-
Articles/Ads
Article ON SHAKSPEARE. Page 1 of 2 →
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
On Shakspeare.
ON SHAKSPEARE .
O SOVEREIGN master , who with lonely stat * Dost reign as in some isle ' s enchanted land , On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait , . While scenes of fairies rise at thy command ! On thy wild shores forgetful could I lie , And list till earth dissolv'd to thy sweet minstrelsy . Call'd by thy magic from the hoary deep ,
Aerial forms should in bright troops ascend , And then a wond ' rous mask before me sweep ; While sounds , that the earth own'd not , seem'd to blend Their stealing melodies , that when the strain Ceas'd I should weep , and would so dream again ! The charm is wound : I see an aged form , In white robeson the winding sea-shore stand ;
, O ' er the careering surge he waves his wand ; Upon the black rock bursts the bidden storm . Now from bright op ' ning clouds I hear a lay , Come to these yellow sands , fair stranger * , come away . Saw ye pass by the weird sisters pale f ? Mark'd ye the low ' ring castle on the heath ? Hark I hark ! is the deed done ? the deed of death ?
The deed is done : —hail , king of Scotland , hail ! I see no more;— to many a fearful sound Tlie bloody cauldron sijiks , and ' all is dark around . Pity ! touch the trembling strings , A maid , a beauteous maniac , wildly sings , They laid him in the ground so cold J , Upon his breast the earth was thrown ;
High is heap'd the grassy mould , Oh 1 he is dead and gone . The winds of the winter blow o ' er his cold breast , But pleasant shall be his rest . The song is ceas'd ; ah 1 who , pale shade ! art thou , Sad raving to the rude tempestuous night ? Sure thou hast had much wrong , so stern thy brow , So piteous thou dost tear thy tresses white ; So wildly thou dost cry , " Blow , bitter wind , Ye elements , I call not you unkind || . "
Beneath the shade of nodding branches grey , 'Mid rude romantic woods , and glens forlorn , The merry hunters wear the hours away , Rings the deep forest to the joyous horn . Joyous to all but him § who with sad look ' Hangs idly musing by the brawling brook . But mark the merry elves of fairy land * J I In the cold moon ' s gleamy glance , They with shadowy morrice dance ; Soft music dies along the desert sand ;
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
On Shakspeare.
ON SHAKSPEARE .
O SOVEREIGN master , who with lonely stat * Dost reign as in some isle ' s enchanted land , On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait , . While scenes of fairies rise at thy command ! On thy wild shores forgetful could I lie , And list till earth dissolv'd to thy sweet minstrelsy . Call'd by thy magic from the hoary deep ,
Aerial forms should in bright troops ascend , And then a wond ' rous mask before me sweep ; While sounds , that the earth own'd not , seem'd to blend Their stealing melodies , that when the strain Ceas'd I should weep , and would so dream again ! The charm is wound : I see an aged form , In white robeson the winding sea-shore stand ;
, O ' er the careering surge he waves his wand ; Upon the black rock bursts the bidden storm . Now from bright op ' ning clouds I hear a lay , Come to these yellow sands , fair stranger * , come away . Saw ye pass by the weird sisters pale f ? Mark'd ye the low ' ring castle on the heath ? Hark I hark ! is the deed done ? the deed of death ?
The deed is done : —hail , king of Scotland , hail ! I see no more;— to many a fearful sound Tlie bloody cauldron sijiks , and ' all is dark around . Pity ! touch the trembling strings , A maid , a beauteous maniac , wildly sings , They laid him in the ground so cold J , Upon his breast the earth was thrown ;
High is heap'd the grassy mould , Oh 1 he is dead and gone . The winds of the winter blow o ' er his cold breast , But pleasant shall be his rest . The song is ceas'd ; ah 1 who , pale shade ! art thou , Sad raving to the rude tempestuous night ? Sure thou hast had much wrong , so stern thy brow , So piteous thou dost tear thy tresses white ; So wildly thou dost cry , " Blow , bitter wind , Ye elements , I call not you unkind || . "
Beneath the shade of nodding branches grey , 'Mid rude romantic woods , and glens forlorn , The merry hunters wear the hours away , Rings the deep forest to the joyous horn . Joyous to all but him § who with sad look ' Hangs idly musing by the brawling brook . But mark the merry elves of fairy land * J I In the cold moon ' s gleamy glance , They with shadowy morrice dance ; Soft music dies along the desert sand ;