RAVING.— -Dickens.

"Nobody shall go near her." said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. · Keep back! keep back! if you've a life to lose."

"Nonsense, my good man," said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes -"nonsense!"

"I tell you," said the man,- clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor,-- I tell you I won't have her put into the ground! She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry not eat her, she is so worn away."

The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but. producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.

"Ah!" said the man,- bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman;-kneel down, kneel down; kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words. I say, she starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her, and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark-in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her

in the streets, and... they sent me to prison! When I came back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart is dried up, for they starved her to death! I swear it before Heaven that saw it. they starved her!" He twined his hands in his hair, and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor; his eyes fixed, and the foam gushing from his lips.

REBELLION.- Moore.

Rebellion! foul dishonouring word,

Whose wrongful blight so oft has stained
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gained.

How many a spirit, born to bless,

Hath sunk beneath that withering name,-
Whom but a day's, an hour's success,
Had wafted to eternal fame!

As exhalations, when they burst

From the warm earth, if chilled at first,
If checked in soaring from the plain,
Darken to fogs, and sink again;—
But if they once triumphant spread
Their wings above the mountain-head-
Become enthroned in upper air.

And turn to sun-bright glories there!

REGRETFUL PITY.—

Shakespeare.

-

Alas! poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now... how abhorred in my imagination it

is; my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now... to mock your own grinning? Quite chop-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she come; make her laugh... at that.

REJECTING COUNSEL.

Shakespeare.

I pray thee, cease thy counsel,--
Which falls into mine ears as profitless
As water in a sieve; give not me counsel;
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear...

But... such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.
Bring me a father that so loved his child,
Whose joy of her is overwhelmed like mine,
And bid him speak of patience.

Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine,
And let it answer every strain for strain;

As thus for thus, and such a grief for such,

In every lineament, branch, shape, and form...

If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard;

...must

Cry- Sorrow, wag! and hem, when he should groan;
Patch grief with proverbs;. bring him yet to me,
And I of him will gather patience.

But there is no such man; for men

Can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves not feel; but. tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion - which before
Would give preceptial medicine to rage
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread —
Charm ache with air-and agony with words...
No. no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience
To those that wring under the load of sorrow:
But no man's virtue, nor sufficiency,

To be so moral, when he shall endure

The like himself: therefore give me no counsel:
My griefs cry louder than advertisement.

REMEMBERED LOVE.— - Hon. Mrs. Norton.

Oh, while the heart, where her head hath lain

In its hours of joy, in its sighs of pain;

While the hand, which so oft hath been clasped in hers,

In the twilight hour, when nothing stirs,

Beat with the deep full pulse of life;

Can he forget his departed wife!

Many may love him, and he, in truth,

May love, but not with the love of his youth;

Ever around his joy will come

A stealing sigh for that long-loved home;

And her step and her voice will go glidingly by,
In the desolate halls of his memory!

REMONSTRANCE -WITH INDIGNATION. Mrs. Hemans. What! let the foe engird us

that our bands

May rest? Forget that last disastrous day!

Forget it! Rest! Bethink you, noble knights,

Whence we must now draw strength! send down your thoughts
Into the very depths of grief and shame,

And bring back courage thence! To talk of rest!
How do they rest. unburied on their field,
Our brethren, slain by Gaza? Had we time
To give them funeral rites? and ask we now
Time to forget their fall? My father died, . . .
I cannot speak of him!... What! and forget
The infidel's fierce trampling o'er our dead?
Forget his scornful shout? Give battle now,
While the thought lives, as fire lives! There lies strength!
Hold the dark memory fast! Now, now - this hour;
Gather your forces to the western gate!

Let none forget that day! Our field was lost

Our city's strength laid low, one mighty heart.—
Your Chief's.... my father's -- broken! Oh! let none
Forget it! Arm! Way for remorse! Arm! arm!
Free way for vengeance!

REMORSE-FOR COMMITTING MURDER.-Shakespeare.
O. my offence is rank... it smells to heaven;—
It hath the primal eldest curse upon't.-
A brother's murder! Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And like a man to double business bound,--
I stand in pause where I shall first begin...
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy,
But to confront the visage of offence?

And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,--
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,

Or pardon'd, being down? Then I'll look up:
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn?... Forgive me...
. my foul murder?...
That cannot be, since I am still possess'd
Of those effects for which I did the murder-
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon'd, and retain the offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice;—
And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law. But 'tis not so above_
There is no shuffling—there the action lies

In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests?
Try what repentance can:... what can it not?
Yet what can it, when one can not repent?

O wretched state! O bosom, black as death!
O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels!

essay

Make !
Bow, stubborn knees! and heart, with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new born babe,
All may be well!

REMORSE-FOR DRUNKENNESS.

-Shakespeare.

I remember...a mass of things...but nothing distinctly: a quarrel... nothing wherefore. O that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should... with joy, pleasure, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts! I will ask him for my place again... he shall tell me I am... a drunkard. Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and bye a fool, and presently... a beast! O strange! every inordinate cup is unblessed-and the ingredient. . . is a devil!

REMORSELESS HORROR. - Baillie.

Alone... with thee! but thou art nothing now.

'Tis done, 'tis numbered with the things o'erpast;
Would-would it were to come! -

What fated end, what darkly gathering cloud
Will close on all this horror?

O, that dire madness would unloose my thoughts,
And fill my mind with wildest fantasies,.

Dark, restless, terrible! Aught, aught... but this!
How with convulsive life he heaved beneath me,
E'en with the death's wound gored! O horrid, horrid!
Methinks I feel him still. What sound is that?

I heard a smothered groan. It is impossible!...
It moves! It moves! the cloth doth heave and swell.
It moves again! I cannot suffer this,-

Whate'er it be, I will uncover it.

All still beneath.

Nought is there here but fixed and grisly death.
How sternly fixed! Oh! those glazed eyes!

They look upon me still.

Come, madness! come unto me, senseless death!

I cannot suffer this!

REPROACH WITH WANT OF FRIENDSHIP.- Shakespeare.
You have done... that, you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;

For I am arm'd so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you

For certain sums of gold, which you... denied me;
For I can raise no money by vile means;

No, Cassius, I had rather coin my heart,

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash

By any indirection.

I did send

Το you for gold... to pay my legions,

Which you... denied me. Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so?

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous.

To lock such rascal-counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces!

REPROACH, WITH WANT OF MANLINESS.-Shakespeare.

O proper stuff!

This is the very painting of your fears;

This is the... air-drawn dagger, which you said
Led you to Duncan. Oh, these flaws and starts
(Impostors to true fear) would well become

A woman's story, at a winter's fire,
Authoriz❜d by her grandam.
Why do you make such faces?
You look but on a stool.

Shame itself!

When all's done,

REPROACH WITH STUPIDITY AND INCONSTANCY.
That Cæsar comes in triumph!

Wherefore rejoice?-What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome.—
Knew ye not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows. yea, to chimney tops.-
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath his banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave shores?.

And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Be gone!