Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.—

[Enter MUSICIANS.

Come ho, and wake Diana with a hymn;

With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, And draw her home with music.

JESSICA. I'm never merry when I hear sweet

music.

[MUSIC.

LOP. The reason is, your spirits are attentive : For do but note a wild and wanton herd,

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud,

Which is the hot condition of their blood ;
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,
By the sweet power of music: therefore, the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and
floods;

Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,

But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,

And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted.-Mark the music. [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA at a distance.

POR. That light we see is burning in my hall:How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

NER. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.

POR. So doth the greater glory dim the less: A substitute shines brightly as a king,

Until a king be by; and then his state
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook
Into the main of waters.-Music! hark!

NER. It is your music, madam, of the house.
POR. Nothing is good, I see, without respect;
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.
NER. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.
POR. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attended; and, I think,
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.

How many things by season season'd are
To their right praise, and true perfection!-

Advice.

POLONIUS TO HIS SON ON SETTING FORTH ON HIS TRAVELS.

(From "Hamlet," Act I.)

GIVE thy thoughts no tongue,

Nor any unproportioned thought his act,
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in,

Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judg-
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

[ment.

But not express'd in fancy; rich not gaudy;

For the apparel oft proclaims the man ;

And they in France, of the best rank and station,
Are most select and generous, chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be:

For loan oft loses both itself and friend;
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all-to thine own self be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell my blessing season this in thee!

ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL. D.
(Poet Laureate.)

BORN 1774.

DIED 1843.

-0

OTHER WRITINGS:-" Thalaba the Destroyer," an Arabian tale; "Madoc," an epic founded on a Welsh story; "The Curse of Kahama," a tale of Indian superstition; Life of Nelson.

Mary the Maid of the Inn.

WHO is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildly

fix'd eyes

Seem a heart overcharged to express?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress.

No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek;
Nor for raiment nor food doth she care:

Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak

On that wither'd breast, and her weather-worn cheek

Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;

The Traveller remembers who journey'd this way
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight

As she welcomed them in with a smile;

Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life:

But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say That she was too good for his wife.

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,

And fast were the windows and door;

Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,

And smoking in silence with tranquil delight

They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

"'Tis pleasant," cried one," seated by the fireside, To hear the wind whistle without."

"What a night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied,

"Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried Who should wander the ruins about.

"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head;

*KIRKSTALL ABBEY, near Leeds.