MERCY.

From Shakespeare's Tragedy of the "Merchant of Venice."

Read in moderate time, with feeling and emphatic pauses,

The quality of mercy is not strain'd;

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings:
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute of God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Think of this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us

Should see salvation.

We do pray for mercy;

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

Exercises in Dictation-IV.

At the commencement of the fifteenth century, chimneys in the walls or against the sides of the houses appear to have been a novelty. The houses of the common people consisted of only one floor; the idea of boarding them either at sides or bottom had not then been conceived; the ground on the inside was covered with a few rushes, and amongst these were thrown all the bones, dirt, and filth occasioned by the habitation of the family, which were seldom removed until they became highly offensive.

It is not a little remarkable that Spain, whose people are considered the gravest nation in the world, should have produced the most lively and pleasant of all books. "Don Quixote abounds in original humour and whimsical incidents; and though the object of the satire has long ceased, the work is still admired, and it will be while wit shall have admirers left.

ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

BY WILLIAM COLLINS,

Author of "Oriental Eclogues," some " Odes," of which the following is one, and a few other Poems.

Born December 25, 1720: Died 1756.

unchanged mien...look, bearing, appearance strained...pressed outward to

ma'-gic.... possessing a wonder-un-al'-tered
ful and mysterious power
thronged......came in a crowd
sup-port'-ing.....sustaining,
bearing up

force'-ful...full of power, soul

compelling

the utmost

veer-ing ..changing from one
subject to another
se-ques'-tered .........retired,
secluded

ex-pres'-sive .significant,

emphatic

chords...strings of an instru

thought

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting:
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for Madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amidst the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed; his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air—
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delightful measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail;
Still would her touch the scene prolong;
And from the rocks, the wood, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all the song ;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at ev'ry close:
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose :

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.
And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed,
Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed,

And now it courted Love-now, raging, called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired,

And from her wild, sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul;
And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound.

Through glades and glooms the mingled measures stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,

Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and holy musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulders flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;

The oak-crowned sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leaped up and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,

Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempé vale her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with mirth a gay, fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess, why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ?
As in that loved Athenian bower
You learnt an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared!
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime.
Thy wonders in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording sister's page.

"Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;