A LITTLE LOWER THAN THE ANGELS.

HAMLET.

I HAVE of late (but wherefore I know not) lost all my mirth, foregone all custom of exercises; and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a steril promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you this brave o'erhanging firmament—this majestical roof fretted with golden fire-why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god!

SHAKSPEARE.

ΟΥΔΕΝ ΓΑΡ ΟΥΤΩ ΓΑΥΡΟΝ ΩΣ ΑΝΗΡ ΕΦΥ.

πάλαι ποτ ̓ ἤδη πᾶσαν, οὐκ εἰδὼς ὅ τι, τέρψιν μεθῆκα, γυμνικῶν δ ̓ ἐνόσφισα τριβὴν ξυνήθη· δύσπονον δ ̓ ἄλην μ' ἄγει φροντὶς τοιαύτην ὥστε γενναίως παγὲν τόδε χθονὸς τέχνημα δύσβατος πρέπει κἀνήμερος πρών· κομψὸν ἀέρος τόδ ̓ αὖ, ὁρᾷς, κατασκήνωμα, καὶ τόδ ̓ αἰθέρος τηλαυγὲς ἀγλάϊσμ ̓ ὑπερτεῖνον τύπους τορευμάτων στέγασμα χρυσοδαιδάλων, ὑπερφυὲς θαῦμ ̓ οὐ μὲν οὖν φαντάζεται οὐ τῳ τάδ ̓ ἄλλῳ πλὴν ἀτμῶν ὁμηγύρει μιαρᾷ γ' ἐμοὶ σκοποῦντι λοιμώδει τ' ἄγαν. παπαῖ· τὸ φίτυμ ̓ οἷον· ἄνθρωπον λέγω τό τ ̓ εὐφυὲς γὰρ τῆς λογιστικῆς ὅσον τό τ ̓ εὔπορον τοσῶνδε μηχανημάτων· ὅσον τὸ γαῦρον τοῦ καλοῦ μορφώματος, βάσεώς τε σεμνῆς· οἷα δαίμονος δίκην ἔρδει θ ̓ ὅσ ̓ ἔρδει καὶ νοεῖ θεοῖς ἴσον·

JOHN F. DAVIES.

K

ELOISA TO ABELARD.

RELENTLESS walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains :

Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn ;
Ye grots and caverns, shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep;
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.

All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part,

Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;

Nor prayers, nor fasts, its stubborn pulse restrain, Nor tears, for ages taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,

That well-known name awakens all my woes.

ΑΛΑΣΤΟΝ ΟΔΥΡΟΜΑΙ.

τοίχων ἄτεγκτ ̓ ἄνοικτά τ ̓ ἀμφίβληστρ ̓ ἐν οἷς ἠχοῦσι θρῆνοι πημοναί τ ̓ αὐθαίρετοι, στυφελοί τε πέτραι γονυπετεῖ τετριμμέναι ἕδρα, κατώρυξ δ ̓ αὖτ ̓ ἀκανθίναις ἀκμαῖς πυκνῶς πυκασθεῖσ ̓, ἄντρα τ' ἠδ ̓ ἀνάκτορα τὰ σεμνότιμ', οὗ νυκτιφρουρήτοις λιταῖς τῶν παρθένων φίλοικτα δαιμόνων βρέτη δακρυρροεί ψυχρά γε καίπερ οὖσ ̓ ἐγὼ ὑμῶν δίκην νῦν, κἀξ ἀκινήτου ποδὸς εὔφημος, ἀμνήμων μὲν, οὐ πέτρα δ ̓ ἔφυν. φεῦ· ξὺν θεοῖσι τῶν ἴσων μεθέξεται ἔρως ὅδ ̓, αὐθάδης γὰρ ἀντέχει φύσις, ἣν οὔτε νῆστις οὔθ ̓ ἱκνουμένη θεοὺς ἔχω κατασχεῖν, οὔτ ̓ ἀπ ̓ ὀμμάτων λίβα λείβουσα δαρὸν καὶ μάτην· λύω δ ̓ ὅταν σφραγισμάτων ταρβοῦσα περιβολὰς σέθεν, εὔγνωστον ὄνομα ζωπυρεῖ δύας νέας.

Oh, name for ever sad! for ever dear!

Still breathed in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.

I tremble, too, where'er my own I find,

Some dire misfortune follows close behind.

Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,

Led through a sad variety of woe;

Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom, Lost in a convent's solitary gloom:

There stern religion quench'd the unwilling flame; There died the best of passions, Love and Fame.

POPE.