"Bring me this man," the caliph cried. The man Was brought was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords!" cried he; "From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me;
From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears,
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
Restored me-loved me-put me on a par
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?'
Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate,
Might smile upon another half as great.
He said, "Let worth grow frenzied, if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go and since gifts thus move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit."
"Gifts!" cried the friend. He took; and holding it High towards the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar!"
BRAKENBURY. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?
CLARENCE. O, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days;
So full of dismal terror was the time.
BRAK. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you, tell
CLAR. Methought, that I had broken from the Tower, And was embarked to cross to Burgundy;
And, in my company, my brother Gloster;
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches; thence we looked toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster
That had befall'n us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought, that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling,
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
O Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methought, I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men, that fishes gnawed upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scattered in the bottom of the sea.
Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,
That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.
BRAK. Had you such leisure in the time of death
To gaze upon
these secrets of the deep?
CLAR. Methought, I had; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To seek the empty, vast, and wandering air;
But smothered it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.
BRAK. Awaked you not with this sore agony? CLAR. O, no, my dream was lengthened after life;
O, then began the tempest to my soul!
I passed, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferryman, which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick,
Who cried aloud,-What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?
And so he vanished. Then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud,-
Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,
That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury:-
Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments!—
With that, methought a legion of foul fiends
Environed me, and howlèd in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
I trembling waked, and for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell;
Such terrible impression made my dream.
BRAK. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.
CLAR. O, Brakenbury, I have done these things,That now give evidence against my soul,
For Edward's sake; and, see, how he requites me !
I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.
BRAK. I will, my lord.-
Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honor for an inward toil;
And, for unfelt imaginations,
They often feel a world of restless cares;
So that, between their titles, and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.
KING CLAUDIUS' SOLILOQUY.
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't,
A brother's murder!-Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will;
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens,
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy,
But to confront the visage of offence?
And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,—
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall,
Or pardoned, being down? Then I'll look up;
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder!—
That cannot be; since I am still possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardoned, and retain the offence?
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