Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, who with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest—
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood;

Th' applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes.

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlett'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate.

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him from the custom'd hill. Along the heath, and near his favorite tree.

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the churchway path we saw him borneApproach and read (for thou canst read) the lay

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heavens did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear,

He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

THE BOYS*

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalog's spite!
Old Times is a liar! we're twenty to-night!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsy-young jackanapes! show him the door!
"Gray temples at twenty?" Yes! white, if we please;
Where the snowflakes fall thickest there's nothing can
freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of?

Excuse the mistake!

Look close-you will see not a sign of a flake!

We want some new garlands for those we have shed,
And these are white roses in place of the red.

*By permission of Houghton, Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of the works of Oliver Wendell Holmes.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we are old;

That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge'; It's a neat little fiction-of course, it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker," the one on the right; "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend❞—What's his name?—don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look.

Made believe he had written a wonderful book,

And the Royal Society thought it was true!

So they chose him right in—a good joke it was too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him "The Justice," but now he's the "Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith;
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free-
Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

Yes, we're boys—always playing with tongue or with pen;
And I sometimes have asked, shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, the boys!

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

ACT IV, SCENE 1-Venice. A Court of Justice

Enter the DUKE: the MAGNIFICOES; ANTONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO, SALARINO, SALANIO, and others.

Duke. What is Antonio here?

Ant. Ready, so please your Grace.

Duke. I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch

Uncapable of pity, void and empty

From any dram of mercy.

Ant.

I have heard

Your Grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify

His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate,
And that no lawful means can carry me
Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose
My patience to his fury, and am arm'd
To suffer with a quietness of spirit
The very tyranny and rage of his.

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
Salar. He's ready at the door: he comes, my lord.

Enter SHYLOCK.

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face. Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,

That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act; and then 'tis thought

Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange
Than is thy strange-apparent cruelty;

And where thou now exact'st the penalty

Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh-
Thou wilt not only lose this forfeiture,

But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal;