Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength,
And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn. But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length
Into such wail as this!—and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born.
Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the west,
And one of them shot in the east by the sea! Both! both my boys!—If in keeping the feast
You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me!
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O' THE SUN.
FROM "CYMBELINE," ACT IV, SC. 2.
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe, and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
SHAKESPEARE.