The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
No, no, my lord; wish not a man from England !
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout any
host,

That he who hath no stomach to this fight,
May straight depart: his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company!
This day is called the Feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian !
He that outlives this day and sees old age,
Will, yearly on the vigil, feast his neighbours,
And say-To-morrow is Saint Crispian !
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.
Old men forget, yet shall not all forget,

But they'll remember, with advantages,

What feats they did this day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household-words,
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster,-
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the goodman teach his son;
And Crispian's day shall ne'er go by,
From this time to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers!
For he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me,
Shall be my brother-be he e'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;

And, gentlemen in England, now a-bed,

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here; And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispian's day.

SHAKESPEARE.

108. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

THEN marshall'd on the nightly plain,

WE

The glitt'ring host bestud the sky,

One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wand'ring eye.
Hark! hark! To God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem:
But one alone the Saviour speaks;
It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud, the night was dark;
The ocean yawn'd, and rudely blow'd

The wind that toss'd my foundering bark.
Deep horror then my vitals froze;

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;
When suddenly a star arose, —

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,

It bade my dark forebodings cease:

And through the storm and dangers' thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.

M

Now safely moor'd, my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
For ever and for evermore,

The Star!-the Star of Bethlehem!

KIRKE WHITE.

109. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON

YE

COLLEGE.

E distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade*;
And ye that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights, the expanse below,

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among,
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way!

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain !

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from

ye blow

A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

* King Henry VI. founded Eton College.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace;
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthrall?
What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some, on earnest business bent,
Their murmuring labours ply
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry;
Still as they run, they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possess'd;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue;
Wild wit, invention ever new;

And lively cheer, of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,
No care beyond to-day;

Yet see how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black misfortune's baleful train: Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murd'rous band, Ah! tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful anger, pallid fear,

And shame that skulks behind;
Or pining love shall waste their youth,
Or jealousy with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And envy wan, and faded care,
Grim-visaged comfortless despair,
And sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning infamy.

The stings of falsehood those shall try,
And hard unkindness' altered eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen remorse with blood defiled, And moody madness laughing wild, Amidst severest woe.