THE SHAKESPEARE MYSTERY. (continued 2)

Press on, ye hounds of life, that lurk So close, to seize your harried prey! Ye fiends of Custom, Gold, and Work, I hear your distant bay!

And like the Arab, when he bears To the insulted camel's path His garment, which the camel tears, And straight forgets his wrath;

So, yonder badges of your sway, Life's paltry husks, to you I give: Fall on, and in your blindness say, We hold the fugitive!

But leave to me this brief escape To simple manhood, pure and free,— A child of God, in God's own shape, Between the land and sea!