I hold the living better than the dead.
My father reigned and died, I live and reign.
As for my people, why should they complain?
Have I not ended all their deadly wars,
Bound up their wounds, and honored their old scars?
They bleed no more,-enough for me and mine.
The blood o' th' grape,—the ripe, the royal wine!
Slaves, fill my cup again!" They filled, and crowned
His brow with roses, but the old man frowned,
"Lycius," he said once more, "the state demands
Something besides the wine-cup in your hands;
Resume your crown and scepter,-be not blind:
Kings live not for themselves, but for mankind."
"Good Philocles," the shamèd prince replied,
His soft eye lighting with a flash of pride,
"Your wisdom has forgotten one small thing―
I am no more your pupil but your king.
Kings are in place of gods; remember, then,
They answer to the gods, and not to men."
"Hear, then, the gods, who speak to-day through me,
The sad but certain words of prophecy:
'Touch not the cup; small sins in kings are great;
Be wise in time, nor further tempt your fate.'"
"Old man! there is no fate, save that which lies
In our own hands, that shapes our destinies;
It is a dream, If I should will and do
A deed of ill, no good could thence ensue;
And willing goodness, shall not goodness be
Sovereign, like ill, to save herself and me?
I laugh at fate." The wise man shook his head:
"Remember what the oracles have said;
'What most he loves, who rules this Cretan land,
Shall perish by the wine-cup in his hand.'
Prophet of ill! no more, or you shall die!
See how my deeds shall give your words the lie,
And baffle fate, and all who hate me-so!"
Sheer through the casement, in the court below,
He dashed the half-drained goblet in disdain,
That scattered as it flew a bloody rain;
His courtiers laughed. But now a woman's shriek
Rose terrible without, and blanched his cheek:
He hurried to the casement in a fright,
And, lo! his eyes were blasted with a sight
Too pitiful to think of-death was there,
And wringing hands, and madness, and despair!
There stood a nurse, and on her bosom lay
A dying child, whose life-blood streamed away,
Reddening its robe like wine! It was his own,
His son, the prince that should have filled the throne
When he was dead, and ruled the Cretan land,—
Slain by the wine-cup from his father's hand!
Horatio, Hamlet, Marcellus, and Bernardo.
Hor. HAIL to your lordship!
I am glad to see you well:
Horatio, or I do forget myself.
Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.
Ham. Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you'
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?—
Marcellus?
Ham. I am very glad to see you. [To BER.] Good even, sir. But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg
Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord.
Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so,
Nor shall you do mine ear that violence,
To make it truster of your own report
Against yourself: I know you are no truant.
But what is your affair in Elsinore?
We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.
Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.
Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;
I think it was to see my mother's wedding.
Hor. Indeed, my lord, it follow'd hard upon.
Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven
Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio!
My father!-methinks I see my father.
Hor. Where, my lord?
In my mind's eye, Horatio.
Hor. I saw him once; he was a goodly king.
Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.
Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.
Ham. Saw? who?
Hor. My lord, the king your father.
Ham.
Season your admiration for a while
With an attent ear, till I may deliver,
Upon the witness of these gentlemen,
This marvel to you.
Ham.
Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen,
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch,
For God's love, let me hear.
In the dead vast and middle of the night,
Been thus encounter'd. A figure like your father,
Armed at point exactly, cap-à-pié,
Appears before them, and with solemn march
Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk'd ̧
By their oppress'd and fear-surprised eyes,
Within his truncheon's length; whilst they, distill'd
Almost to jelly with the act of fear,
Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me
In dreadful secrecy impart they did;
And I with them the third night kept the watch:
Where, as they had deliver'd, both in time,
Form of the thing, each word made true and good,
The apparition comes: I knew your father;
These hands are not more like.
But where was this? Mar. My lord, upon the platform where we watch'd. Ham. Did you speak to it?
But answer made it none: yet once methought
It lifted up its head and did address
Itself to motion, like as it would speak;
But even then the morning cock crew loud,
And at the sound it shrunk in haste away,
And vanish'd from our sight.
Ham.
'Tis very strange.
Hor. As I do live, my honor'd lord, 't is true;
And we did think it writ down in our duty
To let you know of it.
Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.
Hold you the watch to-night?
My lord, from head to foot.
Ham. Then saw you not his face?
Hor. Oh, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up.
Ham. What, look'd he frowningly?
Hor. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
Ham. Pale or red?
Hor. Most constantly.
Ham.
And fix'd his eyes upon you?
I would I had been there.
Hor. It would have much amazed you.
Ham. Very like, very like. Stay'd it long?
Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.
} Longer, longer.
Hor. Not when I saw't.
His beard was grizzled,-no?
Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life,
Perchance 'twill walk again.
Hor.
Ham. If it assume my noble father's person,
I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,
If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight,
Let it be tenable in your silence still;
And whatsoever else shall hap to-night,
Give it an understanding, but no tongue:
I will requite your loves. So, fare you well:
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve,
I'll visit you.
All.
Our duty to your honor.
Ham. Your loves, as mine to you: farewell.
My father's spirit in arms! all is not well.
I doubt some foul play: would the night were come!
Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise,
Tho' all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes. [Exit.
THOUGH many and bright are the stars that appear
In that flag by our country unfurled;
And the stripes that are swelling in majesty there,
Like a rainbow adorning the world,
Their lights are unsullied as those in the sky,
By a deed that our fathers have done;
And they're leagued in as true and as holy a tie,
In their motto of "Many in one."
From the hour when those patriots fearlessly flung
That banner of starlight abroad,
Ever true to themselves, to that motto they clung,
As they clung to the promise of God:
By the bayonet traced at the midnight of war,
On the fields where our glory was won;
Oh! perish the heart or the hand that would mar
Our motto of "Many in one.”
'Mid the smoke of the contest-the cannon's deep roarHow oft hath it gathered renown!
While those stars were reflected in rivers of gore.
When the cross and the lion went down;
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