III. HAMLET ON SEEING THE SKULL OF YORICK. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him', Horatio'; a fellow of infinite jest', of most excellent fancy`. He hath borne me on his back' a thousand times'; and now', how abhorred my imagination is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed', I know not how oft'. Where be your gibes', now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment`, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one', now, to mock your own grinning"? quite chop-fallen'? Now get you to my lady's chamber', and tell her, let her paint an inch thick`, to this favor she must come'; make her laugh at that`. IV. DESCRIPTION OF A BATTLE. Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew The border slogan rent the sky', A Home! a Gordon! was the cry'; Advanced', forced back',-now low',-now high', The pennon sunk'-and rose'; As bends the bark's mast in the gale', When rent are rigging', shrouds', and sail', It wavered 'mid the foes'. The war, that for a space did fail', Now trebly thundering swelled the gale`, A light on Marmion's visage spread', With dying hand', above his head', He shook the fragment of his blade', And shouted',—“ Victory`! Charge, Chester', charge! On', Stanley', on!”- V. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. For the inflections and emphasis in this selection, let the pupil be guided by his own judgment. A chieftain to the Highlands bound, "Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle "Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. "And fast before her father's men My blood would stain the heather. "His horsemen hard behind us ride; Out spoke the hardy Highland wight It is not for your silver bright, And, by my word! the bonny bird So, though the waves are raging white, By this, the storm grew loud apace, But still, as wilder grew the wind, Their trampling sounded nearer. "Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, The boat has left the stormy land, When, oh! too strong for human hand, And still they rowed, amid the roar Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, For sore dismayed through storm and shade One lovely hand she stretched for aid, "Come back! come back!" he cried, in grief, "Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter! O, my daughter!" 'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild, went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. -Thomas Campbell. |