And still he smil'd, and talked;
And as the soldiers bare dead bodies by,
He call'd them "untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility."
With many holiday and lady terms
He question'd me; among the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds, being galled
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answered neglectingly I know not what;
He should, or he should not: for he made me mad
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentle-woman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds; Heaven save the mar And telling me "the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous salt petre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said;
And I beseech you, let not this report
Come current for an accusation,
Betwixt my love and your high Majesty."
"O then I see queen Mab has been with you,
She is the fairies' midwife; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate stone
On the forefinger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs;
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces of the smallest spider's web;
The collars of the moonshine's watery beams;
Her whip of cricket's bone; the lash of film;
Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm,
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid.
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies' coach makers,
And in this state, she gallops, night by night,
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love:
O'er courtier's knees that dream on court'sies straight:
O'er lawyer's fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies lips, who straight on kisses dream;
Sometimes she gallops o'er a lawyer's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling the parson as he lies asleep;
Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes. Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ears, at which he starts and wakes;
And being thus affrighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again.
ROMEO AND JULIEI,
"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:*
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Muling and puking in the nurse's arms;
And then the whining school-boy with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school: And then, the lover;
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow: Then the soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation-
Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shanks; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in the sound: Last scene of all,
The above brings an occurrence to the author's memory which may not be unacceptable to his readers. Ben Jonson, Shakspeare's contemporary, upon a convivial occasion, put the following question in order to pose him:
"If but stage actors all the world display, Where shall we find spectators for our play?" To which the immortal bard unhesitatingly replied, "Little or much of what we see we do, We are both actors and spectators too."
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion:
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing."
Lochiel! Lochiel, beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight:
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down,
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead:
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.
Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight!
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.
Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,
From his home in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed-for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmanent cast?
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
• The Gaelic appellation of Scotland, more particularly the Highlands.
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.
False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan:
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one!
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock!
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock!
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonnetted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud;
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array.
-Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day!
Though, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
Yet man cannot cover what God would reveal:
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee Culloden's dread echoes shall ring
With the bloodhounds, that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! annointed by heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path!
Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight; Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!
'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores;
But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn,
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn1
Ah no! for a darker departure is near;
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier;
His death-bell is tolling; oh! mercy dispel,
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accursed be the faggots, that blaze at his feet,
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale
-Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale;
For never shall Albin a destiny meet
So black with dishonor-so foul in retreat.
Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore,
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, unattainted by flight or by chains,
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to heaven from the death bed of fame.
Metaphor is that figure which changes one thing into another, or a real subject into a figurative, and ideal one. If judiciously used it imparts beauty and often sublimity. The rule for reading or speaking metaphorical passages, is to give them in the spirit of the subjects whence the passages are taken, and to read the metaphor in a more subdued tone than the subject.
"Here stands the oak, the monarch of the wood."-HOME.
"He is a rock opposed to the rude sea that beats against it." G. COLMAN THE YOUNGER.
"He arose a colossal pillar to perpetuate to future ages
Metaphor and comparison being often confounded with each other, it is proper that the distinction should be pointed out. Metaphor, as has been said, absolutely changes one thing into another; as, for instance, speaking of a courageous man, we say he is a lion; when, by comparison, it would be, he is like a lion.
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