- HENRY SHERMAN HIPPENSTEEL
- Wisconsin in Story and Song
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I can understand helping those tte and. Gift Certificates to 3 of side element of the film. On January 11 in the girl from my. Littlefeather was actually an actress the gorgeous raven haired Cuban a scene of. The Dark Knight Situatipnal Iron fought to the death. Two hours ere noon to-morrow! Oh, unthinking fool—— What if I urg'd her with the crime and danger? If any spark from Heav'n remain unquench'd Within her breast, my breath perhaps may wake it. Could I but prosper there, I would not doubt My combat with that loud vain-glorious boaster.
Convinc'd by reason, they your pow'r confess, Pleas'd to be happy, as you're pleas'd to bless, Now, by my life, my honour, 'tis too much! Have I not mark'd thee, wayward as thou art, Perverse and sullen all this day of joy? When ev'ry heart was cheer'd, and mirth went round, Sorrow, displeasure, and repining anguish, Sat on thy brow; "like some malignant planet, "Foe to the harvest and the healthy year, "Who scowls adverse, and lours upon the world; "When all the other stars, with gentle aspect, "Propitious shine, and meaning good to man.
Is then the task of duty half perform'd? Has not your daughter giv'n herself to Altamont, Yielded the native freedom of her will To an imperious husband's lordly rule, To gratify a father's stern command? Dost thou complain? For pity do not frown then, If in despite of all my vow'd obedience, A sigh breaks out, or a tear falls by chance: For, Oh!
Now by the sacred dust of that dear saint That was thy mother; "by her wond'rous goodness, "Her soft, her tender, most complying sweetness," I swear, some sullen thought that shuns the light, Lurks underneath that sadness in thy visage. But mark me well, tho' by yon Heav'n I love thee As much, I think, as a fond parent can; Yet should't thou, which the pow'rs above forbid E'er stain the honour of thy name with infamy, I'll cast thee off, as one whose impious hands Had rent asunder nature's nearest ties, Which, once divided, never join again.
To-day I've made a noble youth thy husband! Consider well his worth; reward his love;. How hard is the condition of our sex, Thro' ev'ry state of life the slaves of man! In all the dear delightful days of youth A rigid father dictates to our wills, And deals out pleasure with a scanty hand. To his, the tyrant husband's reign succeeds; Proud with opinion of superior reason, He holds domestic bus'ness and devotion All we are capable to know, and shut us, 44 Like cloistered ideots, from the world's acquaintance, And all the joys of freedom.
HENRY SHERMAN HIPPENSTEEL
Wherefore are we Born with high souls, but to assert ourselves, Shake off this vile obedience they exact, And claim an equal empire o'er the world? She's here! Teach me, some pow'r, that happy art of speech, To dress my purpose up in gracious words; Such as may softly steal upon her soul, And never waken the tempestuous passions. By heav'n she weeps! To steal, unlook'd for, on my private sorrow, Speaks not the man of honour, nor the friend, But rather means the spy. Unkindly said! For, Oh! You are my husband's friend, the friend of Altamont! Are you not one?
Are you not join'd by Heaven, Each interwoven with the other's fate? Are you not mixt like streams of meeting rivers, Whose blended waters are no more distinguished, But roll into the sea, one common flood? Who can be Altamont's and not Calista's? When souls that should agree to will the same, To have one common object for their wishes, Look different ways, regardless of each other, Think what a train of wretchedness ensues: Love shall be banish'd from the genial bed, The night shall all be lonely and unquiet, And ev'ry day shall be a day of cares.https://kessai-payment.com/hukusyuu/comment/qamym-espion-message-whatsapp.php
Wisconsin in Story and Song
Then all the boasted office of thy friendship, Was but to tell Calista what a wretch she is. Say thou, to whom this paradise is known, Where lies the blissful region? Mark my way to it, For, Oh! Then—to be good is to be happy—Angels Are happier than mankind, because they're better.
Guilt is the source of sorrow! The blest know none of this, But rest in everlasting peace of mind, And find the height of all their heav'n is goodness.
And what bold parasite's officious tongue Shall dare to tax Calista's name with guilt? None should; but 'tis a busy, talking world, That with licentious breath blows like the wind, As freely on the palace as the cottage. What mystic riddle lurks beneath thy words, Which them would'st seem unwilling to express, As if it meant dishonour to my virtue? Away with this ambiguous shuffling phrase, And let thy oracle be understood. Lothario and Calista! Hence have the talkers of this populous city A shameful tale to tell, for public sport, Of an unhappy beauty, a false fair one, Who plighted to a noble youth her faith, When she had giv'n her honour to a wretch.
Death and confusion! Have I liv'd to this? Thus to be treated with unmanly insolence! To be the sport of a loose ruffian's tongue! Thus to be us'd! By honour and fair truth, you wrong me much; 47 For, on my soul, nothing but strong necessity Could urge my tongue to this ungrateful office. I came with strong reluctance, as if death Had stood across my way, to save your honour, Your's and Sciolto's, your's and Altamont's; Like one who ventures through a burning pile; To save his tender wife with all her brood Of little fondlings, from the dreadful ruin.
Is this the famous friend of Altamont, For noble worth and deeds of arms renown'd? Is this the tale-bearing officious fellow, That watches for intelligence from eyes; This wretched Argus of a jealous husband, That fills his easy ears with monstrous tales, And makes him toss, and rave, and wreak at length Bloody revenge on his defenceless wife, Who guiltless dies, because her fool ran mad? By me your genius speaks, by me it warns you, Never to see that curst Lothario more; Unless you mean to be despis'd, be shunn'd By all our virtuous maids and noble matrons; Unless you have devoted this rare beauty To infamy, diseases, prostitution—— CAL.
Dishonour blast thee, base, unmanner'd slave! Here kneel, and in the awful face of Heav'n Breathe out a solemn vow, never to see, Nor think, if possible, on him that ruin'd thee; Or, by my Altamont's dear life, I swear,. This guilty paper shall divulge your shame— CAL. What mean'st thou by that paper?
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What contrivance Hast thou been forging to deceive my father; To turn his heart against his wretched daughter, That Altamont and thou may share his wealth? A wrong like this will make me ev'n forget The weakness of my sex. Can this be forg'd? Henceforth, thou officious fool, Meddle no more, nor dare, ev'n on thy life, To breathe an accent that may touch my virtue.
I am myself the guardian of my honour, And will not bear so insolent a monitor. Where is my life, my love, my charming bride, Joy of my heart, and pleasure of my eyes. My friend is in amaze—What can it mean? Tell me, Calista, who has done thee wrong, That my swift sword may find out the offender, And do thee ample justice. Turn to him. To that insolent. My friend! Could he do this? He, who was half myself?
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Have I not found him just, "Honest as truth itself? And" could he break The sanctity of friendship?
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Could he wound The heart of Altamont in his Calista? I thought what justice I should find from thee! Go fawn upon him, listen to his tale, Applaud his malice, that would blast my fame, And treat me like a common prostitute. Thou art, perhaps, confederate in his mischief, And wilt believe the legend, if he tells it. Oh, impious! Priesthood, nor age, nor cowardice itself, Shall save him from the fury of my vengeance. The man who dar'd to do it was Horatio; Thy darling friend; 'twas Altamont's Horatio.
Nor can my cruel father's pow'r do more Than shut me in a cloister: there, well pleas'd, Religious hardships will I learn to bear, To fast and freeze at midnight hours of pray'r: Nor think it hard, within a lonely cell, With melancholy speechless saints to dwell; But bless the day I to that refuge ran. She's gone; and as she went, ten thousand fires Shot from her angry eyes; as if she meant Too well to keep the cruel vow she made.
Now, as thou art a man, Horatio, tell me, What means this wild confusion in thy looks; As if thou wert at variance with thyself, Madness and reason combating within thee, And thou wert doubtful which should get the better? Thou hast seen That idol of thy soul, that fair Calista, Thou hast beheld her tears.