Thou canst not?-and a king!-his dust be mountains on thy head!'

He loosed the steed,-his slack hand fell-upon the silent face

He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place

His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.

CLARENCE'S DREAM.-Shakspeare.

CLARENCE AND BRAKENBURY.

Brak. WHY looks your grace so heavily to-day?
Clar. O, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,
That as I am a Christian, faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 't were 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 me.
Clar. Methought that I had broken from the tower,
And was embarked to cross to Burgundy,-

And in my company my brother Glo'ster;

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 befallen us. As we passed along

Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Glo'ster stumbled, and, in falling,
Struck me (that sought to stay him) overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.

Oh! Heaven! methought what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
I thought 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;
Some lay in dead men's sculls; and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,
As 't were 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 the 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 find 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. No, no; my dream was lengthened after life;
O then began the tempest of 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 howled 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. I pray thee, Brakenbury, stay by me: My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

SOLILOQUY OF WALLENSTEIN.

Translated from the German of Schiller.

THERE's no return! My innocence is gone!
Myself have reared the wall by mine own works,
That towers behind insuperably high,
And bars return forever. Had I been

The traitor I am deemed, I should have smoothed
My tell-tale features to a lying smile—

I should have stilled the throbs of indignation,
And stifled my complaints; but, in the pride
And fearlessness of firm, though tried allegiance-
Knowing my heart, though murmuring, nurtured not
Evil or base design-I laid it bare,

And gave my feelings vent. Now-that the line
Is fatally, irrevocably past-

Each little word or look, each threat by wrong
Provoked, each bold out-break of thought or feeling,
Which very truth, and conscious innocence
Did prompt all, all rise up against me-all
Must seem the links of some dark, grasping scheme
By years of treacherous ambition wrought:-
And from the tongues of mine own countrymen,-
Tongues, that were wont to bless and honour me—
Curses, both loud and deep, peal on mine ear;
Before which, I must needs be dumb.
Ah! wo to him, that tramples, in his course,
The loved and honoured heirlooms of his fathers!
There is a consecrating power in time;

And what is gray with years, to man is godlike.
With ancient and anointed majesty

I've striven. I've wrenched the bonds strong custom wreathes
About the hearts of men-and in their hearts

I've reared a foe, that ever fights against me.

Thy Country's love is lost-and that-the force
Which called thee Lord, enflamed thy pride, seduced
Thy fancy, blinded reason--till, by the aid
Of treacherous confidants, and watchful foes,
Thou 'rt come to this,-thine army, Wallenstein!-
Deserted thee, when thou deserted'st duty.

Thy Prince-Prince!-Am I not a rebel, traitor?—
Thy friend-Gone, gone!-Wretch, died he not for thee?

Dug not thy guilt his early grave?-Alas!
The flower hath faded from my way of life,
And now I tread a cold and hueless track.
Methinks I stand alone. Now, soul,
Put forth thy might! As thou wert glorious
In good, be dread in evil! Let the Archangel
Make no ignoble fiend! Still lives, untamed
Within my veins, the spirit of my youth,
Still urging onward o'er the waves of life;-
Still is my Goddess, Hope. Whate'er henceforth
My hands may master, I may proudly say,
Fortune, I owe thee nought! all she e'er gave
She hath reta'en. What can he owe, or whom,
Whose all is in himself? Oh 't is a grand,
Inspiring thought--all obligations cancelled,
All fetters broke-to feel on equal terms
With fate!-to feel each onward step a triumph
Unmixed, of will, of mind-the God within!
Yet though no longer debtor-I will not
Prove an ungrateful favourite-O! no—
Fortune, I blame thee not. Thou hast ta'en thine own-
Who calls thee false? To me thou hast been true.

High o'er the vulgar paths of men-high up

The steps of life, thy godlike arm of love
Hath borne me on. And yet again-though sunk,
To the dim eye of common men, full low—
Yet, yet again, on this my fortune's ebb,
A spring tide flood shall follow!

THE HIGHLANDER TO HIS SON.-Scott.

KENNETH, said the old outlaw, hear the last words of the sire of thy father. A Saxon soldier, and Allan of the Redhand, left this camp within these few hours, to travel to the country of Caber-foe. Pursue them as the blood-hound pursues the hurt deer-swim the lake-climb the mountain -thread the forest-tarry not until you join them.

They will ask thee news from the camp-say to them that Annot Lyle of the Harp is discovered to be the daughter of Duncan of Ardenvohr; that the thane of Menteith is

to wed her before the priest; and that you are sent to bid guests to the bridal. Tarry not their answer, but vanish like the lightning when the black cloud swallows it. And now depart, beloved son of my best beloved! I shall never more see thy face, nor hear the light sound of thy footstepyet tarry an instant, and hear my last charge-remember the fate of our race, and quit not the ancient manners of the Children of the Mist.

We are now a straggling handful, driven from every vale by the sword of every clan, who rule in the possessions where their forefathers hewed the wood, and drew the water to ours. But in the thicket of the wilderness, and in the mist of the mountain, Kenneth, son of Erocht, keep thou unsoiled the freedom which I leave thee as a birthright. Barter it not, neither for the rich garment, nor for the stone roof, nor for the covered board, nor the couch of down-on the rock or in the valley, in abundance or in famine-in leafy summer or in the days of the iron winter-Son of the Mist! be as free thy forefathers.

Own no lord-receive no law-take no hire-give no stipend-build no hut-enclose no pasture-sow no grain; -let the deer of the mountain be thy flocks and herds—if these fail thee, prey upon the goods of our oppressors-of the Saxons and of the Gael who are Saxons in their souls, valuing herds and flocks more than honour and freedom. Well for us that they do so-it affords the broader scope for our revenge. Remember those who have done kindness to our race, and pay their services with thy blood, should the hour require it. If a Mac Ian shall come to thee with the head of the king's son in his hand, shelter him, though the avenging army of the father were behind him; for in Glencoe and Ardnamurchan, we have dwelt in peace in the years that have gone by.

The sons of Diarmid-the race of Darnlinvarach-the riders of Menteith-my curse on thy head, Child of the Mist, if thou spare one of those names, when the time shall offer for cutting them off! and it will come anon, for their own swords shall devour each other, and those who are scattered shall fly to the Mist, and perish by its children. Once more begone-shake the dust from thy feet against the habitations of men, whether banded together for peace or for war-Farewell, beloved! and mayst thou die like thy forefathers, ere infirmity, disease, or age shall break thy spirit-begone, begone!-live free-requite kindnessavenge the injuries of thy race.