MERCY.

The quality of Mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaver.
Upon this place beneath; it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes;
"Tis mightiest in the mightiest ;-It becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kinge:
But Mercy is above this sceptered sway,

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute of God himself

Shakspeara

Mercy.

ODE TO MERCY.

STROPHE.

BY COLLINS.

O THOU! Who sittest a smiling bride
By Valour's arm'd and awful side,
tentlest of sky-born forms, and best adored:
Who oft, with songs, divine to hear,

Wean'st from his fatal grasp the spear,

And hidest in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword!

Thou who, amidst the deathful field,

By god-like chiefs alone beheld,

Oft with thy bosom bare art found,

Pleading for him, the youth who sinks to ground: See, Mercy, see! with pure and loaded hands, Before thy shrine my country's Genius stands, And decks thy altar still though pierced with many a wound!

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom e'en our joys provoke,
The fiend of Nature, join'd his yoke,

And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey:
Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,
O'ertook him on his blasted road,

And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away
I see recoil his sable steeds,

That bore him swift to savage deeds,
Thy tender melting eyes they own;

O maid! for all thy love to Britain shown,
Where Justice bars her iron tower,

To thee we build a roseate bower,

Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne.

HENRY VI. ON HIS LENITY.

BY SHAKSPEARE.

My meed hath got me fame,

I have not stopp'd my ears to their demands,
Nor posted off their suits with slow delays;
My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds,
My mildness hath allay'd their swelling griefs,
My mercy dried their water-flowing tears:
I have not been desirous of their wealth,
Nor much oppress'd them with great subsidies,
Nor forward to revenge, 'though they much erred.

POETRY OF THE SENTIMENTS.

287

KINGLY CLEMENCY.

BY BYRON.

PLEASE you to hear me, Satraps!

And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt thee
More than the soldier, and would doubt thee all
Wert thou not half a warrior: let us part

In peace-I'll not say pardon-which must be
Earn'd by the guilty: this I'll not pronounce ye,
Although upon this breath of mine depends
Your own; and, deadlier for ye, on my fear.
But fear not-for that I am soft, and fearful—
And so live on. Were I the thing some think me
Your heads would now be dripping the last drops
Of their attainted gore from the high gates
Of this our palace, into the dry dust,

Their only portion of the coveted kingdom
They would be crown'd to reign o'er-let that pass.
As I have said, I will not deem ye guilty,
Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit better men
Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you:
And should I leave your fate to sterner judges,
And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice

Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are, were
Once honest. Ye are free, sirs,

Your swords and persons are at liberty

To use them as ye will-but from this hour
I have no call for either.