CCXXV. MACBETH. ACT V. SCENE V.-Dunsinane. Within the Castle. Enter MACBETH, SEYTON, and Soldiers, with drum and colours. Mach. ANG out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still 'They come our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up : Were they not forced* with those that should be ours, [A cry of women within. What is that noise? Sey. It is the cry of women, my good lord. Macb, I have almost forgot the taste of fears : The time has been, my senses would have cooled To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir [Exit. As life were in't: I have supped full with horrors ; Re-enter SEYTON. Wherefore was that cry? Sey. The queen, my lord, is dead. Macb. She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, To the last syllable of recorded time, * Forced, reinforced. The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Enter a Messenger. Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. Mess. Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do it. Macb. Well, say, sir. Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I looked toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move. Macb. Liar and slave! Mess. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so: Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. Macb. If thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much. I pull in resolution, and begin To doubt the equivocation of the fiend That lies like truth: 'Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane :' and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out! If this which he avouches does appear; There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I 'gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.. Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back. W. Shakespeare. CCXXVI. MEARY ANN'S CHILD. (IN THE DORSET DIALECT.) EARY ANN wer alwone, wi' her beäby in eärms Vor her husband wer out, in the night an' the In his business, a-tweilen1 vor bread. An' she, as the wind in the elems did roar, Did greivy2 vor Robert, all night out o' door. [storms, An' her kinsvo'k, an' neighbours did zay ov her chile, (Under the high elem tree) That a prettier never did babble, or smile Up a top ov a proud mother's knee. An' his mother did toss en,3 an' kiss en, an' call But she vound, in the evenèn, the chile werden1 well, (Under the dark elem tree,) An' she thought she could gi'e all the worold to tell An' she thought o' en last in her prayers at night, But she vound en grow worse in the dead o' the night (Under the dark elem tree,) An' she pressed en ageän her warm bosom so tight, An' there lay, a-neslèn, the poor little bwoy, Till his struggles grew weak, an' his cries died awoy, An' the moon wer a-sheenen down into the pleäce An' his mother could zee that his lips, an' his feäce 1 A-tweilen, a-toiling. Greivy, keep on grieving. En, objective case of he. ▲ Werden, was not. 5 Axan, ashes, old Saxon-English form. An' her tongue wer a-tied, an' her still heart did zwell Till her senses come back, wi the virst tears that vell. Nevermwore can she veel his warm feäce on her breast, (Under the green elem tree,) Vor his eyes be a-shut, an' his hands be at rest, Vor his soul we do know, is to heaven a-vled, CCXXVII. W. Barnes. DEEDS NOT WORDS. RUNE thou thy words, the thoughts control They will condense within thy soul, But he, who lets his feelings run Shrinks when hard service must be done, Faith's meanest deed more favour bears, 7. H. Newman. CCXXVIII. THE FOUNT OF HONOUR. E to my happy hymns of praise So much as when I honour her; For while my songs so various run, Who is to me all womankind: Bright honour when she breathes my name ; (I speak but as I feel and think) Her peer in all the common earth, She raised me to her noble place, C. Patmore. CCXXIX. THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT. HE stream was smooth as glass, we said: "Arise and let's away;" The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay; And spread the sail, and strong the oar, gaily we took our way. When shall the sandy bar be crossed? When shall we find the bay. The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted [rains, plains, The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy |