"The Gods be your terror,
Ye children of men!

They hold the dominion
In hands everlasting,
All free to exert it
As listeth their will.

"Let him fear them doubly
Whome'er they've exalted!
On crags and on cloud-piles
The couches are planted
Around the gold tables.

"Dissension arises;
Then tumble the feasters,
Reviled and dishonored,
In gulfs of deep midnight;
And look ever vainly
In fetters of darkness
For judgment that's just,

"But they remain seated
At feasts never failing
Around the gold tables.
They stride at a footstep
From mountain to mountain;
Through jaws of abysses

Steams towards them the breathing
Of suffocate Titans,

Like offerings of incense,

A light-rising vapor.

"They turn

the proud masters

From whole generations
The eye of their blessing;
Nor will in the children,
The once well-beloved,
Still eloquent features
Of ancestor see."

And was embarked to cross to Burgundy;

And in my company, my brother Gloster:

Who from my cabin, tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England,

And cited up a thousand heavy times,

During the wars of York and Lan

caster

That had befallen us. As we paced along

Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling,

Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,

Into the tumbling billows of the main. O heaven! methought what pain it was to drown!

What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!

What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!

Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;

A thousand men, that fishes gnawed

upon;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scattered in the bottom of the

sea.

Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept

(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,

That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.

Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death

To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?

Clar. Methought I had: and often did I strive

To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood

Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth

To seek the empty, vast, and wandering air;

Art not without ambition; but without

The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,

That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,

And yet wouldst wrongly win; thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, Thus thou must do, if thou have it;

And that which rather thou dost fear to do,

Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither,

That I may pour my spirits in thine ear;

And chastise with the valor of my tongue

All that impedes thee from the golden round,

Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem

To have thee crowned withal.

SHAKSPEARE: Macbeth.

SHAKSPEARE.

BYRON.