Rage, madness, despair I—Sound the harp! strike the lyre!
The scenes of thy triumphs are pass'd as a dream;
But still flows in beauty, sweet Avon—thy stream.
Still rises majestic that heaven-pointed spire,
Thy temple and tomb!—Sound the harp! strike the
lyre!”
* The Duke of Marlborough, on being asked in the house of a
titled lady from what history of England he was quoting,
answered, “the only one I have ever read—Shakspere!”
“Gentlemen,” said Uncle Timothy, and his eye glistened and his lip trembled, “the old minstrel must not depart hence without a full purse and a plentiful scrip. But first to bespeak him the best bed that this hostelrie affords, and compound a loving cup to warm his heart as he hath warmed ours. This chimney-corner shall be his harp's resting-place for the night, as perchance it hath been of many long since silent and unstrung.”
The middle-aged gentleman rose to usher in the minstrel; but paused as the harp and voice were again attuned, but to a livelier measure.