown,
And the hearts that once adored her;
She thought of the parents that bless'd their child,
Ere vice and falsehood sold her.

For Mary was once the pride of the plain,
The happiest fair of the fair:
The flute and the cymbal welcomed her then, —
They were silent unless she was there.

But now there are none to hear her woes,
Or join in her tale of sorrow, —
To wipe from her eye the penitent tear,
Or chase away thoughts of the morrow.

Yes, Mary, there's one whose heart beats for thee yet,
Who thinks of her child far away, —
Who blesses thee still, in the stranger land,
Tho' mouldering fast to decay.

She weeps for thee e'en in the midnight hour,
When Care may have lull'd thee to sleep;
She prays for her once adored, still beloved child, —
She prays, but she turns to weep.

She prays to the Power that rules the winds
That He will ne'er forsake her;
She prays the prayer of a parent's grief,
That the God who gave may take her.

Child of sin! to thy parent speed,
For she will yet receive thee;
Her bosom yet will feel thy pangs,
Her cares will yet relieve thee.

For know that Love can only rest
Where Virtue guards the way;
The hand of Vice may prune the plant, —
Its blossoms soon decay.

THE APPORTIONMENT OF THE WORLD

FROM SCHILLER

"Take the world!" from his throne on high, God cried;
"'Tis my free gift, – a heritage to man!
His attribute for ever. Go! divide;
Apportion it like brothers, if you can!"

Straight at his bidding, forth on either hand
Both old and young to take their portion came:
The farmer seized the produce of the land;
The hunter rush'd upon the forest game;

The merchant from all climes his wares did bring;
The abbot chose the choicest vintages;
On taxes and on customs pounced the king;
And the priest claim'd the tithe of all as his.

Last of the throng, from wandering far and wide,
The poet sought the Lord with haggard air;
For, ah! he wildly gazed on every side,
And saw that nought remain'd for him to share.

"Ah, wo is me! and must I be forgot,
The trustiest of your subjects, I, alone?"
As thus he bitterly deplored his lot
He cast himself before the Almighty's throne.

"If in a world of reverie and rhyme
You ever live," God answer'd, "blame not me.
Where hast thou been? how hast thou pass'd thy time?"
"I was," replied the poet, "nigh to thee;

"My eyes have gloated on thy glory's blaze;
My ears have drunk the music of the spheres:
Forgive! that, dazzled, blinded, by the rays
Of heaven, I have for earth nor eyes nor ears."

"What then remains?" God answered. "All is given;
The world apportion'd, nought is left to give;
But, if thou wilt abide with me in heaven,
Come when thou wilt, – best life for thee to live!"

SHAKSPEARE PAPERS. – No. V

HIS LADIES. – I. LADY MACBETH

"Then gently scan your brother man,
More gently sister woman."

    Burns.

"Je donne mon avis, non comme bon, mais comme mien."

    Montaigne.

The ladies of Shakspeare have of course riveted the attention, and drawn to them the sympathies, of all who have read or seen his plays. The book-trained critic, weighing words and sentences in his closet; the romantic poet, weaving his verses by grove or stream; the polished occupant of the private box; the unwashed brawler of the gallery; the sedate visitant of the pit, are touched each in his several way by the conjugal devotion and melancholy fate of Desdemona, the high-souled principle of Isabella, the enthusiastic love and tragic end of Juliet, the maternal agonies of Constance, the stern energies of Margaret of Anjou, the lofty resignation of Katharine, the wit and romance of Rosalind, frolic of tongue, but deeply feeling at heart; the accomplished coquetries of Cleopatra, redeemed and almost sanctified by her obedient rushing to welcome death at the call ringing in her ears from the grave of her self-slain husband; the untiring affection of Imogen, Ophelia's stricken heart and maddened brain, or the filial constancy of Cordelia. Less deeply marked, but all in their kind beautiful, are the innocence of Miranda, the sweetness of Anne Page, the meek bearing – beneath the obtrusion of undesired honours – of Anne Boleyn, the playful fondness of Jessica; – but I should run through all the catalogue of Shakspeare's plays were I to continue the enumeration. The task is unnecessary, for they dwell in the hearts of all, of every age, and sex, and condition. They nestle in the bosoms of the wise and the simple, the sedentary and the active, the moody and the merry, the learned and the illiterate, the wit of the club, the rustic of the farm, the soldier in camp, the scholar in college; and it affords a remarkable criterion of their general effect, that, even in those foreign countries which, either from imperfect knowledge, defective taste, or national prejudice, set little value on the plays of Shakspeare, – while Hamlet, Richard, Macbeth, King John, Lear, and Falstaff, are unknown or rejected, the names of Desdemona and Juliet are familiar as household words.