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Hast, by thy frantic sacrilege, drawn on the
Rie. Ay, there's the sting -
Ang. Can worse be said ?
Rie. Add, that my boasted school-craft Was gained from such base toil;-gained with such
Head of this great republic, chief of Rome-
Ang. In an evil hour
Rie. Darest thou Say that?
An evil hour for thee, my Claudia !
Ang. But that I loved her, but that I do love her,
Rie. Go to, Lord Angelo; Thou lov'st her not.—Men taunt not, nor defy The dear one's kindred. A bright atmosphere Of sunlight and of beauty breathes around The bosom's idol !—I have loved !-she loves thee; And therefore thy proud father,-even the shrew, Thy railing mother—in her eyes, are sacred. Lay not thy hand upon thy sword, fair sonKeep that brave for thy comrades. I'll not fight thee. Go and give thanks to yonder simple bride, That her plebeian father mews not up, Safe in the citadel, her noble husband. Thou art dangerous, Colonna. But, for her, Beware!
[Going. Ang. Come back, Rienzi! Thus I throw A brave defiance in thy teeth. (Throws down his glore.)
Rie. Once more,
Ang. Take up the glove!
glove.) For her dear sake—Come to thy bride! home ! home!
Ang. Dost fear me, tribune of the people ?
Do I fear thee ?— Tempt me no more. This once
[Exit. Ang. Now, Ursini, I comeFit partner of thy vengeance !
HER EYES ARE WILD.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, (William Wordsworth, some time poet-laureate, was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, April 7, 1770. He received the rudiments of his education at Hawkshead School, and entered St. John's College, Cambridge, 1787. After taking his degree he made the tour of France and Switzerland, at a time when the French revolution had attained its crisis. His first work, " Descriptive Sketches,” was published in 1793. For a quarter of a century Wordsworth wrote and waited to be acknowledged. He was one of those whose light was thoroughly paled by the glare of Byron; but his time came—a sentimental age that had more compassion for a housebreaker than it had pity for the honest poor, recognised in Wordsworth a congenial, because a harmless, poet. He has many admirers still, but very few readers; he enjoys a sort of halfway-house fame, between the respectably moral and the strictly religious; he is respected for his philosophy and his virtuous tenets, but his works are not used as Cowper's are, as aids to religion. He was not like Robert Montgomery, a mere ranter in rhyme and the pet of a fanatical sect, but a thoughtful writer; consequently his writings will be more enduring, but with the million he will never be popular; he never mixed with them, he passed his time in Westmoreland, among the lakes, in the enjoyment of a moderate competence. He walked about, boated, went to church, and wrote. It has been said of him that he never read Shakspeare. We can well imagine it; he was wrapped up in self, and if ever he quoted a poem it was one of his own; indeed, we are told that he was very fond of quoting his own poems to any one who would listen to them any of those stray visitors who occasionally obtained an introduction to him. One of these has said, "it would be nothing strange in him to leave the knife inserted in the wing of a chicken while he recited a stanza from ‘Yarrow Revisited ;' ” and Walter Savage Landor asserted that, in examining as a grammarian the grammar of Wordsworth, he found in it but one personal pronoun," I.” It is undoubtedly a good thing to believe in oneself, and with Wordsworth poetry had its own reward, sweetened no doubt by the distributorship of stamps in addition to the 3001. a.year that he enjoyed as laureate,
Wordsworth attempted to set up a new theory in regard to poetical composition, viz., that it should be expressed in the ordinary language of familiar conversation; but it was laughed down; indeed, except in a few instances, he was too much of a poet himself not to fall unconsciously into the elegancies of poetical diction.
A large amount of criticism has been written to prove and disprove Wordsworth's claim to be considered a great poet-to have been called by one recognised critic “the greatest poet since Milton,” and by another "no roet at all,” goes to prove how difficult it is to say what true poetry is; and yet, after all, it cannot be a mere matter of taste. For our own part, we cannot help thinking that the admirers of Wordsworth, in forming the great and just estimate they do of him as a philosopher, overlook his want of facility as a constructor of poetry,— with them this is a minor consideration; if this be so, would it not have been better that he had worked out his theories in prose, to which much of his poetry bears so close a resemblance? But we hazard these opinions very reservedly when we find such names as Wilson, Coleridge, Henry Taylor, and Archbishop Trench among his most ardent admirers.
Anyhow, Wordsworth does not deserve the neglect into which his works appear again to be falling. He died 1850.]
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
“ Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
To thee I know, too much I owe;
A fire was once within my brain;
Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
brain ; Thy lips I feel them, baby! they Draw from my heart the pain away. Oh! press me with thy little hand; It loosens something at my chest; About that tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers prest. The breeze I see is in the tree: It comes to cool my babe and me.
Oh! love me, love me, little boy !
Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee