Ham. Then saw you not his face?

Hor. O, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up. Ham. What, look'd he frowningly?

Hor. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. Ham. Pale, or red?

Hor. Nay, very pale.

Ham.

And fix'd his eyes upon you?

Hor. Most constantly.

Нат.

I would I had been there.

Hor. It would have much amaz'd you.

Ham. Very like, very like. Stay'd it long? Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.

Mar.

Ber.

Longer, longer.

Hor. Not when I saw 't.

Ham.

His beard was grizzled? no?

Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life, A sable silver'd.

Ham.

I'll watch to-night;

I warrant it will.

Perchance 't will walk again.

Hor.

Ham. If it assume my noble father's person,
I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,
If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight,
Let it be tenable in your silence still;
;
And whatsoever else shall hap to-night,
Give it an understanding, but no tongue :
I will requite your loves. So, fare you well;
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve,
I'll visit you.

All.

Our duty to your honor.

Ham. Your loves, as mine to you; farewell.— [HORATIO, MARCELLUS, and BERNARDO go out.] My father's spirit in arms! all is not well;

I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul; foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.

With. fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch.
She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work work - work

Till the brain begins to swim;

Work-work — work

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

And sew them on in a dream!

"O, Men, with Sisters dear!

O, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch-stitch — stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

"But why do I talk of Death?

That Phantom of grisly bone;
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;

O, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

A crust of bread-and rags.

That shattered roof-and this naked floorA table-a broken chair

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there!

"Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime,
Work-work-work-

As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work,

In the dull December light,

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright —
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling

As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope
But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

dol' or ous, sad; dismal. flags, slackens; halts. ply' ing, using steadily.

res' pite, pause; interval of rest.

gus' set, a triangular piece of cloth inserted in a garment to strengthen or enlarge some part.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

WILLIAM M. THACKERAY.

(From "The English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century.")

A wild youth, wayward, but full of tenderness and affection, quits the country village, where his boyhood has been passed in happy musing, in idle shelter, in fond longing to see the great world out of doors, and achieve name and fortune: and after years of dire struggle, and neglect and poverty, his heart turning back as fondly to his native place as it had longed eagerly for a change when sheltered there, he writes a book and a poem, full of the recollections and feelings of home: he paints the friends and scenes of his youth, and peoples Auburn and Wakefield with remembrances of Lissoy. Wander he must, but he carries away a homerelic with him, and dies with it on his breast. His nature is truant; in repose it longs for change: as on the journey it looks back for friends and quiet. He passes to-day in building an air-castle for to-morrow, or in writing yesterday's elegy; and he would fly away this hour, but that a cage and necessity keep him.

What is the charm of his verse, of his style, and humor? His sweet regrets, his delicate compassion, his soft smile, his tremulous sympathy, the weakness which he owns? Your love for him is half pity. You come hot and tired from the day's battle, and this sweet minstrel sings to you. Who could harm the kind vagrant harper? Whom did he ever hurt? He carries no weapon, save the harp on which he plays to you; and with which he