/-\ iT LO' CAUFORN ANGELES I' ^ CLASSIC SELECTIONS FROM THE BEST AUTHORS. ADAPTED TO THB STUDY OF VOCAL EXPRESSIOIf. S. S. CURRY, Ph. D., DEAN SCHOOL or expression; acting davis professor in elocution, NKWTOr THKOLOaiCAL institution; formerly snow I'ROFESSOB IN ORATOKT, BOSTON UNIVEBaiTY. 'i > -J J J > ^ ^ * J \ i ^ t J J .. < t * ,,, ' « so 1*» 'l I 9 182 9 466SG BOSTON: THE EXPRESSION COMPANY, Pierce Building, Coplet Square. Copyright, 1888, By S. 8. OUUKY. C * « t» « 4 C PREFATORY NOTE. rriHE principal endeavor in making this collection has been to -^ select such extracts as will be best adapted to develop the essential qualities of the voice, to furnish the greatest variety of examples for the illustration of the various steps in vocal { expression, and at the same time to secure selections from the ' greatest number of the best authors, and the most varied fonns of literature. The work is prepared in accordance with numerous requests ; of students, who are teachers in various schools and colleges ; as requested, the selections which have been found in actual teaching during the past twelve years, to be best adapted to de- velop the powers of expression in mind and voice, are here col- lected together for convenience in study and teaching. Among the chief peculiarities of the work will be found the Lnumber of lyrics, the variety of authors, the many forms of ) literature, and the contrast between the simplest and the most difficult and complex selections it contains. The short extracts from page 11 to page 78 have been chosen to illustrate some of the elemental vocal steps in the School of Expression, but no theory is given, because each of the para- graphs serves to illustrate several steps and accomplish different aims as occasion and the needs of the student or class may require. They may also serve to illustrate the steps of any teacher or method. The elemental steps in the work of the school, most commonly illustrated by these paragraphs, are : — I. Attention. II. Spontaneity. III. Freedom of Tone. IV. Fuuo- tion of Imagination. V. Action of the Mind and Breathing. VI. Parity of Tone. VII. Mellowness of Tone. VIII. Openness of Tone. ^ PREFATORY NOTE. IX. Logical Instinct. X. Study of Conversation. XI. Inflection. XII. Subordination. XIII. Support of Tone. XIV. Elasticity of Tone XV. Control of Breath. XVI. Transitions. XVII. Contrast. XVIII. Rhj^hm. XIX. Pause. XX. Attack. XXI. Movement. XXIL Contrasts in Rhythm. XXIII. Melody. XXIV. Progressive Tran- sition. XXV. Contrasts in Melody. XXVI. Range. XXVII., XXVIII. Miscellaneous. XXIX. -XXXII. Resonance of Voice. XXXIII., XXXIV. Tone Color. XXXV. -XXXVII. Purposes in Vocal Expression. These and various other steps illustrated will be thoroughly- explained in the works upon Vocal Expression, Vocal Training, and Methods of Teaching Expression now in preparation. Special acknowledgment is gratefully made to the author, Mr. J. T. Trowbridge, for valuable suggestions and permis- sion to use selections from his works. Acknowledgment is also due Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin «&; Co., for permission to use the selections in their copyright editions of the works of Longfellow, Whittier, Emerson, Bayard Taylor, and Celia Thaxter ; also to Messrs. J. B. Lippincott & Co., for permission to use extracts from the poems of T. B. Read. Special thanks is also returned to Messrs. Macmillan & Co., for the privilege of using extracts from Matthew Arnold and Robert Browning. S. o. C« So»oo» '^F KxpREseioa, BoMtON, MfBi INDEX OF AUTHORS. id&infl, Sarah F., 1805-1848. Nearer, My God, to Thee . • . 342 Addison, Joseph, 1672-1719. Gate on Immortality .... 195 Aldrich, T. B., 1837 . Identity 432 Alexander, Mrs. C. F., 182-. Burial of Moses, The .... 227 Anonymons. Cicely and the Bears .... 352 L'Esperance .... ... 432 Sir Patrick Spens 249 Sweet William's Ghost . . . 3SC Arnold, Matthew, 1822-1888. Church of Brou, The .... 98 Aytoun, William E., 1813-1865. The Island of the Scots ... 311 Bacon, Francis, 1561-1626. Of Studies 242 Beddoes, Thomas L., 1803-1849. The Sailor's Song 340 Bible. The Blind Man — St. John . . 292 The Voices 427 Twenty-fourth Psalm .... 92 Blake, William, 1757-1828. Laughing Song 371 Branch, Mary Belles. The Petrified Kern 81 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 1809-1861. Rhyme of the Duchess May . . 388 Browning, Kobert, 1812-1889. Abt Vogler 444 Among the Rocks 434 Apparitions 442 Confessions 442 Hervd Riel 184 Incident of the French Camp . 303 Browning, Robert. — Continued. Last Ride Together 385 Lost Leader 417 Memorabilia 404 One Way of Love 442 Prelude to Dramatic Idyls . . 328 Prospice 307 Rabbi Ben Ezra 219 Tale, A 443 The Patriot 406 Through the Metidja .... 397 Tray 327 Woman's Last Word .... 429 Youth and Art 127 Brian, Frederike, Chamouni at Sunrise .... 441 Bryant, Wm. Cullen, 1794-1878. Song of Marion's Men . . . 384 Thanatopsis 125 To a Waterfowl 214 Buchanan, Robert, 1841 The Old Politician 358 Bulwer, Edward Geo., 1803-1873. Richelieu's Appeal 213 Bulwer-Lytton (Owen Meredith), 1831-1891. Aux Italiens 418 Burke, Edmund, 1729-1797. Destruction of the Carnatic . . 435 Peroration of Opening Speech against Hastings 112 Peroration of Closing Speech against Hastings .... 144 Burns, Robert, 1759-1796. Afton Water 82 Bruce's Address 107 For a' that, and a' that ... 208 John Anderson, my Jo . . . lil To Mary in Heaven .... 93 Byrom, John, 1691-1763. Three Black Crows, The ... 104 vlii INDEX OF AUTHORS. Byron, lord, 1778-1824. Alpine Scenery . . . Apostrophe to the Ocean Battle of Waterloo, The To Thomas Moore . . 844. 206 341 234 135 218 89 79 117 404 409 133 260 188 368 121 Campbell, Tliomaa, 1777-1 Lord Ullin's Daughter Ye Mariners of England Carlyle, Thomas, 1795-1881 Sincerity in Speech , Victory of Truth . , Gary, Alice, 1820-1871. Pictures of Memory The Ferry of Gallaway Coleridge, Samuel, 1772-1834 Mont Blanc before Sunrise Collins, William, 1721-1756 Brave, The Passions, The .... Colman, George, 1762-1836. Scene from " The Poor Gentle- man " Cornwall, Barry, 1790-1874. Hunter's Soug, The .... Sea, The 8G Curtis, George W., 1824-1894. Patriotism 151 De MiUe. The American Senator in Italy . Demosthenes, 384-322 B. C. On ilie Crown DeQuincey, Thomas, 1785-1859. Murder as a Fine Art .... Derzhaven, 1743-1816. God Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870. Gabriel, the Contented Lock- smith Nicholas Nickleby Leaving the York.'^tmin!r>/ant All the air is full of song, A carolling around and above; From the wood-pigeon's call, so soft and long, To the merriest twitter and marvellous trill Every one sings at his own sweet will, True to the key-note of joyous love. SwKKT bird I thy bower Is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year! 12 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Oh! could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We 'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Attendants on the spring. Logan, Akd what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days ; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays : Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten, Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The little bu"d sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives. Lotceli. w n. HAT ho, my jovial mates ! come on ! we '11 frolic it Like fairies frisking in the merry moonshine ! 8ootu A SONG, oh a song for the merry May ! The cows in the meadow, the laml)s at play, A chorus of birds in the raaple-trce And a world in blossom for you and me. GrvE us, O give us, the man who sings at his work! He will do more In the same time, — he will do it better, — he will persevere longer. One is scarcely sensible of fatigue whilst he marches to music. The very stars are said to make harmony as they revolve in their spheres. Wondrous is the strength of cheerfulness, altogether past calculation its powers of endurance. Effbrts, to be permanently useful, must be uniformly joyous, a spirit all sunshine, graceful from very gladness, beautiful becauss bright. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 18 The wLnd, one morning, sprang up from sleep, Saying, "Now for a frolic! now for a leap! Now for a madcap galloping chase! I '11 make a commotion in every place 1 * Away with weary cares and themes! Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams! Leave free once more the land which teems With wonders and romances! Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, Shalt rightly read the truth which lies Beneath the quaintly-masking guise Of wild and wizard fancies. W.'>UU«r. The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do uU I- can, That there was pleasure there. Wordsworth. You must wake and call me early, call me earlj% mother dear ; To-morrow '11 be the happiest day of all the glad new year ; — Of all the glad new year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; — For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May Tennyson, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. Wordaioortli. Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed smiles Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides: — Come, and trip it as ye go On the light fantastic toel MUton. 14 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. m. "\TEAK the city of Sevilla, years and years ago, "^^ Dwelt a lady In a villa, years and years agoj And her hair was black as night, And her eyes were starry bright; Olives on her brow were blooming; Koses red her lips perfuming; And her step was light and airy As the tripping of a fairy. Ah ! that lady of the villa, — and I loved her so, Near the city of Sevilla, years and years ago. Waller. O FOR a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze And white w?>es heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my lads, The good "ship tight and free; The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. Cunningham, 'Tis the star-spangled banner, oh! long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. Key. I ne'bk will ask ye quarter, and I ne'er will be your slave ; But I '11 swim the sea of slaughter, till I sink beneath its wave ! Patten. 17. "FT ARK, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, * *■ And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With every thing that pretty bin. My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise I SKakttpeare. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. H Thk splendor falls on castle waUs, And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Tennyson. Insects generally must lead a jovial life. Think what it must be to -odge in a lily. Imagine a palace of ivory and pearl, with pillars of silver and capitals of gold, and exhaling such a perfume as never arose from human censer. Fancy again the fun of tucking one's self up for the night in the folds of a rose, rocked to sleep by the gentle sighs of summer air, nothing to do when you awake but to wash yourself in a rtew-drop, and fall to eating your bedclothes. You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes. How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Ingelmo. So when the sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red. Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadoAvs pale Troop to the infernal jail. Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave. Milton. Through this the well-belov5d Brutus stabb'd; And as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Cajsar follow'd It, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no. Shakespeare. I CARE not. Fortune, what you me deny: You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of tlie sky. Through which Aurora shows her brightening face > You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns by living stream at eve. 16 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Up from the meadows rich with (X>m, Clear in the cool September morn, The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand, Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland. TFhittier. T IS the end of all. The gray arch crumbles and totters and tumbles, And silence reigns in the banquet hall. Aldrich. I HEARD the trailing garments of the night Sweep through her marble halls; I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls. Longfellow. The winds all silent are, And Phoebus in his car Ensaffroning sea and air Makes vanish every star: Night like a drunkard reels Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels : The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue; The clouds with oi'ient gold spangle their blue; Here is the pleasant place, And nothing wanting is, save she, alas I Drummond, And o'er the bay, slowly, in all his splendors dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. Only a brave old maple, Shorn of Its scarlet and gold, And traced In the scroll of sunset As a handwriting, black and bold. Hk clasps the crag with hooked hands: Close to the sun in lonely lands. Ringed with tlie azure world, lie stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. Tennyaon. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. It V. NOBODY looks at the clouds with a love that equals mine; 1 1 now them in their beauty, in the morn or the even shine. I know them, and possess them, my castles in the air, My palaces, cathedrals, and hanging gardens fair. Lovely art thou, O peace! and lovely are thy children, and lovely are the prints of thy footsteps in the green valleys. At/unceum. The night is mother of the day, The winter of the spring; And ever upon old decay The greenest mosses cling. Behind the cloud the sunshine lurks. Through showers the sunbeams fall; For God, who loveth all His works, H«\s le^*> His hope with all. JFMttitf, VI. YS glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crowned ; Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale; Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale ; For me your tributary stores combine : Creation's heir, the world, the world is minel See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound 1 Broicninff. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure ; But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure. Wordiwotlh. 15 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. "Joy I jot!" she cried: " mr task is done — The g&tes are passed, and heaven L> won ! " Moon. It ■was a lover and his lass, With a hev and a ho. and a hey-nonino! That o'er the green comneld did pass In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time, "VThen birds do sing hey-ding-a-ding ; Sweet lovers love the spring. Shutispeurt. Come, all ye joUy shepherds, That whistle down the glen! ITl teU ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken : What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? Tis to woo a bonnie lassie When the kve comes hame. Eogg Haiuc ! hark ! to the robin ; its magical call Awakens the flowerets that slept in the dells ; The snow-drop, the primrose, the hyacinth, all, Attune to its summons their sUvery bells. Hush : ting-a-ring-ting. don't you hear how they ring? They are pealing a fairy-like welcome to spring. What matter how the night behave? What matter how the north wind rave? Blow high, blow low; not all thy snow Can quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. Oh. time and change, with hair as gray As was my sire's that winter's day. How strange it seems, with so much g0Q« Of love and life, to still live on! Ah I brother, only I and thou Are left of all that circle now. WhUtitr. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 19 vn. TDACK, clouds away, and welcome day, -*- With night we banish sorrow: Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft, To give my love good-morrow! HeyxDood. She was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament : Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay. To haunt, to startle, and waylay. Words^oorth, Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I '11 sing thee a song in thy praise ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream; Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Bums. Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. Marlotoe, How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot that my infancy knew ; — The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. Woeduortk 20 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Oh, if I only could make you see The clear blue eyes, the teudei* smile. The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace. The woman's soul and the angel's face, That are beaming on me all the while! I need not speak these foolish words; Yet one word tells you all I would say,— She is my mother : you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away. Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie. There simmer first unfold her robes. And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, AU are but ministers of love. And feed his sacred flame. O Winter! Ruler of the inverted year! tliy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks fringed with a beard made white with otlier snows than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, a leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne a sliding car, indebted to no wheels, but urged by storms along its slippery way, — I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, and dreaded as thou art. O BLiTiiK new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice: O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird? Or but a wandering voice? Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! Even yet tliou art to me No bird, but an Invisible tiling, A voice, a mystery. WoTiUtoortk. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 21 vm. THE mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. Byron. O TRUSTED and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea ! Ferguson, Flag of the free heart's hope and home! By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before ns, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? J>rake. Clime of the unforgotten brave, Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave, Shrine of the mighty, can it be That this is all remains of thee? Byron. Hurrah ! hun-ah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war ! Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre ! Macaulay. *' Make way for liberty," he cried, Then ran with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp ; Ten spears he swept within his grasp. "Make way for liberty!" he cried; Their keen points met from side to side- He bowed amongst them like a tree, And thus made way for liberty. Montgomery, 22 cjuASSic selections. The waves were white, and red the mom. In the noisy hour when I was bom; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, The dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the ocean child ! Cornuiali, The coldest gazer's heart grew w&/m, And felt no more its indecision; For every soul which saw that form Grew larger to contain the vision. "Him have I seen," the boy exclaimed; "Yes, him! what needs he to be named? The world has only one broad sun. And Freedom's world but Washington ! " Re«d. Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load ! Let 's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad 1 Ferguson. They fell devoted, but undying; The very gale their names seemed sighing; The waters murmured of their name; The woods were peopled with their fame; The silent pillar, lone and gray. Claimed kindred with their sacred clay. Their spirits wrapped the dusky mountain, Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain. The meanest rill, the mightiest river, EoUed mingling with their fame forever. Despite of every yoke she bears, The land is glory's stUl, and theirs; T is still a watchword to the earth : When man would do a deed of worth. He points to Greece, and turns to tread, So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head; He looks to her, and rushes on Where life is lost, or freedom won. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 23 Hurrah for the sea! the all-glorious sea! Its might is so wondrous, its spirit so free! And its billows beat time to each pulse of my soul, Which, impatient, like them, cannot yield to control. ADn:u, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land — Good Night! O Calkdonia! stern and wild. Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood. Land of my sires ! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to my rugged strand? IX. "T IKE to the falling of a star, -*-^ Or as the flights of eagles are. Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind tliat chafes the flood. Or bubbles which on water stood, — Even such Is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called In and paid to-night: The wind blows out, the bubble dies; The spring entombed lu autumn lies; The dew 's dried up, the star is shot. The flight is past, — and man forgot ! Byron. Scott. Beaumont. It is not work that kills men ; it is worry. Work is healthy ; you can hardly put more upon a man than he can bear. Worry is rust upon the blade. It is not the revolution that destroys the machinery, but the friction. Beeoher. 24 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Bass. Sweet Portia, If you did know to whom I gave the ring, < If you did know for whom I gave the ring, And would conceive for what I gave the ring, And how unwillingly I left the ring, When naught would be accepted but the ring, You would abate the strength of your displeasure. For. If you had known the virtue of the ring, Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, Or your own honor to contain the ring, You would not then have parted with the ring. Merchant of Venice. Ah yes, I wiU say again : The great silent men ! Looking round ou the noisy inanity of the world, words with little meaning, actions with little truth, one loves to reflect on the great Empire of Silence. The noble silent men, scattered here and there, each in his department; silently thinking, silently working; whom no Morning Newspaper makes mention of. They are the salt of the Earth. A country that has none or few of these is in a bad way. Like a forest which had no roots ; which had all turned into leaves and bough!*; which must soon wither and be no forest. Woe for us if we had rothing but what we tan show or speak. Carlyle. FOR boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw? Me, their master, waited for. 1 was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played; Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the nighK Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine tlie sand-rlmined pickerel pond; Mine the walnut slopes beyond; CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 26 Mine, on bending orchard trees. Apples of Hesperides ! Still, as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches, too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! WMttier. But Indeed Conviction, were it never so excellent, is wortliless till it convert itself into Conduct. Nay, properly. Conviction is not possible till then, inasmuch as all speculation is by nature endless, formless, a vortex amid vortices : only by a felt indubitable certainty of Experience does it find any centre to revolve round. Most true is it, that " Doubt of any sort cannot be removed except by Action." Carlyle. X. T3 00KS are the true levellers. They give to all who faithfully use -'-^ them the society, the presence of the best and greatest of our race. Thought is deeper than all speech. Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach What unto themselves was taught. Cranch. It matters very little what immediate spot may have been the birth- place of such a man as Washington. No people can claim, no country can appropriate him. The boon of Providence to the human race, his fame is eternity and his dwelling-plaoe creation. Everett. Once more : speak clearly, if you speak at aU ; Carve every word before you let it fall : Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star, Try over hard to roll the British R ; Do put your accents in the proper spot ; Don't — let me beg you — don't say " How? " for " What? " And when you stick on conversation's burs, Don't strew the pathway with those dreadful ura. Holtnet. 26 CLASSIC SELECTIONS, A XI. RM ! arm ! it is — it is the cannon's opening roar I Byron. Sir, in the most express terms I deny the competency of Parlia- ment to do this act. I warn you do not dare to lay your hand on the constitution. "Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast; "Fire!" — out blazed the rifle-blast. Whittier. " To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! *' they cry ; "Grasp the shield and draw the sword; Lead us to Philippi's lord; Let us conquer him or die ! " Up drawbridge, groom! What, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall! Scott. I WISH for nothing but to breathe in this our island, in common with my feUow-subjects, the air of liberty. I have no ambition unless it be to break your chains and contemplate your glory. I never will be sat- isfied so long as the meanest cottager in Ireland has a link of the British chain clanking to his rags. He may be naked, he shall not be in irons. "Make way for Liberty," he cried: Made way for Liberty, and died I They tell us, sir, that we are weak, — unable to cope with so for- midable an adversai-y. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will It be when we are totally disarmed and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and Inaction? Sliall we acquire the means of eflectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hug- ging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemy shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak. If we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. Htnry. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 27 And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? H£KCe! home, you idle creatures; get you hornet Be gone ! Rim to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch under your testy humor? Julius Ctzsar. AsH.vMKD to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy workshop and dusty labor-fleld ; of thy hard hand scarred with service more honor- able than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which mother Nature has embroidered, 'mid sun and rain, 'mid fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? Dewey. •' Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog ! March on 1 " he said. Wkittier. O HAST thou with jealousy infected The sweetest of affiance I show men dutiful? Why, so didst thou: Seem they grave and learned? Why, so didst thou: Come they of noble family? Why, so didst thou: Seem they religious? "VVhy, so didst thou: Or are they spai-e in diet: Free from gross passion, or of mirth, or anger : Constant in spirit, not swerving with the bloods Such, and so finely bolted, didst thou seem: And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot. To mark the full-fraught man, and best indued. With some suspicion. Benry V 28 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Cas. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Cas. I did not ; he was but a fool that brought m j answer bank. LsTFiRM of purpose, Give me the daggers ! the sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures ; 't is the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, T '11 gild the faces of the grooms withal ; For it must seem their guilt ! Charge ! Chester, charge I On ! Stanley, on I Were the last words of Marmion. Approach, thou craven, crouching slave I Say, is not this Thermopylse? These waters blue that round you lave, O servile ofl'spring of the free — Pronounce what sea, what shore, is this. The gulf, the rock, of Salamis ! These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires WiU add to theirs a name of fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear; And leave his sons a hope, a fame, They too will rather die than shame; For Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son. Though baffled oft, is ever won. Macbeth. Scott. Byron. WiiKRK are we? What city do we inhabit? Under what govern- ment do we live? Here, here, Conscript Fathers, mixed and mingled with us all — in the centre of this most grave and venerable assembly — arc men sitting, quietly plotting against my life, against all your lives, the life of every virtuous senator and citizen. Cioero. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 29 Strikk — till the last armed foe expires; Strike — for your altars aiul your flres ; Strilie — for the green graves of your sires, Grod, and your native land ! ffalleck. The gentleman, sir, has misconceived the spirit and tendency of Northern institutions. He is ignorant of Northern character. He has forgotten the history of his country. Preach insurrection to the Northern laborers ! "Who are the Northern laborers? The history of your country is their history. The renown of your country is their renown. The brightness of their doings is emblazoned on its every page. . . . Where is Concord, and Lexington, and Princeton, and Trenton, and Saratoga, and Bunker Hill, but in the North? And what, sir, has shed an imperisliable renown on the never-dying names of those hallowed spots but the blood, and the struggles, the high dar- ing, and patriotism, and sublime courage of Northern laborers? The whole North is an everlasting monument of the freedom, virtue, intel- ligence, and indomitable independence of Northern laborers. Go, sir, go preach insurrection to men like these ! Naylor. s xn. O, having named the man. Straight to inquire, his curious comrade ran. Byrom. I KNOW we do not mean to submit. "We never shall submit. Webster Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! "With thy turned-up pantaloons. And thy merry whistled tunes; "With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace.* From my heart I give thee joy; I was once a barefoot boy! WMUier 30 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. I DWELL, where I would ever dwell, in the hearts of my people. It la written in j^oiir faces, that I reign not more over you tlian within you. The founda,tiou of my throne is not more power than love. Wtrt. '* God save you, mother ! ** straight he saith ; "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" It Is often said that time is wanted for the duties of religion. The calls of business, the press of occupation, the cares of life, will not suffer me, says one, to give that time to the duties of piety which otlierwise I would gladly bestow. Say you this without a blush? You have no time, then, for the special service of that great Being whose goodness alone has drawn out to its present length your cobweb thread of life, whose care alone has continued you in possession of that un- seen property which you call your time. £uching/iam. rnL •' /~^OME back, come back, Horatius ! " Loud cried the fathers all. ^-^ " Back, Lartius I back, Herminius I Back, ere the ruin fall 1 " Macaulay, •' Forward, the light brigade ! Charge for the guns ! " he said. Tennyson. Ho I strike the flag-staff deep, Sir Knight — ho! scatter flowers, fail maids: Hoi gunners, Are a loud salute — ho! gallants, draw your blades. Macaulay, Ho, Starbuck and Pickney and TenterdenI Run for your sliallops, gather your men. Scatter your boats on the lower bay. Miller Yk crags and peaks, I'm with you once again! I hold to you the hands you first beheld. To sliow tliey still are free. Mcthinks I hear A spirit in your eclioes answer me. And bid your tenant welcome home again! KnowUs. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 8| O SACRED forms, how fair, how proud you look I How high you lift your heads into the sky ! How huge you are, how mighty and how free ! You are the tilings that tower, that shine; whose smile Makes glad — whose frown is terrible ; whose forms, Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear Of awe divine. Knowlen Again to the battle, Achaians ! Our hearts bid the tjrrants defiance; Our land — the first garden of liberty's tree — It has been, and shall yet be, the laud of the free; For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale, dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us. And the sword shall to glory restore us. CatnpbelL XIV. -1— rOLY! holy I holy I Lord God of SabaothI Lord of the Universe! shield us and guide us, Trusting Thee always, through shadow and «uui Thou bast united us, who shall divide us? Keep us, O keep us, the Many in One ! Molme». ROLX, on, thou deep and dark-blue Ocean — roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. £yron< On the heights peals the thunder, and trembles the bridge ; The huntsman bounds on by the dizzying ridge : Undaunted he hies him o'er ice-cover'd wild. Where leaf never budded, nor Spring never smiled; And beneath him an ocean of mist, where his eye No longer the dwellings of man can espy : Through the parting clouds only the earth can be seen. Far down 'neatk the vapor the meadows oi green- SchilUr. 32 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, — Tea, all which it iuherit, shall dissolve. And, like this imsubstantial pageant, faded, — Leave not a rack behind. Tempest Roll on, ye stars ; exult in youthful prime ; Mark with bright curves the printless steps of Time ; Near and more near your beamy cars approach. And lessening orbs on lessening orbs encroach. Flowers of the sky, ye, too, to age must yield, Frail as your silken sisters of the field. Star after star from heaven's high arch shall rush, Suns sink on suns, and systems systems crush. Headlong, extinct, to one dark centre fall. And death, and night, and chaos mingle all ; TiU o'er the wreck, emerging from the storm. Immortal Nature lifts her changeful form. Mounts from her funeral pyre, on wings of flame. And soars and shines, another and the same. Darwin, O YE loud waves I and O ye forests high ! And O ye clouds that far above me soared! Thou rising sun! thou blue rejoicing sky! Yea, everything that is and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be. With what deep Avorship I liave still adored The spirit of divinest liberty! Coleridge. Advance, then, ye future generations ! We would hail yo::, as you rise in your long succession, to fill the places which we now fill, and to taste the blessings of existence where we are passing, and shall soon have passed, our own human duration. We bid you welcome to tliis pleasant laud of the fathers. We bid you welcome to the healthful skies and the verdant fields of New England. We greet your accession to the great inheritance which we liave enjoyed. We welcome you to the blessings of good govenunont and roligious liberty. i CLASSIC SELECTIONS. SB We welcome you to the treasures of science and the delights of learning. "We welcome you to the transcendent sweets of domestic life, to the happiness of kindred, and parents, and children. We welcome you to the immeasurable blessings of rational existence, the immortal hope of Christianity, and the light of everlasting truth- Webster. XV. SLOWLY and sadly we laid him down. From the field of his fame, fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone. But we left him alone In his glory. Wcl/e Blow on! This is the land of Liberty! Knmolea. Poor child! the prayer, begun in faith, Grew to a low, despairing cry Of utter misery: "Let me die! Oh! talvc me from the scornful eyes, And hide me where the cruel speech And mocking finger may not reach!" And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter dearo: The waters laid thee at his doore. Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. Jean Ingelov Could you come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; tis I lay my hand on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. JA-* OraiM. 34 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. XVI. /^ HOW our organ can speak with its many and wonderful ^^ voices ! — Play on the soft lute of love, blow the loud trampet of war, Sing with the high sesquialtro, or, drawing its fuU diapason, Shake all the air with the gi-and storm of its pedals and stops. Great spirits now on earth are sojourning; — He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, "WTao on Helvelh-n's summit, wide awake, Catches his freshness from archangel's wing ; He of the rose, the violet, the spring. Seaia. The one with yawning made reply: •' "WTiat have we seen? — Not much have I! Trees, meadows, mountains, groves and streams, Blue sky and clouds, and sunny gleams." The other, smiling, said the same ; But with face transfigured and eye of flame : •'Trees, meadows, mountains, groves and streams 1 Blue sky and clouds, and sunny gleams." Brooks. "Words are instruments of music : an ignorant man uses them for jargon; but when a master touches them they have unexpected life and soul. Some words sound out like drums ; some breathe memories sweet as flutes ; some call like a clarionet ; some shout a charge like trumpets ; some are sweet as children's talk ; others rich as a mother's answering back. "Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast; " Fire ! " — out blazed the rifle-blast. It Bhiver'd the window, pane and sash. It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf. She lean'd far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal wilL CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 85 " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirr'd To life at that woman's deed and word. ""Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet; All day long that free flag toss'd Over the heads of the marching host. Whitt*^ Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar. "When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line, too, labors, and the words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er the unbending com and skims along the main Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! Through wind and wave, right onward steer I The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear. Thou, too, sail on, Ship of State I Sail on, Union, strong and great I Humanitjs with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fatel Long/ellouf Homeward the swift- winged sea-gull takes its flight; The ebbing tide breaks softly on the sand; The red-sailed boats draw shoreward for the night; The shadows deepen over sea and land: Be still, my soul, thine hour shall also come; Behold, one evening, God shall lead thee home. 36 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. The combat deepens. On, ye brave. Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry! Ah I few shall part where many meetl The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. Campbell O, Mona'8 waters are blue and bright When the sun shines out like a gay young lover; But Mona's waves are dark as night When the face of heaven is clouded over. Hakk! below the gates unbarring! Tramp of men and quick commands I "'Tis my lord come back from hunting,** And the Duchess claps her hands. Slow and tired came the hunters; Stopped in darkness in the court. ♦* Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters ! To the hall I What sport 1 what sport I Slow they entered with their master; In the hall they laid him down. On his coat were leaves and blood-stains, On his brow an angry frown. Articld. Wk charge him with having broken his coronation oath ; and we are told that he kept his marriage vow! We accuse hira of having given up his people to the merciless inflictions of the most hot-headed and hard-hearted of prelates; and the defence is, tliat he took his little son on his knee and kissed him ! We censure him for having violated the articles of the Petition of Right, after having, for good and valu- able consideration, promised to observe them ; and we are informed that he was accustomed to hear praj'ers at six o'clock in the morning! [t is to such considerations as tlicse, together with his Vandyke dress, his handsome face, and his peaked beard, that he owes, we verily be- lieve, most of his popularity with the present generation. Jfacatday, CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 81 Thby are here I They rnsh on ! We are broken I We are gonet Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last! Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies ; — Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower; — but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. TVnnyson. Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung, With tender heart- words trembling on my tongue; But all within look'd desolate and bare; My house had lost its soul, — she was no.t there. Carleton. ToussAiNT was too dangerous to be left at large. So they summoned him to attend a council ; he went, and the moment he entered the room the officers drew their swords and told him he was a prisoner. They put him on shipboard, and weighed anchor for France. As the Island faded from his sight he turned to the captain and said : " You think you have rooted up the tree of liberty, but I am only a branch ; I have planted the tree so deep that all France can never root it up." He was sent to a dungeon twelve feet by twenty, built wholly of stone, with a narrow window, high up on one side, looking out on the snoAvs of Switzerland. In this living tomb the child of the sunny tropic was left to die. Wendell PhilHpi. SiGNiOR Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys and my usances : Still I have borne it with a patient shrug; For Bufferance is the badge of all our tribe. You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog. And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine. And all for use of that which is mine own. Well, then, it now appears, you need my help Go to, then; you come to me, and you say: 38 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. "Shylock, we ■would have moneys." You say so; You that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold; moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say: " Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats? " or Shall I bend lovr, and in a bondman's key, "With 'bated breath and whispering humbleness, Say this : "Fair Sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last; You spurned me such a day; another time You called me dog; and for these courtesies I'll lend you thus much moneys?" Merchant of Venice, Kow his elder son was in the field : and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called to him one of the servants, and enquired what these things might be. And he said unto him, Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound. But he was angry and would not go in ; and his father came out and entreated him. But he answered and said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee, and I never transgressed a commandment of thine : and yet thou never gavcst me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends : but when this thy son came, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou killedst for him the fatted calf. And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me, and all that is mine is thine. But i*; was meet to make merry and be glad : for this thy brother was dea(! and is alive again ; and was lost, and is found. How shall I say? Love comes, my mother says. Like flowers in the niglit — reach me those violets — It is a flame a single look will kindle But not an ocean quench. Postered by dreams, excited by each thought. Love Is a star from heaven, that points the way And leads us to Its home, — a little spot In earth's dry desert, where the soul may rest, — A grain of gold in the dull sand of life. — A foretaate of Elysium. CI.ASSIC SELECTIONS. 89 xvn. A MILLION little diamonds twinkled on the trees ; A million little maidens said : " A jewel, if j-^ou please." But while they held their hands outstretched to catch the diamonds gay, A million little sunbeams came and stole them all away. Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, And tramples the grass with terrified feet; The startled river turns leaden and harsh, You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat. The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. Longfellou). By sunlight or moonlight its splintered gray crest is the one object which unfailingly arrests the eye. From it come all storms of snow and wind, and the forked lightnings play around its head like glory. The thunder becomes its voice. It is one of the noblest of mountains, but in one's imagination it grows to be much more than a mountain. It becomes invested with a personality. In its caverns and abysses one comes to fancy that it generates and chains the strong winds, to let them loose in their fury. " Long's Peak,"— Anon. I WIELD the flail of the lashing hail. And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thimder. Shelley. All In a hot and copper sky the bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, no bigger than the Moon. "Water, water, everywhere, and all the boards did shrink { "Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot : O Christ ! that ever tliis should be I Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs upon the slimy sea. Coleridge. 40 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. xvni, TD-A-CK, clouds, away, and welcome day, -*- With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air, blow soft, mount larks aloft, To give my Love good-morrow ! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I 'II borrow ; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow. Notes from them both I 'U borrow. Seywooa All are but parts of one stupendous whole. Whose body Nature is, and God the soul. That changed through all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame. Warms in the sun, retreshes in the breaze, Glows in the stars and blossoms in the trees. A|PA Now strike the golden lyre again; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! Brealc his bands of sleep asunder. And rouse him like a rattle peal of thunder! When the mists have rolled in splendor From the beauty of the hills. And tlie sunshine, warm and tender, Falls in kisses on the rills. We may read Love's shining letter In the rahibow of the spray; We shall Icnovv each other better When the mists have rolled away. We shall know as we are known, Never more to walk alone. In the dawning of the morning, When the mists have rolled away. CLASSIC SELECTIOlsrS. 41 XIX. THE rippling water, with its drowsy tone, The tall elms, towering in their stately pride.. And — sorrow's type — the willow, sad and lone, Kissing in graceful woe the murmuring tide; The gi-ay church-tower; and dimly seen beyond, The faint hills gilded by the parting sun; All were the same, and seemed with greeting fond To welcome me, as they of old had done. AroNE stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before. And the broad flood behind Macaulay, Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Campbelix These are thy glorious works. Parent of good ; Almighty, thine this univci-sal frame. Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sit'st above these heavens. To us invisible, or dimly seen In these Thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought and power divine. SX. LET me not hear you speak of Mortimer : Stnd me your prisoners by the speediest means. Or you shall hear in such a kind from me As will displease you. — My lord Northumberland, We license your departure with your son : — Send us your prisoners, or you '11 hear of it. Henry JF 42 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. O, THE little birds sang east, And the little birds sang west. Mrt. Browninff, I AM charged with pride and ambition. The charge is true, and I glory in its truth. Who ever achieved anything great in letters, arts, or arms, who was not ambitious ? Caesar was not more ambitious than Cicero. It was but in another way. Let the ambition be a noble one, and who shall blame it? I confess I did once aspire to be queen, not only of Palmyra, but of the East. That I am. I now aspire to remain so. Is it not an honorable ambition? Does it not become a descendant of the Ptolemies and of Cleopatra? Ware, Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossoms that hang on the bough. Her father loved me ; oft invited me ; StiU question'd me the story of my life, From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass'd. I ran it through, even from my boyish days To th' very moment that he bade me tell it : Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field ; Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And portance in my travel's history. OtheOo. Wnx) raged the battle on the plain ; Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; Fell England's arrow-flight like ruin; Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, Wild and disorderly. Scott {Battle of Flodden"). Thk spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky. And spangled heaven, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. Cr.ASSIC SELECTIONS. 48 I DO believe, Indnced by potent circumstances, that You are mine enemy, and malce my challenge: You shall not be my judge; for it is you Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me; Which God's dew quench! Therefore, I say again, I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul Eefuse you for my judge; whom, yet once more, I hold my most malicious foe, and think not At all a friend to truth. Shakttpeurt, XXL THERE was a rustling that seemed like a bustling. Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering. And like fowls in a barnyard, when barley is scattering, Out came the children running : All the little boys and girls With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. Browning, Wide as the world is His command. Vast as eternity His love; Firm as a rock His truth shall stand. When rolling years shall cease to move. 80 light to the croup the fair lady he swung. So light to the saddle before her he sprung. Watt9, ScotU O THOU Eternal One! whose presence bright All space doth occupy, all motion guide; Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight; Thou only God! There Is no God beside. 44 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Away! away! our flres stream bright Along the frozen river, And their arrowy sparkles of brilliant light On the forest branches quiver. Away! away to the rocky glen, Where the deer are wildly bounding 1 And the hills shall echo in gladness again, To the hunter's bugle sounding. "Who hath measured the waters with the hollow of His hand, and regulated the heavens with a span, and taken up the dust of the earth in a third measure, and weighed the mountains with a steelyard, and the hills with balances? Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good. Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And there was mounting in hot haste, The steed, the must'ring squadron, and the clatfring car "Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. And swiftly forming in the ranks of war. Great rats, sraaU rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers. Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins. Pointing tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — Followed the Piper for their lives. Browninff. I SHOULD say sincerity, a deep, great, genuine sincerity, Is the first characteristic of all men In any way heroic. Not the sincerity that calls itself sincere; ah, no! that Is a very poor matter Indeed ; a shal- low, braggart, conscious sincerity; often self-conceit mainly. Th* Great Man's sincerity is of the kind he cannot speak of. Is not con Bclous of. A CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 4A xin. HURRY of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bullc in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a sparlc Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all. And yet, through the gloom and the light. The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, KLndled the land into flame with its heat. From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding-night; There, in that silent room below. The dead lay in his shroud of snow; And in the hush that follow' d the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair: " Forever — never I Never — forever ! " Longfellow. What is time? — the shadow on the dial, —the striking of the clock, — the running of the sand, — day and night, — summer and Winter, — months, years, centuries? These are but arbitrary and out- tvard signs, — the measure of time, not time itself. Time is the life of the «oul. If not this, — then tell me, what is time? Hb stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske River where ford there was none, But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late : For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. Scott So farre, so fast the eygre drave. The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow, seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at our feet! The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee. And all the world was in the sea, inffelo%o 46 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. O MY Maria I Alas ! she married another. They frequently do. I hope she is happy — because I am. Some people are not happy I have noticed that, Browne. Now clear, pure, hard, bright, and one by one, lilie to hailstones. Short words fall from his lips fast as the first of a shower, — Now in twofold column, Spondee, Iamb, and Trochee, Unbroke, firm-set, advance, retreat, trampling along, — Now with a sprightlier springiness, bounding in triplicate syllables, Dance the elastic Dactylics in musical cadences on ; Now, their voluminous coil intertangling like huge anacondas. Roll overwhelmingly onward the sesquipedalian words. Stacjf. XXQL SPEAIt the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trip- pingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many of youi players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Hamlet, There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at its fiood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows, and in miseries : And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures. Clajjg, clang! The massive anvils ring. Clang, clang! A hundred hammers swing. Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky, The mighty blows still multiply. Clang, clang I Say, brothers of the dusky brow. What are your strong arms forging now? Clang, clang! We forge the colter now, — The colter of the kindly plough. Prosper it, Ueavcn, and bless our toll I May its broad furrow still unbind To genial rains, to sun and wind, The most bcni^ant soil! CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 41 The motiiitaiu and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little prig." Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big. But all sorts of things and 'eather Must be taken in together To nmke up a year, And a sphere; And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry: 111 not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track! Talents difler; all is VA^ell and wisely put; If I cannot carxy forests on my back, XJeither can you crack a nut." Leon. Well, niece, I nope to see you one day fitted with a husband* Beat Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a piece of val' iant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marli No, uncle, I '11 none : Adam's sons are my bretliren ; and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred. Leon Daughter, remember what I told you : if the prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer. Beat. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time ; if the prince be too important, tell him there is measure in everything and so dance out the answer. For, hear me. Hero : wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque pace : the first suit Is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fan- tastical ; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes repentance and, with his bad legs, falls into the cinque pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave. Leon. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly. Beat, i have a good eye, uncle : I can see a church by daylighL JUuch Ado About Nothinff. 48 CLASSIC SELE-CTIONS. And whence comes love? A morning's light, It comes without thy call; And how dies love? A spirit bright, Love never dies at all. Tngomar. A GEXTLEMAN friend of mine came to me one day with tears in his eyes. I said, " Why these weeps? " He said he had a mortgage on his farm, and wanted to borrow two hundred dollars. I lent him the money, and he went away. Some time after he returned with more tears. He said he must leave me forever. I ventured to remind him of the two hundred dollars he borrowed. He was much cut up. I thought I would not be hard upon him, so I told him I would throw off one hundred dollars. He brightened, shook my hands and said, " Old friend, I won't allow you to outdo me in liberality. I '11 throw off the other hundred." Browne. XXIV. /^ASSIUS. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. ^-^ Bni. Peace, peace, you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not? Bru. No. Cas. What! Durst not tempt him ? Bru. For your life you durst not. But, my lords, who is the man that, in addition to the disgrace and inischiefs of the war, has dared to authorize and associate to our arms the tomahawk and scalping -knife of the savage? — to call into civilized alliance the wild and inhuman inhabitants of the woods? — to delegate to the merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights, and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our brethren? My lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and punishment. ' T IS the mind that makes the body rich ; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, So honor peereth in the meanest habit. What, is the jay more precious than the lark. Because his feathers are more beautiful? Or is tiic adder bettor tiian the eel. Because his painted skin contents the eye ? ShaktBp^art. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 49 Cas. That you have wrong'd me doth appear In this j You have condeinn'd and notud Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; Wherein my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, were slighted off. Bru. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case. Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice oflence should bear his comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassias, you yourself Are much conderan'd to have an itching palm ; To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. Good name, in man or woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls. Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name, Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed. Shakespeare. Suddenly the notes of the deep laboring organ burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty building! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults and breathe their awful harmony through those caves of death and make the silent sepulchre vocal ! And now they rise in triumphant acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody ; they soar aloft and warble along the roof, and seem to play about those lofty vaults like the pure airs of heavcu. Again the peal- ing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweeping concords I It grows more and more dense and pow- erful, — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls, the ear Is stunned, the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee, it is rising from earth to heaven ; the very soul seems wrapt away and floating upward on tliis swelling tide of harmony. Irotng- 50 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Sru. Remember March, the ides of March remember; Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? "What villain touch'd his body, that did stab, And not for justice ? What, shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. The sun does not shine for a few trees and flowers, but for the wide world's joy. The lonely pine upon the mountain-top waves its sombre boughs, and cries, " Thou art my sun." And the little meadow violet lifts its cup of blue, and whispers with its perfumed breath, " Thou art my sun." And the grain in a thousand fields rustles in the wind, and makes answer, " Thou art my sun." And so God sits efful- gent in Heaven, not for a favored few, but for the universe of life ; and there is no creature so poor or so low that he may not look up with child-like confidence and say, " My Father! Thou art mine." Beecker. XXV. T" ORD, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. Before JU the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed *» the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art Ood. lo, they come, they come ! garlands for every shrine, Strike lyres to greet them home, bring roses, pour ye wine ! Swell, swell the Dorian fiute through the blue triumphal sky, Let the cithron's tone salute the sons of victory ! O THOU that roUest above, round as the shield of ray fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. ft] Absence of occupation is 'not rest; A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed. Cowpmr, pHiui*r Nail to the mast her holy flag. Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale. Botme* * Farewell I" said he, "Minnehaha! Farewell, O my Laugliing Water I All my heart is buried with you. All my thoughts go onward with you! Come not back again to labor, Come not back again to suffer. Where tlie Famine and the Fever Wear the heart and waste the body." Longfeilovb, 0! HOW our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day. We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; Witli all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers. And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Kgraout's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land ; And dark Mayenne was In the midst, a truncheon in his hand : And as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flooc^ And good Coligni's lioar^ hair, all dabbled witli his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To flght for Ills own holy name, and Uenry of Navarre. Macaulay. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. M Fbom the low-roofed cottage ridge, See the chattei'ing swallow spring, Darting through the one-arched bridge. Quick she dips her dappled wing. Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently greets the morning gale; Kidlings now begin to crop Daisies on the dewy dale. From the balmy sweets, uncloyed (Restless till the task be done), Now the busy bee 's employed Sipping dew before the sun. Sweet, O sweet, the warbling throng, On the white emblazoned spray I Nature's universal song Echoes to the rising day. Ounnlngham. O horrible! O horrible 1 most horrible 1 Hamlet. TbEiitfi Is a time In every man's education when he arrives at the con- viction tnat envy is ignorance ; that imitation is suicide ; that he must take himself, for better or for worse, as his portion ; that, though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given him to till. Emenon. ITe sons of Freedom, wake to glory! Hark! hark! what myriads bid ye rise I Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, Behold their tears and hear their cries. I LIVE for those who love me, — For those who know me true; For the heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit, too; For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance, And the good that I can do. Bankt 66 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Deak Mabel, this no more shall be; Who scoffs at 3'ou, must scoff at me. WTimter Now o'er the one half world Nature seems dead ; and "wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep ; now witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings ; and withered murder, Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, "Whose howl 's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, Towards his design Moves like a ghost. — Thou sure and flrm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear The very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. MacbetK Stone walls do not a prison make. Nor iron bars a cage; Minds Innocent and quiet take That for an heritage : If I have freedom in my love. And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above. Enjoy such liberty. Leine». Faintly as tolls the evening chime. Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on the shores look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Sow, Ijrothers, row I the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past. Soldiers ! you are now within a few steps of the enemy's outpost. Our scouts report tliem as slumbering in parties around their watch- fires, and utterly unprepared for our appr'vicli. A swift and noiseless advance around tliat projecting rock, and we arc upon them, — we cap- ture them without the possibility of resistance. One disorderly noise or motion may leave us at the mercy of their advanced guard. Let every man keen the strictest silence, under pain of Instant death ! CLASSIC SELECTIONS. «7 O GLOHious youth, that once was mine I O hifjh ideal ! all in vain Ye enter at this ruined shrine Whence worship ne'er shall rise again; The bat and owl inhabit here, The snake nests in the altar-stone, The sacred vessels moulder near, The image of thy God is gone. Jewell A MIGHTY wind went raging by, — It was a wondrous sight ; — Stout trees bent down their branches high. Dark clouds of dust wheeled through the sky, And naught around me could I spy, But trophies of its might. Said the "Wind to the Moon, " I will blow you out. You stare In the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I 'ra about. I hate to be watched ; I will blow you out ! ' Mac Donald But he who loved her too well to dread, The sweetly, the stately, the beautiful dead, He lit his lamp, and took the key And turned it — alone again — he and she. dmold H. juc ! 't is the bluebird's venturous strain, Hi^h on the old fringed elm at tlie gate, Swtjet voiced, valiant on the swaying bough, alert, elate, DoQging the fitful spits of snow, New England's poet-laureate, Telling us spring has come again. Aldrich I SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan. Before I am well awake. Let me bleed ! oh, let me alone. Since I must not break! ingeioui 68 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Pass on, relentless world! I grieve No more for all that thou hast riven; Pass on, in God's name, — only leave The things thou never yet hast given — A heart at ease, a mind at home, Affections fixed above thy sway, Faith set upon a world to come, And patience through life's little day. Lvnt. Whispered low the dying soldier, press'd her hand, and faintlj smiled : Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied; With her kiss upon his forehead, " Mother! " murmured he, and died Whittier. O BLOWS that smite ! hurts that pierce This shrinking heart of mine ! What are ye but the Master's tools, Forming a work divine? O hope that crambles at my feet! joy that mocks and flics! What are ye but tlie clogs that bind My spirit from the skies ! Sculptor of souls! I lift to thee Encumbered heai-t and hands; Spare not the chisel, set me free, However dear the bands. How blest, if all these seeming ills. Which draw my thoughts to Thee, Should only prove that Thou wilt make An angel out of me! I THOUGHT awhile, then slumber came to me. And tangled all my fancy in her maze, And I was drifting on a raft at sea. The near all ocean, and tlie far all haze; ThroiiLrh the white polished water sharivs did glide, And up in heaven I saw no stars to guide. Jean Ingeloio. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 69 Jog on, jo;? on, the foot-path way And nu'irily hent tlic stile-a; A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a niile-a. irinler'a Tale. O Nancy, wilt thou go with mft, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens liave charms for thee, — The lonely cot and russet gown? No longer drest in silken sheen, No longer decked with jewels rare. Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene Where thou Avert fairest of the fair? Percy. O Time and Change ! with hair as gray As was my sire's that winter day, How strange it seems, with so much gone Of life and love, to still live on! WhitHer. Pray you, tread softly, — that the blind mole may not Hear a foot fall ; we are now near his cell. O MY Kyrat, my steed. Round and slender as a reed, Carry me this peril through! Satin housings shall be thine. Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, O thou soul of Kurroglou. AH thy hoofs like ivory shine. Polished bright; 0, life of mine. Leap, and rescue Kurroglou. Longfellow, Only waiting till the shadows are a little longer grown ; Only waiting till the glimmer of the day's last beam is flown ; Till the night of earth is faded from the heart, once full of day; Till the stars of heaven are breaking through the twilight soft and gray An«r 70 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Victorious men of earth, no more Proclaim how wide your empires are; Though you bind in every shore And your triumphs reach as far As night or day, Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey And mingle with forgotten ashes, when Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. He is coming ! he is coming ! Like a bridegroom from his room Came the hero from his prison to the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, there was lustre in his eye, And he never walked to battle more proudly than to die. There was color in his visage, though the cheeks of aU were wan ; And they marvelled as they saw him pass, that great and godly man ! He mounted up the scaffold, and he turned him to the crowd; But they dared not trust the people, so he might not speak aloud. But he looked upon the heavens, and they were clear and blue, And in the liquid ether the eye of God shone through ; Tet a black and murky battlement lay resting on the hill, ^s though the thunder slept within, — all else was calm and still. xixrv. rr^HY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, -*- When first on them I met my lover ; Thy braes how dreary. Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover ! Logan. Hark ! liow 'mid their revelry They raise the battle-cry! The clang of arras, And war, and victory for me! Away With idle dreams! Why, Avhat to me are women? Yet she — all! slic is not like tliose at home, Clad in tlicir sliaggy skins, sunburned, their bodies Loaded witli clumsy ornaments, liappy in bondage, With base caresses humbly seeking favor Of their base lords. Ingomar. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 71 With a stifled cry of horror, straight she tum'd away her head ; With a sad and bitter feeling look'd she back upon her dead; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain, ind she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. WMttier. Around thee and above, Deep In the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. Thy habitation from eternity. Up the dale and down the bourne, O'er the meadows swift we fly; Now we sing, and now we mourn. Now we whistle, now we sigh. Darley (Summer Wind). He has no children. All my pretty ones? Did you say all? O hell-kite ! all? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop? But, gentle Heaven, Cut short all intermission ; front to front Bring Thou this fiend of Scotland and myself, Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, Heaven forgive him too ! Macbeth. And thus we sat in darkness. Each one busy in his prayers. "We are lost!" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, ** Is n't God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?" neldt. 72 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Flowiers laugh before thee on their beds, And fragrance iu thy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong ; And the most ancient Heavens, througli thee, are fresh and strong Wordsworth. Bru. How ill this taper burns ! Ha ! who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine e}^e3 That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou any tiling? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That makest my blood cold and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou ai't. Gliost. Thy evil spirit, Brutus. Bru. Why comest tliou? Ghost. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippl. Bru. Well; then I shall see thee again ? Ghost. Aye, at Philippi. Bru. Why, I will see thee at Philippl, then. lEzU Ghost. Now I have taken lieart, thou vanishest : 111 spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. Boy, Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake 1 Claudius ! XXXV. NOT only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors Ilej Daily, with souls that cringe and plot. We Sinais climb and know it not. LowtUl. Gent-Kally speaking, an author's style Is a faithful copy of his mind. If you would write a lucid style, let there first be light in your own mind ; and if you would write a grand style, you ought to have a grand character. Wr have not wings, we cannot soar ; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more. The cloudy summits of our time. Long/ellotOt CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 71 Be good, sweet child, and let who will be clever, Do noble things, not dream them all day long, And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand sweet song. KingtUy. Which is the" real hereditary sin of humanity? Do you imagine that I shall say pride, or luxury, or ambition? No! I shall say indo- lence. He who conquers that, can conquer all. Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful. Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, And touch thy instrument a strain or two? I trouble thee too much ; but thou art willing. I should not urge thy duty past thy might: I know, young bloods lack for a time of rest. I will not hold thee long: if I do live, I will be good to thee. juUus Ccesar. The characteristic of genuine heroism Is its persistency. All men have wandering impulses, fits and starts of generosity. But when you have resolved to be great, abide by yourself and do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with the world. Emeraon. The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake Our thirsty souls with rain; The blow most dreaded falls to break From off our limbs a chain ; And wrongs of man to man but make The love of God more plain. As through the shadowy lens of even The eye looks farthest into heaven, On gleams of star and depths of blue The glaring sunsliine never knew. One is sometimes asked by young people to recommend a course of reading. My ad /ice would be that they should confine themselves to the supreme books in whatever literature, or still better, to choose some one great author, and make themselves thoroughly familiar with him. LoioeU, 74 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. Nor less I deem that there are powers Which of themselves our mind impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. On the whole, we make too much of faults; the details of the busi- ness hide the real centre of it. Faults? The greatest of faults, I should say, is to be conscious of none. What are faults, what are the outward details of a life, if the inner secret of it, the remorse, the temp- tations, true, often-baffled, never-ending struggle of it be forgotten? ' It is not in man that walketh to direct his steps.' Of all acts, is not, for a man, repentance the most divine? The deadliest sin, I say, were that same supercilious consciousness of no sin ; — that is death ; the heart so conscious is divorced from sincerity, humility and fact ; is dead ; It is ' pure * as dead, dry sand is pure. Carlyle. rxxTi. /^ O ring the bells, and fire the guns, ^-^ And fling the starry banners out; Shout "Freedom!" till your lisping ones Give back their cradle shout. But here I stand and scoff you ! here, I fling Hatred and full defiance in j^our face! Your consul's merciful: — for tliis all thanks. He dares not touch a hair of Catiline! Our brethren are already in tlic field! Wliy stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? what would tliey have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and glavery? Forbid It, Almighty God. I know not what course others may take, but, as for me, give me liberty, or give me death ! Patrick Htnry. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Tfi Up, up ! tny friend, and quit your books, Or surely you '11 grow double; Up, up! my friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife; Come, hear the woodland linnet; How sweet his music ! on my life. There 's more of wisdom in it. Wordmiorth. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with a joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused. Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of maa: A motion and a spiv it, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Wordswoyih. To sea, to sea ! Our wide- winged bark Shall billowy cleave its sunny way, And with its shadow, fleet and dark, Break the caved Triton's azure day. Like mighty eagle soaring light O'er antelopes on Alpine height. The anchor heaves, the ship swings free. The sails swell full. To sea, to seal Beddoi Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three ; Now who will stand on either haad And keep the bridge with me? Macautav, 76 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. The castlccl crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, "Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strew'd a scene, which I should see With double joy wert thou with me. Rouse, ye Romans ! Rouse, ye slaves ! MUford, And, sir, where American liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives in the strength of its manhood, and full of its original spirit. If discord and disunion shall wound it ; if party strife and blind ambition shall hawk at and tear it ; if folly and madness, if uneasiness under salutary and neces- sary restraints, shall succeed to separate it from that Union by which alone its existence is made sure, — it will stand, in the end, by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked ; it will stretch forth its arm, with whatever of vigor it may retain, over the friends who gather round it ; and It will fall, at last, if fall it must, amidst the proudest monuments of its own glory, on the very spot of its origin ! Webster, xxxvn, "OE noble! and the nobleness that lies •^-^ In other men, sleeping, but never dead. Win rise in majesty to meet thine own. When all thy mercies, O my God, My rising soul surveys, Transported with the view, I 'm lost In wonder, love, and praise. Of old hast Thou laid the foundation of the earth ; and the heavena are the work of Thy hands. They shall perish, but Thou shalt en- dure ; yea, all of them shall wax old like a garment ; as a vesture shalt thou cliange them, and they shall be changed : but thou art the same; and Thy years shall have no end. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 77 Oh, to the living fe^r, Soldiers, be just and true. Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side. Boker. Careless seems the great avenger ; history's pages but record One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word ; Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne, — Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own. Loicell. Dear God and Father of us all, Forgive our faith in cruel lies, — Forgive the blindness that denies! Forgive thy creature wlien he takes. For the all-perfect love Thou art. Some grim creation of his heart. Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be icceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; It droppeth as the gentle rain from lieaven Upon the place beneath; it is twice bless'd; It blesseth him tliat 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 kings : But mercy is above this sceptred sway ; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings : It is an attribute of God himself : And earthly power doth then show likest God's, When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — That in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation ; we do pray for mercy ; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds oi mercy. Merchant of Venioe. 7* CLASSIC SELECTIONS. "Wk see not, know not; all our way Is night — with Thee alone is day: From out the torrent's troubled drift Above the storm our prayers we lift, Thy will be done. WhiiiUb Howe'er it be, it seems to mo 'Tis only noble to be good; Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. Tennyson. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death. Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. The Situation that has not its Duty, its Ideal, was never yet occu- pied by man. Yes here, in this poor, miserable, hampered, despicable Actual, wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is thy Ideal • work it out therefrom; and working, believe, live, be free. Fool! the Ideal is in thyself, the impediment too is in thyself : thy Condition is but the stuff thou art to shape that same Ideal out of : what matters whether such stuff be of this sort or that, so the Form thou give it be heroic, be poetic? O thou that pinest in the imprisonment of the Actual, and criest bitterly to the gods for a kingdom wherein to rule and create, know this of a truth : the thing thou seekest is already with thee, "here or nowhere," couldst thou only see ! CLASSIC SELECTIONS. THE BEOOKLET. rpHE brooklet came from the mountain, -*- As sang the bard of old, Running with feet of silver Over the sands of gold. Far away in the briny ocean There rolled a turbulent wave, Now singing along the sea-beach, Now howling along the cave. And the brooklet has found the billow, Though they flowed so far apart, And has filled with its freshness and sweetness That turbulent, bitter heart. Lonff/ellow, SINOEEITT IN SPEECH. A N exception was early taken against BosweU's Life of -^-^ Johnson, and all similar enterprises ; and has been trans- mitted from critic to critic, and repeated in their several dia- lects ever since : That such jottings-down of careless conversa- tion are an infringement of social privacy ; a crime against our highest Freedom, the Freedom of man's intercourse with man. To this accusation, wlfich we have read and heard oftener than enough, might it not be well for one to offer the flattest contra- diction, and plea of Not at all guilty? Not that conversation is noted down, but that conversation should not deserve not- ing down, is the evil. Doubtless, if conversation be falsely recorded, then it is simply a Lie ; and worthy of being swept, C79) 80 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. with all despatch, to the Father of Lies. But if, on the other hand, conversation can be authentically recorded, and any one is ready for the task, let him by all means proceed with it ; let conversation be kept in remembrance to the latest date pos- sible. Nay, should the consciousness that a man may be among us "taking notes" tend, in any measure, to restrict those floods of idle insincere speech, with which the thought of mankind is well-nigh drowned, — were it other than the most indubitable benefit? He who speaks honestly cares not, need not care, though his words be preserved to remotest time. For him who speaks dishonestly, the fittest of all punishments seems to be this same, which the nature of the case provides. The dishonest speaker, not he only who purposely utters falsehoods, but he who does not purposeh', and with sincere heart, utter Truth, and Truth alone ; who babbles he knows not what, and has clapped no bridle on his tongue, but lets it run racket, ejecting chatter and futility, — is among the most indisputable male- factors omitted or inserted in the Criminal Calendar. To him that will well consider it, idle speaking is precisely the beginning of all HoUowness, Halfness, Infidelity (want of Faith- fulness) ; the genial atmosphere in which rank weeds of every kind attain the mastery over noble fruits iu man's life, and utterly choke them out : one of the most crying maladies of these days, and to be testified against, and in all ways to the utter- most withstood. Wise, of a wisdom far beyond our shallow depth, was that old precept: WntcJi thy tongue; out of it are tlie issues of life ! " Man is properly au incarnated tvord:" the word tliat he speaks is the man himself. Were eyes put into our head, *hat we might see, or only thr . we might fancy, and plausibly ^^re- tenci, we had seen? Was the tongue suspended there, that it might tell truly what we had seen, and make man the soul' brother of man ; cr ouly that it might utter vain sound<:(, iargon THE PETRIFIED FERN. 81 Bonl-confusing, and so divide man, as by enchanted walls of Darkness, from union with man? Thou who wearest that cunning, heaven-made organ, a Tongue, think well of this. Speak not, I passionately entreat thee, till thy thought have silently matured itself, till thou have other than mad and mad-making noises to emit : hold thy tongue (thou hast it a-holding) till some meaning lie behind, to set it wagging. Consider the significance of Silence : it is boundless, never by meditating to be exhausted, unspeakably profitable to thee ! Cease that chaotic hubbub, wherein thy own soul runs to waste, to confused suicidal dislocation and stupor ; out of Silence comes thy strength. -'Speech is silvern, Silence is golden ; Speech is human, Silence is divine." Fool ! thiukest thou that because no Boswell is there with ass-skin and blacklead to note thy jargon, it therefore dies and is harmless? Nothing dies, nothing can die. No idlest word thou speakest but is a seed cast into Time, and grows through all Eternity ! The Recording Angel, consider it well, is no fable, but the truest of truths: the paper tablets thou canst burn ; of the " iron leaf," there is no burning. Truly if we can permit God Almighty to note down our conversation, thinking it good enough for Ilim, — any pool' Boswell need not scruple to work his will of it. T. Carlyl6. THE PETKIFIED TEEN. IN a valley, centuries ago, Gi-ew a little f era leaf, green and slender, Veiuing delicate and fibres tender ; "Waving when tlie wind crept down so low. Rushe? tall, and moss, and grass grow rouud it, Playful sUij^eams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole in by night, and crownod it, But no foot of man e'er trod that way ; Earth was young, and keeping holiday. 82 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Monster fishes swam the silent main, Stately forests waved their giant brancheSj Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches, Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain; Nature revelled in grand mysteries, But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees ; Only grew and waved its wild sweet way, None ever came to note it day by day. Earth one time put on a frolic mood. Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motiot Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean, Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood, Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay, — Covered it, and hid it safe away. Oh, the long, long centuries since that day I Oh, the agony ! Oli, life's bitter cost. Since that useless little fern was lost ! Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man, Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep ; From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and fine, And the fern's life lay in every line ! So, I think, God hides some souls away, Sweetly to surprise us, the last day. Anonvniotii. APTON WATEE. Tj^LOW gently, sweet Afton, among thj^ green braes, -^ Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by tliy murmuring stream. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou Htock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. GLADNESS OF MORNING. 85 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neigliboriri!^ hills! Far marked with the courses of clear, winding riUs| There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below I Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. And winds by the cot where my Mary resides : How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes. Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Bums. GLADNESS OF MOENING. ~l T ASTE thee, Nymph, and bring with thee -*— *- Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips and Cranks and wanton Wiles, Nods and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. And love to live in dimple sleek, — Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as ye go On the light fantastic toe ; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty: And, if I give thee honor due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreprov^d pleasures free ; To hear the lark begin his flight. And singing, startle the dull Night 84 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled Dawn doth" rise; Then to come in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine; Wliile the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before; Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering Morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill; Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great Sun begins his state, Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight. While the plowman near at hand Whistles o'er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe. And every shepherd tells his tale. Under the hawthorn in the dale. H-om r/Allfgro. Milton GABRIEL, THE CONTENTED LOCKSMITH. "TpROM the workshop of the Goldou Key there issued forth -■- a tinkling sound, so merry and good-humored, that it sug- gested the idea of some one working blithely, and made quite pleasant music. No man who hammered on at a didl monoto- nous duty could have brought such cheerful notes from steel and iron ; none but a chirping, healthy, honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of everything, and felt kindly towards everybody, could have done it for an instant. He might have GABRIEL, THE CONTENTED LOCKSMITH. 8S been a coppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat in a jolting wagon, full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would hav? brought some harmony out of it. Tink, tink, tink — clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of the streets' harsher noises, as though it said, " I don't care ; nothing puts me out ; I am resolved to be happy." AVomen scolded, children squalled, heavy carts went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from the lungs of hawkers ; still it struck in again, no higher, no lower, no louder, no softer ; not thrusting itself on people's notice a bit the more for having been outdone by louder sounds — tink, tink, tink, tink, tink. It was a perfect embodiment of the still small voice, free from all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind ; foot-passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger near it ; neighbors who had got up splenetic that morning felt good-humor stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite sprightly ; mothers danced their babies to its ringing ; still the same magical tink, tink, tink, came ga3'ly from the workshop of the Golden Key. Who but the locksmith could have made such music? A gleam of sun shining through the unsashed window, and checkering the dark workshop with a broad patch of light, fell full upon him, as though attracted by his sunny heart. There he stood working at his anvil, his face all radiant with exercise and gladness, his sleeves turned up, his wig pushed off his shining forehead — the easiest, freest, happiest man in all the world. Beside him sat a sleek cat, purring and winking in the light, and falling every now and then into an idle doze, as from excess of comfort. Toby looked on from a tall bench hard by ; one beaming smile, from his broad nut-brown face down to the slack-baked buckles in his shoes. The very locks that hung around had something jovial in their rust, and seemed, like gouty gentlemen of hearty natures, disposed to joke on their infirmitieSr There was nothing surly or severe in the whole 86 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. scene. It seemed impossible that any one of the innnmeraWe keys could fit a churlish strong-box or a prison door. Rooms where there were fires, books, gossip, and cheering laughter — these were their proper sphere of action. Places of distrust, and cnielty, and restraint, they would have left quadruple locked forever. Tink, tink, tink. The locksmith paused at last, and wiped his brow. The silence roused the cat, who, jumping softly down, crept to the door, and watched with tiger eyes a bird- cage in an opposite window. Then, as he stood upright, with his head flung back, and his portly chest thrown out, you would have seen that Gabriel's lower man was clothed in military gear. Glancing at the wall beyond, there might have been espied, hanging on their soveral pegs, a cap and feather, broadsword, sash, and coat of scarlet ; which any man learned in such matters would have known, from their make and pattern, to be the uniform of a sergeant in the Royal East London Volunteers. The locksmith glanced at these articles with a laughing eye, and looking at them with his head a little on one side, as though he would get them all into a focus, said, leaning on his ham- mer: — " Time was, now, I remember, when I was like to run mad witi) the desire to wear a ooat of that color. If any one (except my father) had called me a fool for my pains, how I should have fired and fumed ! But what a fool I must have been sure-ly ! '' From Bamaby Rudge. 0ha9. iMc*«n«. TEE SEA. rr^HE sea, the sea, the open sea, -*- The blue, the fresh, the ever free; Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays witii the clouds, it mocks the skies. Or like a cradled creature lies. THE OWL IN THE GRAVEYARD. 89 I'm on the sea, I'm on the sea, I am Aviicre I would ever be, With the blue above and the blue below4 And silence whcresoe'er I go. If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep. I love, oh! how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide. Where every mad wave drowns the moon, And whistles aloft its tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the southwest wind doth blow! I never was on the dull, tame shore But I loved the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast. Like a bird that seeketh her mother's nest, — And a mother she was and is to me, For I was bom on the open sea. The waves were white, and red the morn. In the noisy hour when I was born; The whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled. And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild. As welcomed to life the ocean child. I have lived, since then, In calm and strife. Fall fifty summers a rover's life, With wealth to spend, and a power to range, But never have sought or sighed for change: And death, whenever lie comes to me, Shall come on the wide, unbounded sea! Barry Cornwall. TEE OWL IB" THE GRAVETARD. THE Owl is the Nirarod of the Night. Then, like one who shall be nameless, he sails about seeking those whom he may devour. Our friend, we suspect, though no drunkard, is somewhat of a glutton. After having passed a pleasant night in eating and flirting, he goes to bed betimes about four 88 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. o'clock in the morning ; and makes a blowing, hissing noise, resembling the snoring of a man. Indeed nothing can be more diverting to a person annoyed by blue devils, than to look at a White Owl and his wife asleep. With their heads gently inclined towards each other, there they keep snoring away like any Christian couple. Should the one make a pause, the o'her that instant awakes, and, fearing something may be wro...g with his spouse, opens a pair of glimmering, winking eyes, and inspects the adjacent physiognomy with the scrutinizing stare of a village apothecary. If all be right, the concert is resumed, the snore sometimes degenerating into a sort of snivel, and the snivel into a blowing hiss. First time we heard this noise was in a church-yard when we were mere boys, having ventured in after dark to catch the minister's colt for a gallop over to the parish capital, where there was a dancing-school ball. There had been a nest of Owls in some hole in the spire ; but we never doubted for a moment that the noise of snoring, blowing, hissing, and snapping proceeded from a test}" old gentleman that had been buried tha^ forenoon, and had come alive again a day after the fair. Had we reasoned the mattei a little, we must soon have convinced ourselves that there was no ground for alarm to us at least ; for the noise was like that of some one half stifled, and little likely to heave up from above him a six-feet-deep load of earth — to say nothing of the improbability of his being able to unscrew the cofQn from the inside. Be that as it may, we cleared about a dozen of decent tombstones at three jumps ; the fourth took us over a wall five feet high within and about fifteen without, and landed us, with a squash, in a cabbage-garden, enclosed on the other three sides by a house and a holly-hedge. The house was the sex- ton's, who, apprehending the tunmlt to proceed from a resurrec- tionary surgeon mistaken in his latitude, thrust out a long duck-gun from a window in the thatch, and roared he would blow out our brains if we did not instantly surrender ourselves, YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 89 and deliver up the corpse. It was in vain to cry out our name, which he knew as well as his own. He was deaf to reason, and would not withdraw his fowling-piece till we had laid down the corpse. He declared that he saw the sack in the moon- light. This was a horse-cloth with which we had intended to saddle the " colt," and that had remained, during the super- natural agency under which we labored, clutched unconsciously and convulsively in our grasp. Long was it ere Davie Donald would see us in our true light ; but at length he drew on his nightcap, and coming out with a light, let us through the trance and out of the front door, thoroughW convinced that old South- field was not dead, although in a very bad way indeed. Let this be a lesson to school-boys not to neglect the science of natural history, and to study the character of the White Owl. From Recr6atioA% of Christopher North, John Wilson, TE MARnrEKS OF ENGLAOT). "VT'E mariners of England, -*- That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a tliousaud years, The battle and the breeze ! Tour glorious standard launch again To match another foe, And sweep through the deep, Wliile the stormy winds do blow : While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ; For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave. Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages lond and long, And the stormy winds do blow. 90 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain- waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, "When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean warriors ! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name. When the storm has ceased to blow, When the flery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. Thomas Campbell TO A 8KTLAEZ. T f AIL to thee, blithe spirit ! — bird thou never wert, — -*- ■*- That from heaven, or near it, pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still, and higher, from the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire ; the blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring, ever singest. In the golden lightening of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds ai-e brightening, thou dost float and nin. Like an unbodied joy whose race 13 just begun. The pale purple even melts around thy flight : Like a star of heaven in the broad daylight, Thou art unseen, but yet I hear tliy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows of that silver sphere, Wlioso intense lamp narrows in the while dawn clear Until we hardly sec, we feel that It ia there. TO A SKYLARK, 93 All the eai'th and air with thy voice Is loud, As, when night is bare, from one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. "What thou art we Ivnow not : what is most like thee? T'rom rainbow clouds there flow not drops so bright to see. As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden in the light of thought. Singing hymns unbidden, till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Like a high-born maiden in a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower. Like a glow-worm golden in a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view. Like a rose embowered in its own green leaves. By warm winds deflowered, till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingid thieves. Sound of vernal showers on the twinkling grass. Rain-awakened flowers, all that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, what sweet thouglits are thine : I have never heard praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, or triumphal chant, Matched with thine would be all but an empty vaunt — A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? what shapes of sky or plain! What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance, languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance never came near thee : Thou lovest : but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 92 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Waking or asleep, thou of death must deem Things more true and deep than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, and pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught : Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever could come near. Better than all measures of delight and sound, Better than all treasures that in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness that thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness from my lips would flow. The world should listen then, as I am listening now, Shelley TWENTT-FOUETH PSALM. ALL.. THE earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof, The world and they that dwell therein; For he hath founded it upon the seas, And established it upon the floods. FIRST CHOIR. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? And who shall stand in his holy place? SECOND CHOm He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; Who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, And hath not sworn deceitfully. ALL. He shall receive a blessing from the Los-d, And righteousness from the God of bis salvation. This is tlie generation of them that seek after him. That seek thy faoc, O God of Jacob. TO MARY IN HEAVEN, 93 ALL WITHOUT. Lift up your heads, O ye gates! Aud be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors! And the King of Glory shall come In. CUOIU WITHIN. Who is the King of Glory? CHOIK WITHOUT. The Lord strong and mighty; The Lord mighty in battle. CHOIR WITHOUT. Lift up your heads, O ye gates! Yea, lift them up, ye everlasting doors I And the King of Glory shall come in. CIIOIU WITHIN. Who is this King of Glory? ALL WITHOUT. The Lord of Hosts, He is the King of Glory, TO MAET IN HEAVEN. THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray. That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast f That sacred hour can I forget? Can I forget tlie hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy Image at our last embrace; Ahl little thought we 'twas our last. $1 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Ayr gm'gling kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green: The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, — . Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but th' impression deeper makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary ! dear departed shade ! "Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? BaDis. THE VOYAGE. r I ^O an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to -*- make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition by which, as in Europe, the features and population of one country blend almost imperceptibly Avith those of another. From the moment you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy, until you step on the opposite shore, and ar« launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another world. In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separation. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us con- scious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a THE VOYAGE. 95 gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between ua and our homes — a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, that makes distance palpable, and return precarious. Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the hori- zon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened another. I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the expres- sion. To one given to day di'eaming, and fond of losing him- self in reveries, a sea voj-age is full of subject for meditation ; but then they are the wonders of the deep and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter railing or climb to the main- top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tran- quil bosom of a summer sea ; — to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon ; fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own; — to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes as if to die away on those happy shores. "We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months ; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, are the crew? Their struggle has long been over. They have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest. Their bones lie whiten- ing among the caverns of the deep. Silence, obliA-iou, hke the 96 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often has the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expec- tation darkened into anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All that shall ever be known is, that she sailed from her port, " and was never heard of more." The sight of the wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of those eudden storms which will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of ship- wreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by the captain. " As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine stout ship across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs, which prevail in those parts, rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead even in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the ship. " I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch for- ward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' A sail ahead ! ' It was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. "She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. 97 to hoist a light. We struclv her just amidships. The force, the size, and weight of our vessel bore her down below the waves. We passed over her, and were hurried on our course. " As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin. They just started from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget that cry. " It was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired several guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors. But all was silent ; we never saw nor heard anj-thing of them l^^r^* Washington Irving. THE SPINOTNG-WHEEL SONG. ~\/\ ELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning; ■^ -^ Close by the Avindow young Eileen is spinning; Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting, Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting. *' Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." " 'T is the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." " Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." " 'T is the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. •' What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?* " 'T is the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." " What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong that old song of ' The Coolun' ? " There 's a form at the casement, — the form of her true love, — • And he whispers, with face bent, " I 'm waiting for you, love; 98 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Get up on the stool, tlirougli the lattice step lightly ; We '11 rove in the grove while the moon 's shining brightly'.* Merrih", cheerilj-, noisily whirring, Swings tlie wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, Steals up from her seat, — longs to go, and yet lingers ; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other. Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round; Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound; Noiseless and light to the lattice above her The maid steps, — then leaps to the arras of her lover. Slower, and slower, and slower the wheel swings ; Lower, and lower, and lower the reel rings ; Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving, Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving. John Francis Waller THE CHUECH OF BROU. (The Castle.) DOWN the Savoy valleys sounding, Echoing round this castle old, •Mid the distant mountain-chalets. Hark ! What bell for church is toll'd? In the bright October morning Savoy's duke had left his bride. From the castle, past the drawbridge, Flow'd the hunters' merry tide. Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering, Gay her smiling lord to greet, From her muUion'd chamber-casement Smiles the Duchess Marguerite. From Vienna, by the Danube, Here she came, a bride, in spring. Now the autumn crisps the forest ; Hunters gather, bugles ring. THE CHURCH OF BROU. g8 Houuds are pulling, prickers swearing, Horses fret, and boar-spears glance. Off, — they sweep the marshy forests, Westward on the side of France. Hark ! the game 's on foot ; they scatter, ~ Down the forest-ridings lone, Furious, single horsemen gallop. Hark ! a shout, — a crash, — a groan. Pale and breathless came the hunters — On the turf dead lies the boar. Ah I the duke lies stretched beside him Senseless, weltering in his gore. In the dull October evening, Down the leaf -strewn forest-road. To the castle, past the drawbridge. Came the hunters with their load. In the hall, with sconces blazing, Ladies waiting round her seat, Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais Sate the Duchess Marguerite. Hark ! below the gates unbarring, Tramp of men, and quick commands. " 'T is my lord come back from hunting,** -« And the duchess claps her hands. Slow and tired came the hunters ; Stopp'd in darkness in the court. *' Ho! this way, ye laggard hunters. To the hall. What sport ! what sport 1 " Slow they entered with their master ; In the hall they laid him down. On his coat were leaves and blood-stains, On his brow an angry frown. Dead her princely youthful husband Lay before his youthful wife, Bloody 'neath the flaring sconces : And the sicht froze all her life. 100 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. In Vienna, by the Danube, Kings liold revel, gallants meet. Gay of old amid the gayest "Was the Duchess Marguerite. In Vienna, by the Danube, Feast and dance her youth beguiled ^ Till that hour she never sorrow'd, But from then she never smiled. 'Mid the Savoy mountain-valleys, Far from town or haunt of man, Stands a lonely church, unfinished, Which the Duchess Maud began ; Old, that duchess stern began it, In gray age, Vfith palsied hands ; But she died while it was building, And the chui-ch unflnish'd stands — Stands as erst the builders left it, Wlien she sank into her grave : Mountain gi'eensward paves the chancel. Harebells flower in the nave. " In my castle all is sorrow," Said the Duchess Marguerite then ; '•Guide me, some one, to the mountain. We will build the church again." Sandall'd palmers, faring homeward, Austrian knights from Syria came. •' Austrian wanderers bring, warders. Homage to your Austrian dame." From the gate the warders answer'd : " Gone, O knights, is she you knew. Dead our duke, and gone his duchess; Seek her at the Church of Brou." Austrian knights and much worn palmers Climb the wniding mountain way, Reach tlic valley, ^vhere the fabric Rises higher day by day. SNOBS. 101 Stones are sawing, hammers ringing, — On the work the briglit sun shines, — In the Savoy mountain-meadows. By the stream, below the pines. On her palfrey white the duchess Sate and watch'd her working train, — Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, German masons, smiths from Spain. Clad in black, on her white palfrey. Her old architect beside, — There they found her in the mountains, Morn and noon and eventide. There she sate and watch'd the builders. Till the church was roof'd and done. Last of all, the builders rear'd her In the nave a tomb of stone. On the tomb two forms they sculptured, Lifelike in the marble pale, — One, the duke in helm and armor ; One, the duchess in her veil. Bound the tomb the carved stone fret-work Was at Easter-tide put on : Then the duchess closed her labors; And .she died at the St. John. Arnold. SNOBS. r I ^HERE are relative aud positive Snobs. I mean by posi- -*- tive, such persons as are Snobs everywhere in all companies, from morning till night, from 3'outh to the grave, being by Nature endowed with Snobbishness ; and others who are Snobs only in certain circumstances and relations of life. For instance :t once knew a man who committed before me an act most atrocious. I once, I say, knew a man, who, dining in my company at the Europa Coffee House, ate peas with the assistance of his knife. He was a person with whose society I was greatly pleased at first ; a man of great powers, excellent 102 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. heart, and varied information ; but I had never before seen him with a dish of peas, and his conduct in regard to them caused me the deepest pain^ After having seen him thus publicly comport himself, but one course was open to me — to cut his acquaintance. I commis- sioned a mutual friend (the Honorable Poly Anthus) to break the matter to this gentleman as delicately as possible, and to Bay that painful cu'cumstauces — in nowise affecting Mr. Mar- rowfat's honor, cr my esteem for him — had occurred, which obliged me to forego my intimacy with him ; and accordingly we met, and gave each other the cut direct that night at the Djjchess of Monte Fiasco's ball. ^Everybody at Naples remarked the separation of the Damon and Pythias, — indeed, Marrowfat had saved my life more than once, — but, as an English gentleman, what was I to do ?J My dear friend was, in this instance, the Snob rzlanve. It is not snobbish of persons of rank of anj- other nation to employ their knife in the manner alluded to. I have seen Monte Fiasco clean his trencher with his knife, and every Principe in company doing likewise. 1 have seen at the hospitable Board of H. I. H. the Grand Duchess Stephanie of Baden — (who, if these humble lines should come under her Imperial eyes, is besought to remember graciously the most devoted of her servants) — I have seen, I say, the Hereditary Princess of Potztausend-Donnerwettcr (that serenely beautiful woman) use her knife in lieu of a fork or a spoon ; I have seen her almost swallow it, by Jove ! like Ramo Samee, the Indian juggler. And did I blench? Did my estimation for the Princess diminish ? No, lovely Amalia ! One of the truest passions that ever was inspired by woman w^s raised in this bosom by that lady. Beautiful one 1 Long, long may the knife carry food to those lips ! the reddest and the loveliest in the world ! |The cause of my quarrel with Marrowfat I never breathed to SNOBS. 108 raortal soul for four 3'ear8. "We met in the halls of the aristoc- racy — our friends and relatives. We jostled each otlier in the dance or at the board ; but the estrangement continued, until the fourth of June, last year. "We met at Sir George GoUoper's. We were placed, he on the v'whU your humble servant on the left of the admirable Lady G. Peas formed part of the banquet — ducks and green peas. I trembled as I saw Marrowfat helped, and turned away sickening, lest I should behold the weapon darting down his horrid jaws. What was my astonishment, what my delight, when I saw him use his fork like any other Christian ! He did not admin- ister the cold steel once. Old times rushed back upon me — the remembrance of old services, his lending me the seven- teen hundred pounds. I almost burst into tears with joy — my voice trembled with emotion. " George, my boy ! " I exclaimed, " George Marrowfat, my dear fellow ! a glass of wine."^ Blushing — deeply moved — almost as tremulous as I was my- self, George answered, " Frank, shall it be Hock or Madeira?" I could have hugged him to my heart but for the presence of the company. Little did Lady GoUoper know what was the cause of the emotion which sent the duckling I was carving Into her ladyship's pink satin lap. The most good-natured of women pardoned the error, and the butler removed the bird. We have been the closest of friends ever since, nor, of course, has George repeated his odious habit. He acquired it at a country school, where they cultivated peas and only used two-pronged forks, and it was only by living on the Continent, where the use of the four prong is general, that he lost the hoiTible custom. By the way, as some readers are dull of comprehension, I may as well say what the moral of this history is. The moral is this: Society having ordained certain customs, men are bound to obey the law of society, ».nd conform to its harmless orders. 104 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. If I should go to the British aud Foreign Institute (and heaven forbid I should go under any pretext or in an}' costume whatever) — if I should go to one of the tea parties in a dress- ing-gown and slippers, and not in the usual attire of a gentle- man, viz., pumps, a gold waistcoat, a crush hat, a sham frill, and a white choker — I should be insulting society, and eating peas with my knife. Let the porters of the Institute hustle out the individual who shall so offend. Such an offender is, as regards society, a most emphatical and refractory Snob. It has its code and police as well as governments, and he must conform who would profit by the decrees set forth for theb common comfort. Book of Snobs, William Maktpeace ThacJuray. THE THEEE BLACK CEOWS, r I "iVvO honest tradesmen, meeting in tiie Strand, -*- One took the other brislcly by the hand. "Hark ye," said he, "'tis an odd story this, About the crows!" — "I don't know what it is," Replied liis friend. "No! I'm surprised at that; "Where I come from it is the common chat. But you shall hear, — an odd affair indeed! And that it happened, they are all agreed. Not to detain you from a thing so strange, — A gentleman that lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short (as all the alley knows), Taking a dose, has thrown up three black crows ! " " Impossible ! " — " Nay, but it 's really true ; I have it from good hands, and so may you." "From whose, I pray?" So, having named the man. Straight to inquire, his curious comrade ran. " Sir, did you tell? " relating the affair. "Yes, sir, I did; and, if it's worth your care, Ask Mr. Such-a-one; he told it me; — THE LARK. 10» But, by the by, 'twas two black crows, not three." Resolved to trace so wondrous an event. Whip to the third, the virtuoso went. <« Sir," — and so forth, — " Why, yes, the tiling Is fact, Though in regard to number not exact; It was not two black crows, — 'twas only one; — The truth of that you may depend upon : The gentleman himself told me the case." •'Where may I find him? "— " Why, — in such a place." Away he goes, and having found him out, — "Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know if true what he had heard. Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?" — "Not 11" "Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, And here I find, at last, all comes to none! "Did you say nothing of a crow at all?" "Crow? — crow? — perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over."— " And pray, sir, what was 't? * "Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up (and told my neighbor so) Something that was as black, sir, as a crow." John Byrom THE LARK. "OIRD of the wildei-ness, •^-^ Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and leal Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place : Oh, to abide in the desert with thee I Wild is thy lay, and loud, Far in the downy cloud, — Love gives It energy; love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven; thy love Is on earth. 106 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the dayj Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place. Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! Jamea Hogg. LOOHDTVAE. (~\ YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West, — ^-^ Through all the wide Border his steed was the best! And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, — He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske River where ford there was none ; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. The bride had consented, the gallant came late : For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), •' O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar? " " I long wooed your daughter, — my suit you denied; —" Love swells like the Sohvay, but ebbs like its tide; And now am I come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, ThAt would gladly be bride to the young LochinvM'.'* BRUCE'S ADDRESS. 101 -The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cap. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye- He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — " Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. Bo stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, A.nd the hriUegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'T were better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near ; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung. So light to the saddle before her he sprung. " She is won! we arc gone! over bank, bush, and scar; They '11 have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; "There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Sir Walter Scoti. BEUOE'S ADDRESS.* A T Bannockburn the English lay, -^-^ The Scots they were na far away, But waited for the break o' day That glinted in the east. But soon the sun broke through the heath, And lighted up that field o' death, When Bruce, wi' soul-inspiring breath, His heralds thus addressed : *Tba first alght lines of this poem were written by Sir Walter Seott. 108 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. " Scots, wha hae wi' "Wallace hied, Scots, ■\vham Bruce has often led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory. '♦Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power — Chains and slavery. ""Wha will be a traitor knave, Wha can fill a coward's grave, Wlia sae base as be a slave, Let him turn and flee. "Wha for Scotland's king and law, [Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me. •' By oppression's woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains, We will draw our dearest veins. But they shall be free. '*Lay the proud usurpers low. Tyrants fall in every foe. Liberty's in every blow. Let us do or die.* Bnm*> A LEGEND OF EREaENZ. /^ lET round with rugged mountains the fair Lake Constance llesj ^-^ In hor blue heart rellected shine back the starry skies; And watching each white cloudlet float silently and slow, You think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below ! Midnight is there ; and Silence enthroned in Heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town ; For Brcgcnz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance, a thousand years and more. A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. IM Her battlements and towers, from off their rocky steep, Have cast their trembiing shadows for ages on the deep ; Mountain, and lale players, that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and LADY CLARE. 187 that highly, — not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, or man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thougiit some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made thenj veil, they imitated humanity so abominably ! SAakespeare. LADY OLAEE. TT was the time when lilies blow, -■- And clouds are highest up in air. Lord Kouald brought a lilj-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare. I trow tliey did not part in scorn : Lovers long-betrothed were they; They two shall wed the morrow raorn; God's blessing on the day. "He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands, so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice, the nurse. Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" "It was my cousiu," said Lady Clare; "To-morrow he weds with me." " Oh God be thanked ! " said Alice, the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands. And you are not the Lady Clare." "Are yo out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?' Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" "As God's above," said Alice, the nurse, "I speak the truth; you are my child. "The old earl's daughter died at ray breast: I speak tlie truth as I live by bread I I buried her like my own sweet child. And out my child In her stead." 138 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. " Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother," she said, " if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due." " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Eonald's "When you are man and wife." "If I'm a beggar born," she said, " I will speak out, for I dare not lie: Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by." " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret all ye can." She said, "Not so: but I will know. If there be any faith in man." "Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse " The man will cleave unto his right." " And he shall have it," the lady replied, "Though I should die to-night." "Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." " O mother, mother, mother ! " she said, " So strange it seems to me. "Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so; And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go." She clad herself In a russet gown^ She was no longer Lady Clare : She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in tlie maiden's hand. And followed lier all the way. ELIZABETH AND LEICESTER. 139 Down stcpt Lord Ronald from his tower: "O Lady Clare, you shame your wortht Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?" " If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, " And not the Lady Clare." •' Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "For I am yours in word and deed.] Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, •• Your riddle is hard to read." Oh, and proudly stood she up! Ilcir heart within her did not fail: She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale. He laughed a laugh of merry scorn: He turned and kissed her where she stood: " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the next of blood — " If you are not the heiress born. And I," said he, "the lawful heir. We two will wed to-morrow morn. And you shall still be Lady Clare." Tennyson. ELIZABETH AND LEICESTER. /~\UEEIT ELIZABETH. Ho, sir, yoxi knew -f this fair work — j/o« T^ are an accomplice in this 'leception which has been practised on us— ?/o?< have been a main cause of our doing injustice! Art dumb, sirrah? Thou know'st of this affair, dost thou not? Tressilian. Not, gracious madam, that this poor lady was Countess of Leicester. Queen. Nor shall any one know her as such. Death of my life ! Countess of Leicester! I say Dame Amy Dudley, and well if she have not cause to write herself widow of the traitor Robert Dudley. Leicester. Madam, do with me what it may be your will to do, but work no injury on this gentleman ; he hath in no way deserved it. 140 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Queen. And will he be the better for thy luterceasion, thou doubly false — thou doubly forsworn? for thy intercession, whose villany hath made me ridiculous to my subjects and odious to myself? I could tear out mine eyes for their blindness! Burleigh. Madam, remember that you are a queen — Queen of Eng- land, mother of your people. Give not way to this wild storm of passion. Queen. Burleigh, thou art a statesman; thou dost not, thou canst not, comprehend half the scorn, half the misery, that man has poured on me ! Bur. Madam, I am a statesman, but I am also a man — a man already grown old in your councils, who have not and cannot have a wish on earth but your glory and happiness. I pray you to be com- posed. Queen. Ah, Burleigh, thou little knowest — Bur. I do — I do know, my honored sovereign. beware that you lead not others to guess that which they know not ! Queen. Ha ! Burleigh, thou art right — thou art right — anything but disgrace — anything but a confession of weakness — anything rather than seem the cheated, slighted. — 'Sdeath ! to think on it is distrac- tion! Bur. Be but yourself, my queen, and soar far above a weakness which no Englishman will ever believe his Elizabeth could have enter- tained, unless the violence of her disappointment carries a sad convic- tion to his bosom. Queen. What weakness, my lord? Would you, too, insinuate that the favor in which I held yonder proud traitor derived its source from aught — But why should I strive to deceive even thee, my good and wise servant? — My Lord of Leicester, rise, and take up your sword. We will now hear the progress of this affair. Leicester. Madam, I have been much to blame — more than even your just resentment lias expressed. Yet, madam, let me say, that my guilt, if it be unpardonable, was not unprovoked ; and that if beauty and condcscendiug dignity could seduce the frail heart of a human being, I might plead both as the causes of my concealing this secret from your Majesty. Queen. Now, by heaven, my lord, thy effrontery passes the bounds of belief, as well as patience ! But it sliall avail thee nothing. What ho ! my lords I come all and hear the news ! My Lord of Leicester's stolen marriage has cost me a husband, and England a king. His lord- •hip is patriarchal in taste — one wife at a time was insufficient, and ha THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. 141 designed t;s the honor of his left hand. Now, is not this too insolent, — tliat I could not grace him with a few marli crouched on tlie old sea walL THE HIGH TIDE (1671). 153 I sat and spun -within the doore, My tliread brake off, I raised mj'ne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. "Cusha! Cuslia! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along Where the reedy Lindis flovveth, Flovvetli, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song — "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling. "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave j'our meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfootj Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clover lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Llghtfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. Jetty, to the milking shed." If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think how long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow. Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the air, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay. And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene: 154 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. And lo ! the great beU f arre and -wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. The swanheards where their sedges are Move on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth; TiU floating o'er the grassy sea Came down that kyndly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows, They sayde, "And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby! " For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe. They have not spared to wake the towne: But while the west bin red to see. And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ' ? " I looked without, and lo ! my sonne Came riding downe with might and maint He raised a shout as he drew on, TiU all the welkin rang again, "EUzabeth! EUzabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) " The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace. And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing up the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death : "God save you, mother!" straight he saith; "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" THE HIGH TIDE (1571). 155 "Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away, With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He looked across the grassy lea. To right, to left, " Ho Enderby! " They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo ! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest. And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud. Or like a demon in a shroud. And rearing Lindis backward pressed. Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came down with ruin and rout— > Then beaten foam flew round about — Then all the mighty floods were out. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by, I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high — - A lurid mark and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang " Enderby." They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 166 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. And I — my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "O come in life, or come in death! O lost! my love, Elizabeth." And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare? The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith). And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth ; From the meads where melick groweth. Where tlie water winding down, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river. Sobbing, throbbing, in its fulling To the sandy lonesome shore; SAM'S LETTER. 157 I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow ; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Liglitfoot, AVliitefoot, From the clover lift your head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking shed." Jean Ingelow. SAM'S LETTEE. I WONDER who w-wote me this letter. I thuppose the b-best way to f-find out ith to open it and thee. {Opens letter.) Thome iun-limatic hath w-witten me this letter. He hath w-witten "t upthide down. I wonder if he th-tliought I wath going to w-wead it thanding on my head. Oh, yeth, I thee; I had it t-t-turned upthide down. "Amewiea." Who do I know in Amewiea? I am glad he hath g-given me hith addwess anyhow. Oh, yeth, I thee, it ith from Tham. I alwaths know Tham's handwiting when I thee hith name at the b-bottom of it. "My dear browther — " Tham alwaths called me bwother. I-I thuppose iths because hith m-raother and my mother wath the thame woman, and we never had any thisters. When we were boyths we were ladths together. They used to ge-get off a pwoverb when they thaw uth com-coming down the stweet. It ith vewy good, if I could only think of it. I can never wecollect anything that I can't we-wemember. Iths — it iths the early bir-bird — iths the early bir-bird that knowths iths own father. What non-nonthense that iths ! How co-could a bir-bird know iths own father? Iths a withe — iths a withe child — iths a withe child that geths the worn. T-that's not wite. What non-nonthense that iths ! No pa-pawent would 158 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. allow his child to ga -gather woms. Iths a wyme. Iths fish of -of a feather. Fish of a fea — "What non-nonthense ! for fish don't have feathers. Iths a bir-bird — iths b-bu-ds of a feather — b-birds of a feather flock together. B-birds of a feather ! Just as if a who-who-whole flock of b-birds had only one f-feather. They'd all catch cold, and only one b-bird c-could have that f-feather, and he'd fly sidewithse. "What con-confounded nouthense that iths ! Flock to-together ! Of courthse th-they 'd flock together. Who ever her-heard of a bird being such a f-fool as to g-go into a c-corner and fl-flock by himself? "I wo-wote you a letter thome time ago — " Thath 's a lie ; he d-did n't wi-wite me a letter. If he had witten me a letter he would have posted it, and I would have g-got it ; so, of courthse, he did n't post it, and then he didn't wite it. Thath 's easy. Oh, yeths, I thee: "but I dwopped it into the potht-potht-office forgetting to diwect it." I wonder who the d-dic-dickens got that letter. I wonder if the poth- pothman iths gwoin' awound inquiring for a f-fellow without a name. I wonder if there iths any fel-fellow without any name. If there iths any fel-fellow without any name, how doeths he know who he iths himthelf ? I-I wonder if thuch a fellow could get mawaid. How could he ask hiths wife to take hiths name if he h-had no name ? Thath *s one of thothse things no fellow can f-find out. " I have just made a startling dithcovery." Tham 's alwayths d-doing thomthing. " I have dithcovered that my mother iths — that m-my mother iths not my m-mother ; that a — the old nurse iths my mother, and that you are not my b-bwother, and a — tha-that I was changed at my birth." How c-can a fellow be changed at hith birth? If he iths not himtlielf, wlio iths he? If Tham's m-mother iths not hith m-mother, and the nurthse iths hith mother, and Tham ith n't my bwother, who am I ? That 's one of thothse things that no fel-fellow can find out. ' I have p-purchased an ethstate •om-somewhere — " Doth u't the id-idiot know wh-where h-he WARREN'S ADDRESS AT BUNKER HILL. 159 hath bought it? Oh, yeths : " on the bankths of the M-M-Mith- itliippi." Wh-who iths M-Mithitliippi? I g-gueth ith 's Tham's m-mother-in-1-law. Tham 's got mawaid. He th-thayths he felt v-vewy ner-nervous. He alwayths waths a hicky fellow getting things he did n't want, and had n't any use for. Thpeaking of mother-in-lawths, I had a fwiend who had a mother-in-law, and he did n't like her pwetty well ; and she f-felt the thame way towards him ; and they went away on a st-steamer acwoths the ocean, and they got wecked, catht away on a waft, and they floated awound with their feet in the water and other amuthements, living on thuch things ath they could pick up — thardinths, ithcweam, owanges, and other c-canned goodths that were floating awound. When that waths all gone, every- body ate everybody elthe. F-finally only himthelf and hiths m-mother-in-law waths left, and they pl-played a game of c-cards to thee who thould be eaten up — himthelf or hith mother-in-law. A-a — the mother-in-law lotht. H-he treated her handthomely, only he strapped h-her flat on her back, and c-carved her gently. H-h-he thays that waths the f-first time that he ever weally enjoyed a m-mother-in-law. From Dundreary. WAEEEN'S ADDEE8S AT BUNKER HILL. QiTAND! the ground's your own, my bravest ^ "Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal ! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it — ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you I they 're a-flre { And, before you, see — 160 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Who have done it ! — from the vale On they come! — and will ye quail? — Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be! In the God of battles trust! Die we may, — and die we must ; — But, oh! where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell! PierponU ON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. TT' ARTH has not any tiling to show more fair : . -*— ' Dull would he be of soul wlio could pass by A sight so toucliing in its majesty: This city now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky. All bright and glittering in the smolieless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep. The river glidcth at his own sweet will. Dear God, the very liouscs seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still. Wordaworth. NATURE AND RULES. XN what sense is the word " correctness " used by those who -L say that Pope was the most correct of English poets, and that next to Pope came the late Mr. Gilford? What is the nature and value of that correctness, the praise of which is denied to Macbeth, to Lear, and to Othello, and given to Hoole's translations and to all the Seatoninn prize poems? We can discover no eternal rule, no rule founded in reason and in the nature of things, which Shakespeare does not obser\y NATURE AND RULES. 161 mucfi more strictly than Pope. But, if by correctness be meant a strict attention to certain ceremonious observances, which are no more essential to poetry than etiquette to good government, or than the washings of a Pharisee to devotion, then, assuredly, Pope may be a more correct poet than Shakespeare ; and if the code were a little altered, Col ley Gibber might be a more cor- rect poet than Pope. But it may be well doubted whether this kind of correctness be a merit, nay, whether it be not an abso- lute fault. It would be amusing to make a digest of the irrational law* which bad critics have framed for the government of poets. First in celebrity and in absurdity stand the dramatic unities of place and time. No human being has ever been able to find anything that could, even by courtesy, be called an argument for these unities, except that they have been deduced from the general practice of the Greeks. It requires no very profound examination to discover that the Greek dramas, often admira- ble as compositions, are, as exhibitions of human character and human life, far inferior to the English plays of the age of Elizabeth. Every scholar knows that the dramatic part of the Athenian tragedies was at first subordinate to the lyrical part. It would, therefore, have been little less than a miracle if the laws of the Athenian stage had been found to suit plays in which there was no chorus. All the greatest masterpieces of the dramatic art have been composed in the direct violation of the unities, and could never have been composed if the unities had not been violated. It is clear, for example, that such a character as that of Hamlet could never have been de- veloped within the limits to which Alfieri confined himself. Yet such was the reverence of literary men during the last century for these unities, that Johnson, who, much to his honor, took the opposite side, was, as he says, " frightened at his own temerity," and " afraid to stand against the authorities whicb might be produced against him." 162 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. There are other rules of the same kind without end. " Shake- speare," says Eymer, "ought not to have made Othello black; for the hero of a tragedy ought always to be white." " Milton," says another critic, "ought not to have taken Adam for his hero ; for the hero of an epic poem ought always to be vic- torious." "Milton," says another, "ought not to have put so many similes into his first book ; for the first book of an epic poem ought always to be the most unadorned. There are no similes in the first book of the Iliad." "Milton," says an- other, " ought not to have placed in an epic poem such lines as these : — " ' "While thus I called, and strayed I knew not whither.' " And why not. The critic is ready with a reason. " Such lines," says he, " are not, it must be allowed, uupleasing to the ear ; but the redundant syllable ought to be confined to the drama, and not admitted into epic poetry." Another law of heroic rhyme, which, fifty years ago, was considered as fundamental, was, that there should be a pause, a comma at least, at the end of every couplet. It was also provided that there should never be a full stop except at the end of a line. Sir Roger Newdigate is fairly entitled, we think, to be ranked among the great critics of this school. He made a law that none of the poems written for the prize which he established at Oxford should exceed fifty lines. This law seems to us to have at least as much foundation in reason as any of those which we have mentioned ; nay, much more, for the world, we believe, is pretty well agreed in thinking that the shorter a prize poem is, the better. We do not see why we should not make a few more rules of the same kind ; why we should not enact that the number of scenes in every cict shall be three or some multiple of three, that tne number of lines in every scene shall be an exact square, that the dramatis personve. shall never be more or fewei NATURE AND RULES. 16S than sixteen, and that, in heroic rhyraes, every thirty-sixth line shall have twelve syllables. If we were to lay down these canons, and to call Pope, Goldsmith, and Addison incorrect writers for not having complied with our whims, we should act precisely as those critics act who find incorrectness in the mag- nificent imagery and the varied music of Coleridge and Shelley The correctness which the last century prized so much re sembles the correctness of those pictures of the garden of Eden which we see in old Bibles. We have an exact square, enclosed by the rivers Pison, Gihon, Hiddekel, and Euphrates, each with a convenient bridge in the centre, rectangular beds of flowers, a long canal, neatly bricked and railed in, the tree of knowledge, clipped like one of the limes behind the Tuileries, standing in the centre of the grand allev, the snake twined round it, the man on the right hand, the woman on the left, and the beasts drawn up in an exact circle round them. In one sense the picture is correct enough. That is to say, the squares are correct, the circles are correct, the man and the woman are in a most correct line of the tree, and the snake forms a most correct spiral. But if there were a painter so gifted that he could place on the canvas that glorious pai-adise, seen by the interior eye of him whose outward sight had failed with long watching and laboring for liberty and truth, if there were a painter who could set before us the mazes of the sapphire brook, the lake with its fringe of myrtles, the flowery meadows, the grottos overhung by vines, the forests shining with Hesperian fruit and with the plumage of gorgeous bu'ds, the massy shade of that nuptial bower which showered down roses on the sleeping lovers, what should we think of a connoisseur who should tell us that this painting, though finer than the absurd picture in the old Bible, was not so correct? Surely we should answer, It is both finer and more correct ; and it is finer because it is more correct. It is not made up of coiTectly drawn diagrams ; but it is a 164 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. correct painting, a worth}^ representation of that wliich it is intended to represent. It is not in the fine arts alone that this false correctness is prized by narrow-minded men, by men who cannot distin- guish means from ends, or what is accidental from what is essential. M. Jourdain admired correctness in fencing. "You had no business to hit me then. You must never thrust in quart till you have thrust in tierce." M. Tomes liked correct- ness in medical practice. "I stand up for Artemius. That he killed his patient is plain enough. But still he acted quite according to rule. A man dead is a man dead, and there is an end of the matter. But if rules are to be broken there is no saying what consequences may follow." We have heard of an old German officer, who was a great admirer of correct- ness in military operations. He used to revile Bonaparte for spoiling the science of war, which had been carried to such exquisite perfection by Marshal Daun. "In my youth we used to march and countermarch all the summer without gain- ing or losing a square league, and then we went into winter quarters. And now comes an ignorant, hot-headed young man, who flies about from Bologne to Ulm, and from Ulm to the middle of Moravia, and fights battles in December. The whole System of his tactics is monstrously incorrect." The world is of opinion, in spite of critics like these, that the end of fencing Is to hit, that the end of medicine is to cure, that the end of war is to conquer, and that those means are the most correct which best accomplish the ends. And has poetry no end, no eternal and immutable principles? Since its first great masterpieces were produced, everything that is changeable in this world has been changed. Civilization has been gained, lost, gained again. Religions, the languages, and forms of government, and usages of private life, and modes of thinking, all have undergone a succession of revolutions. Everything has passed away but the great features of nature, CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BlUGADE. 165 and the heart of man, and the miracles of that art whose ofBce it is to reflect back the heart of man and the features of nature. Those two strange old poems, the wonder of ninety generations, still retain all their freshness. They still command the veneration of minds enriched by the literature of many na- tions and ages. They are still, even in wretched translations, the delight of school-boys. Having survived ten thousand ca- pricious fashions, having seen successive codes of criticism become obsolete, they still remain to us, immortal with the immortality of truth, the same when perused in the study of an English scholar, as when they were first chanted at fr? banquets of the Ionian princes. Macaulay' LTJOY. SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom tliere were none to praise And very few. to love. A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye; Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know "When Lucy ceased to be; But she is iu her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! Wordtworth CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. TTITALF a league, half a league, -L-L Half a league onward, All in the valley of death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade I Charge for the guns!" he saidi Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 1%^ CLASSIC SELECTIONS. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldiers knew Some one had blundered! Theirs not to make reply; Theirs not to reason why; Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them. Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well; Into the jaws of death. Into the mouth of Hell, Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their .sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered! Plunged in the battery-sraoke, Right through the line they broke i Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre-stroke, Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back; but not — Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered : Stormed at with shot and shell. While horse and hero fell. They that had fouglit so well SCENES FROM "THE RIVALB." 167 Came through the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them — Left of six hundred. "When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light Brigade,— Noble six hundred! Tennyson. SCENES FROM " THE EIVA18." I. d'lAPT. A. Now for a parental lecture. I hope he has heard noth'ng of the business that has brought me here. I wish the gout had held him fast in Devonshire, with all my soul ! Enter Sir Anthony. Capt. A. Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and looking so we'l ! ^ your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health. Sir A. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. — What, you are re- cruiting here, hey? Capt. A. Yes, sir, I am on duty. Sir A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it ; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. — Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long. Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong ani hearty, and I pray fervently that you may continue so. Sir A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my heart. Well, then. Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long time. — Now, Jack, 1 am sen.sible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit. Capt. A. Sir, you are very good. Sir A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. — I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once iu a noble independence. 168 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Capt. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. — Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army? Sir A. Oh ! that shall be as your wife chooses. Capt. A. My wife, sir I Sir A. Ay, ay, settle that between you, — settle that between you. Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you say? Sir A. Ay, a wife : why, did not I mention her before? Capt. A. Not a word of her, sir. Sir A, Oddso ! I must n't forget her, though. — Yes, Jack, the in« dependence I was talking of, is by a marriage, — the fortune is saddled with a wife, — but, I suppose, that makes no difference? Capt. A. Sir ! sir ! you amaze me ! Sir A. Why, what 's the matter with the fool? Just now you were all gratitude and duty. Capt. A. I was, sir, — you talked to me of independence and a for- tune , but not a word of a wife. Sir A. "Why, what difference does that make? Odds life, sir! if you have the estate, you must take it wi^h the live stock on It, as it stands. Capt. A. Pray, sir, who is the lady? Sir A. What s that to you, sir? — Come, give me your promise to love, and to many her directly. Capt. A. Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to summon my affec- tions for a lady I know nothing of ! Sir A. I am sure, sir, 't is more unreasonable in you to object to a lady you know nothing of. Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that in this point I cannot obey you. Sir A. Harkye, Jack ! — I have heard you for some time with patience — I have been cool — quite cool ; but take care — you know I am compliance Itself — when I am not thwarted ; no one more easily led — when I have my own way ; — but don't put me ip " frenzy. Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it — In this, I cannot obey yon. Sir A. Now, hang me, if ever I call you Jack again while I live I Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me. Sir A. Sir, I won't hear a word — not a word! not one word 1 so give me your j)romlse by a nod — and I '11 tell j'ou what, Jack — I mean you dog — If you don't, by — Capt. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness I SCENES FROM "THE RIVALS." 169 Sir A. Zounds I sirrah 1 the lady shall be as ugly as I choose : she shall have a hump on each shoulder ; she shall be as crooked as the crescent ; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's Museum ; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew, — she shall be »11 this, sirrah ! — yet I '11 make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night, ^o write sonnets on her beauty. Capt. A. This is reason and moderation indeed ! Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy ! no grinning, jackanapes ! Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my life. Sir A. 'T is false, sir ; I know you are laughing in your sleeve ; I know you'll grin when I am gone, sirrah! Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. Sir A. None of j'^our passion, sir ! none of your violence, if you please. It won't do with me, I promise you. Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. Sir A. 'T is a lie ! — I know you are in a passion in your heart ; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog ; but it won't do. Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word — Sir A. So you will fly out! Can't you be cool, like me! — What good can passion do? — passion is of no seirvice, you impudent, inso- lent, overbearing reprobate! — There, you sneer again! —don't prO' voke me I but you rely upon the mildness of ray temper — you do, you dogl You play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet take care ^-the patience of a saint maybe overcome at last! — but mark! — I give you six hours and a half to consider of this : if you then agree, without any condition, to do everything on earth that I choose, why — confound you, I may in time forgive you. If not, zounds ! don't enter the same hemisphere with me ! don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light with me ; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own ! I '11 strip you of your commission ; I '11 lodge a flve-and-three- pence in the hands of trustees, aud you sliall live on the interest. I '11 disown you ; I '11 disinherit you, and, hang me ! if ever I call you Jack again I [Exit. Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hands. u. Capt. A. 'T is just as Fag told me, indeed! — Whimsical enough, 'faith 1 My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plan- ning to run away with ! He must not know of my connectiou with her jrO CLASSIC SELECTIONS. yet awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these mat. ters; however, I'll read my recantation instantly. My conversion Is something sudden, indeed; but I can assure him, it is very sincere. — So, so, here he comes — he looks plaguy gruflFI Enter Sir Anthony. Sir A. No — I '11 die sooner than forgive him ! Die, did I say? 1 11 live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting his impudence had almost put me out of temper — an obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy 1 Who can he take after? This is my return for putting him, at twelve years old, into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since ! But I have done with him — he's anybody's son for me — I never will see him more — never- never — never — never. Capt. A. Now for a penitential face ! Sir A. Fellow, get out of my way ! Capt. A. Sir, you see a penitent before you. Sir A. I see an impudent scoundrel before me. Capt. A. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will. Sir A. What 's that? Capt. A. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me. Sir A. Well, sir! Capt. A. I have been likewise weighing and balancing what you were pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and au- thority. Sir A. Why, now, you talk sense, absolute sense ; I never heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound you, you shall be Jack again 1 Capt. A. I am happy in the appellation. Sir A. Why, then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you silly fellow, prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture — prepare ! What think you of Miss Lydia Languish? Capt. A. Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire! Sir A. Worcestershire ! No ! Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop and her niece. Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were last ordered to your rr^^iment? Caft. A. Malaprop 1 Languish 1 I don't remember ever to have SCENES FROM "THE RIVALS." 171 Aeard the name before. Yet, stay : I think I do recollect something. Languish — Languish ! She squints, don't she? A little red-haired girl? Sir A. Squints! A red-haired girl ! Zounds, no 1 Capt. A. Then I must have forgot : it can't be the same person. Sir A. Jack, Jack ! what think you of blooming, love-breathing seventeen? Capt. A. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent; if I can please you In the matter, 't is all I desire. Sir A. Nay, but Jack, such eyes ! such eyes ! so innocently wild ! so bashfully irresolute ! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some thouglit of love I Then, Jack, her cheeks ! her cheeks. Jack ! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her telltale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips ! Oh, Jack, lips, smiling at their ovpn discretion ! and, if not smil- ing, more sweetly pouting — more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack, her neck ! Oh ! Jack ! Jack ! Capt A. And which is to be mine, sir : the niece, or the aunt? Sir A. "Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you ! When I was of your age, such a description would have made me fly like a rocket! The aunt, indeed! Odds life! when I run away with your mother, I would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire ! Capt. A. Not to please your father, sir? Sir A. To please my father — zounds ! not to please — Oh ! my father? Oddso! yes, yes! if my father, indeed, had desired — that's quite another matter. Though he was n't the indulgent father that I am. Jack. Capt. A. I dare say not, sir. Sir A. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so beau- tiful? Capt. A. Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, 't is all I de- sire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome ; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind. Now, without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back ; and though one eye may be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always run in favor of two, I would not ^vish to affect a singularity in that article. Sir A. What a phlegmatic sot it is ! Why, sin'ah, you are an an- ehoritel a vile, insensible stock 1 You a soldier! you'r« a walking 172 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. block, fit only to dust the company's regimentals on! Odds life, I 've a great mind to marry the girl myself ! Capt. A. I am entirely at your disposal, sir ; if you should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt ; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady, 't is the same to me — I '11 marry the niece. Sir A. Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great hypocrite, or — but, come, I know your indiflerence on such a subject must be all a lie — I 'm sure it must. Come, now, hang yoiu* demure face ; come, confess. Jack, you have been Ij'ing, haven't you? You have been playing the hj-pocrite, hey? I'll never forgive you, if you haven't been lying and playing the hjiDocrite. Ca'pt. A. I am sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you should be so mistaken. Sir A. Respect and duty ! But come along with me. I '11 write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shsiil visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you — come along, I '11 never forgive you, if you don't come back stark mad with raptm'e and impatience — If you don't, 'egad, I '11 marry the girl myself ! [Exeunt. Sheridanm BEEAK, BREAZ, BREAI. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold, gray stones, O Seal And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play I O well for the sailor-lad. That he sings in his boat on the bay I And the stately ships go on To the haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, ,And the sound of a voice that Is stUlI Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Seal But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. Tennyton. LONGING FOR HOME. 173 ETMN TO DIANA. \2uEEN and Huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did closes Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying heart Space to breathe how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright! Ben Jonson LONGING rOR HOME. A SONG of a boat : — -*-^ There was once a boat on a billow: Lightly she rocked to her port remote : And the foam was white in her wake like snow, And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow And bent like a wand of willow. I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Went curtseying over the billow, I marked her course till a dancing mote She faded out on the moonlit foam. And I stayed behind in the dear loved home: And my thoughts all day were about the boat, And my dreams upon the pillow. 174 CLASSIC SELECTTONS. I pray you hear my song of a boat, For it is but short: — My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, In river or port. Long I looked out for the lad she bore, On the open desolate sea, And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, For he came not back to me — Ah me! A song of a nest: — There was once a nest in a hollow : Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, Soft and warm, and full to the brim — Vetches leaned over it purple and dim. With buttercup buds to follow. I pray you hear my song of a nest. For it is not long : — You shall never light, in a summer quest The bushes among — Shall never light on a prouder sitter, A fairer nestful, nor ever know A softer sound than their tender twitter. That wind-like did come and go. I had a nestful once of my own, Ah happy, happy I! \ight dearly I loved them: but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly — O, one after one they flew away Far up to the heavenly blue. To the better country, the upper day, And — I wish I was going too. I pray you, what is the nest to me. My empty nest? And what is the shore where I stood to see My boat sail down to the west? Can I call that home where I anchor yet. Though my good man has sailed? THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 175 Can I call that home where my nest was set, Now all its hope hath failed? Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be : There is the home where my thoughts are sent, The only home for me — Ah me! Jean Ingelow^ THE ZING OF DENMAEK'8 RIDE. WORD was brought to the Danish king (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring* (0! ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl; And his Rose of the Isles is dying! Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry !) Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (0! ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; "Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; But ride as they would, the king rode flrst, For his Rose of the Isles lay dying ! His nobles are beaten, one by one ; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone* His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying The king looked back at that faithful child ; Wan was the face that answering smiled ; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped ; and only the king rode in Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying! 176 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. The king blew a blast on his bugle horn*, (Silence !) No answer came; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray mom, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the king from that weary ride-^ For dead, in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay. Who had yearned for his voice while dying I The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary. The king returned from her chamber of rest. The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eying, The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck : " O steed, that every nerve didst strain. Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain To the halls where my love lay dying!" Caroline Norton. THE FUNERAL OF JULIUS CiESAR. Enter Bkutus and Cassius, with a Throng of Citizenn. Citizens. We will be satisfied ; let us be satisfied. Bru. Then follow me, and give me audience, friends. Brutus goes into the Rostrum. 3 Cit. The noble Brutus is ascended : Silence ! Bru. Be patient till tlic last. Romans, countrymen and lovers ! hear me for ray cause; and be silent, that you may hear : believe me for mine honor ; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say that Brutus' love to Ca'sar was no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cajsar, this is ray answer, — Not that I loved Cajsar less, but tliat I loved Rorae more. Had you rather Ca>sar were living, and die all slaves, than that Ca'sar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cicsar loved me, I weep for lilm; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; THE FUNERAL OF JULIUS C^SAR. 177 as he was valiant, I honor him : but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honor for his valor; and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bond- man? If any, speak; for him have I oflended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak ; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. Citizens. None, Brutus, none. Bru. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Csesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. Enter Antony and others, with Cesar's body. Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony; who. though he had no hraid in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart, — That, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. Citizens. Live, Brutus ! live, live ! 1 Cit. Bring him with triumph home unto his house. 2 Cit. Give him a statue with his ancestors. 3 Cit. Let him be Caesar. 4 Cit. Caesar's better parts Shall now be crowned in Brutus. 1 Cit. We '11 bring him to his house with shouts and clamors. Bru. My countrymen, — 2 Cit. Peace ! silence ! Brutus speaks. 1 Cit. Peace, ho ! Bru. Good countrymen, let me depart alone ; And, for my sake, stay here with Antony : Do grace to Caesar's corpse, and grace his speech Tending to Caesar's glory ; which Mark Antony, By our permission, is allow'd to make. I do entreat you, not a man depart, Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. {Exit. 1 Cit. Stay, ho ! and let us hear Mark Antony. 8 Cit. Let him go up into the public chair; We'll hear him. —Noble Antony, go up. Ant. For Brutus' sake, I am beholding to you, [ffoea up. ^73 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. 4 at. What does he say of Brutus? 3 Q^^_ He says, for Brutus' sake, He finds himself beholding to us all. 4 Cit. 'T were best he speak no harm of Brutus here. 1 Cit. This Csesar was a tjTant. 3 (J^^^ Nay, that 's certain : We 're bless'd, that Eome is rid of him. 2 Cit. Peace ! let us liear what Antony can say. Ant. You gentle Romans, — Citizens. • Peace, ho ! let us hear him. Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears : I come to bury Csesar, not to praise him, The evil that men do lives after them ; The good is oft interred with their bones : So let it be Avith C^sar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious : If it were so, it was a grievous fault; And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, — For Brutus is an honorable man ; So are they all, all honorable men, — Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious ; And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept '. Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented hiin a kingly crown, Wiiich he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But licre I am, to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, — not without cause j THE FUNERAL OF JULIUS C^SAB. 179 What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason I Bear with me ; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me. 1 Cit. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings. 2 Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter, Csesar has had great wrong. 3 Cit. Has he not, masters ? 1 fear there will a worse come in his place. 4 Cit. Miirk'd ye his words? He would not take the crown; Therefore 't is certain he was not ambitious. 1 Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. 2 Cit. Poor soul ! his eyes are red as fire with weeping. 3 Cit. There 's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony. 4 Cit. Now mark him ; he begins again to speak. Ant. But yesterday the word of Ca;sar might Have stood against tlie world : now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. masters, if I were dispos'd to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong. Who, you all know, are honorable men. I will not do them wrong : I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you. Than I will wrong such honorable men. But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar,— I found it in his closet, — 't is his will : Let but the commons hear this testament (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read). And they would go and kiss dead Ca?sar's wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills. Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue. 4 Cit. Wo '-1 hear the will ; read it, Jlark Antony. Citizens. The will, tlie will! We will hear Ctesar's wllL Ant. Have patience, gentle friends ; I must not read it: It is not meet you know how Caesar lov'd you. 180 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Tou are not wood, you are not stones, but men; Aud, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad. 'T is good you know not that you are his heirs ; For, if you should, O, what would come of it I 4 Cit. Read the will ! we '11 hear it, Antony; You shall read us the will — Caesar's will ! Ant. Will you be patient? will you stay awhile? I have o'ershot myself, to tell you of it. I fear I wrong the honorable men Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar ; I do fear it. 4 Cit. They were traitors : honorable men ! Citizens. The will ! the testament ! 2 Cit. They w^ere villains, murderers. The will! read the wiU! Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will? Tlien make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? and will you give me leaver Citizens. Come down. 2 Cit. Descend. [He comes down. 3 Cit. You sLili have leave. 4 Cit. A ring ! stand round. 1 Cit. Stand from the hearse ; stand from the body. 2 Cit. Room for Antony ! — most noble Antony ! Ant. Nay, press not so upon me ; stand far' off. Citizens. Stand back ; room ! bear back. Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle : I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on ; ^ •T was on a summer's evening, Ih his tent, * That day he overcame the Nervil. Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through : Sec what a rent the envious Casca made : Through this the wcU-bcloved Brutus stabb'd; And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Cjcsar foUow'd it, — As ruslilug out of doors, to be resolv'd If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel* Judge, O you godS; how dearly CsBsar lov'd him I THE FUNERAL OF JULIUS CiESAR. 181 This was the most uukintlest cut of all; For, when the noble CjEsar saw liira stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arras, Quite vanquish'd him : then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Porapey's statua, Which all the while ran blood, great Ca;sar felL O, what a fall was there, ray countryraen ! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, "Whilst bloody treason flourisli'd over us. O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here. Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors. 1 Cit. O piteous spectacle ! 2 Cit. O noble Caesar ! 3 Cit. O wof ul day ! 4 Cit. O traitors, villains ! 1 Cit. O most bloody sight ! 2 Cit. We will be reveng'd. Citizens. Revenge, — about, — seek, —bum, — Are,— kill, — slar,-' let not a traitor live ! Ant. Stay, countrymen. 1 Cit. Peace there ! hear the noble Antony. 2 Cit. We '11 hear him, we '11 follow him, we '11 die with him. Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honorable : •What private griefs they hive, alas, I know not, That made them do 't; they 're wise and honorable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts : I am no orator, as Brutus is ; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man. That love my friend ; and that tliey know full well That gave me public leave to speak of liira. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth. Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech. To stir men's blood : I only speak right on ; 182 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me : but were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruflle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar, that should move The stones of Kome to rise and mutiny. Citizens. "We '11 mutiny. 1 Cit. "We '11 burn the house of Brutus. 3 Cit. Away, then ! come, seek the conspirators. Ant. Yet hear me, countrymen ; yet hear me speak. Citizens. Peace, ho ! hear Antony ; most noble Antony. Ant. "Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. "Wherein hath Cajsar thus desen'd your loves? Alas, you know not ; I must tell you, then : You have forgot the will I told you of. Citizens. Most true ; the will ! —let 's stay, and hear the wIU. Ant. Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. 2 Cit. Most noble Caesar ! — we 'U revenge his death. 3 Cit. O, royal Caesar ! Ant. Hear me with patience. Citizens. Peace, ho ! Ant. Moreover, he halh left you aU his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards, On this side Tiber : he hath left them you, And to your heirs for ever ; common pleasures. To w£dk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar ! when comes such another? 1 Cit. Never, never. — Come, away, away I We '11 burn his body in the holy place, And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. Take up the body. 2 Cit. Go, fetch fire. 3 Cit. Pluck down benches. 4 Cit. Pluck down forms, windows, any thing. lExeunt Citizens with the hody. Ant. Now let it work : — Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt I Shakespeare. TEST OF A BAD BOOK. 188 THE BLUEBIRD. J KNOW the song that the bluebird is singing. Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging. Brave little fellow ! the skies may be dreary, — Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. Hark ! how the music leaps out from his throat! Hark ! was there ever so merry a note? Listen awhile, and you '11 hear what he 's saying, Up in the apple-tree, swinging and swaying. " Dear little blossoms down under the snow, You must be weary of winter, I know ; Hark while I sing you a message of cheer ! Summer is coming, and spring-time is here I " Little white snow-drop ! I pray you arise; Bright yellow crocus ! come, open your eyes; Sweet little violets, hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold ; Daffodils! daffodils! say, do you hear? — Summer is coming, and spring-time is here ! " Emily Huntington Miller. TEST OP A BAD BOOK. WOULD you know whether the tendency of a book is good or evil, examine in what state of mind you lay it down. Has it induced you to suspect that what you have been accus- tomed to think unlawful may after all be innocent, and that that may be harmless which you have hitherto been taught to think dangerous? Has it tended to make you dissatisfied and impa- tient under the control of others, and disposed you to relax in that self-government without which both the laws of God and man tell us there can be no virtue, — and consequently no hap- piness ? Has it attempted to abate your admiration and rever- ence for what is great and good, and to diminish in you the love of your country and your fellovr-creatures? Has it addressed itself to your pride, your vanity, your selfishness, or any other 184 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. of your evil propensities ? Has it defiled the imagination with what is loathsome, and shocked the heart with what is mon- strous? Has it disturbed the sense of right and wrong which the Creator has implanted in the human soul? If so, — if you are conscious of all or any of these effects, — or if, having escaped from all, you have felt that such were the effects it was intended to produce, throw the book in the fire, whatever name it may bear in the title-page ! Throw it in the fire, young man, though it should have been the gift of a friend ! — young lady, away with the whole set, though it should be the prominent fur- niture of a rospwood bookcase ! Southey. BERYE EIEL. /^N the sea and at the Hogiie, sixteen hundred ninety-two, ^-^ Did the Euglish flght the French — woe to France ! And, tlie thirty-flrst of May, lielter-skelter thro' the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Ranee, With the English fleet in view. T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase ; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, DamfreviUe: Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signaUed to the place, " Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us hai'bor, take us quick — or, quicker still, Here 'a the Euglish can and will 1 " Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; " Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they : •• Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall tlie Formidable here witli licr twelve and eighty guns Thir.k to make tlic rivcr-moutli by the single narrow way. Trust t^ enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, HEUVE RIEL. 185 And with flow at full beside? Now 't is slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, WTiile rock stands or water runs, not a ship will leave the bay 1 " Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter tlie del)ate : "Here 's the English at our heels ; would you have them take In tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground I " (Ended Damfreville his speech). " Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, bum the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. Give the word I " But no such word Was ever spoke or heard ; For un stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these — A captain? A lieutenant? A mate — first, second, third? No .such mac of mark, and meet witli his betters to compete I But a simple Breton sailor pressed by TourviUe for the fleet A pocr coasting pilot he, Herv6 Riel the Crr^sickesp And, " Wtat mockery or malice have we here?' cries Herv6 Riel : "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell Od ray iln^cers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twijst (Me offing here and Grfeve, where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is It love the lying 's for? Morn and eve, night and day, have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast, at the foot of Solldor. Bum the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hc^ues^ Sirs, they know I speak the truth I Sirs, believe me there's a way ; Only let me lead the line. Have the biggest ship to steer, get this Formidable clear, Make the others follow mine. And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Riglit to Solidor past Greve, and there lay tliem safe and sound; And if one sliip laisbeliave, keel so mucli as grate the ground, WTiy, I 've nothing but my life — here *8 my head I " cries Herv6 Bitf,, 186 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Not a minute more to wait, " Steer us in, then, small and great 1 Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! " cried Its chle£ Captains give the sailor place ! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God's grace ! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, clears the entrj' like a hound. Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound I See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock. Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief ! The peril, see, is past, all are harbored to the last. And just as Hervfi Riel hollas " Anchor I " — sure as fate Up the English come, too late ! So, the storm subsides to calm : They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. *' Just our rapture to enhance, let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance as they cannonade away I 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee ! " How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance ! Out burst all with one accord, " This is Paradise for Hell I Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing ! " What a shout, and all one word, " Herv6 Elell * As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes. Just the same man as before. Then said Darafreville, " My friend, I must speak oat at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips : You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. Taith our sun was near eclipse! Df mand wliato'rr you will, France remains your debtor still. A* Y Nebo's lonely mountain, on this side Jordan's wave, -'-^ In a vale in the land of Moab, there lies a lonely grave; But no man dug that sepulchre, and no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturned the sod, and laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral that ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the tramping, or saw the train go forth ; Noiselessly as the daylight comes when the night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek grows into the great sun, — Noiselessly as the spring-time her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills open their thousand leaves, — So, without sound of music, or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown the great procession swept. Lo I when the warrior dieth, his comrades in the war. With arms reversed, and muffled drum, follow the funeral car. They show the banners taken, they tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, while peals the minute-gun. Amid the noblest of the land men lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place with costly marble dressed. In the great minster transept, where lights like glories fall, And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings, along the emblazoned wall. This was the bravest waiTior that ever buckled sword ; This the most gifted poet that ever breathed a word ; And never earth's philosopher traced, with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage, as he wrote down for men. 228 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. And had he not high honor, the hillside for his pall ; To lie in state while angels wait with stars for tapers tall; And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, over his bier to wave; And God's own hand, in that lonely land, to lay him in the grave? Oh, lonely tomb in Moab's land, oh, dark Beth-peor's hill, Speak to these curious hearts of ours, and teach them to be stllL God hath his mysteries of Grace — ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep, like the secret sleep of him he loved so well. Jlra. C. F, Alexander. THE BBIDAL OP MALAHIDE. rpHE joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide, the fresh wind is singing -*- along the seaside ; the maids are assembling with garlands of flowers, and the harpstrings are trembling in all the glad bowers. Swell, swell the gay measure ! roll trumpet and drum ! 'mid greetings of pleasure in splendor they come ! The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide for the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride. Before the high altar j'oung Maud stands array' d ; with accents that falter her promise is made — from father and mother forever to part, for him and no other to treasure her heart. The words are repeated, the bridal is done, the rite is completed — the two, they are one; the vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart, that must not be broken till life shall depart. Hark ! 'mid the gay clangor that compassed their car, loud accents In anger come mingling afar ! The foe 's on the border, his weapons resound where the lines in disorder unguarded are found. As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold, when the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold, so rises already the chief in his mail, while the new-married lady looks fainting and pale. " Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife, for the sister and mother, for children and wife I O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain, op, true men, and follow ! let dastards remain ! " Ilurrali! to the battle! they form into line — the shields, how they rattle! tlie spears, how they shine! soon, soon shall tlie foeraan his treachery rue : on, burgher and yeoman, to die or to do! The eve is declining in lone Malahide, the maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride ; she marks them unheeding — her heart is afar, where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war. ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 229 Hark! loud from the mountain — 't Is Victory's cry! o'er woodland and fountain it rings to tlie slcy ! Tlie foe lias retreated ! lie flies to tlie Biiorc; tlie spoiler's defeated — the combat is o'er! With foreheads unruftled the conquerors come — but why have they muffled the lance and the drum? what form do they carry aloft en his shield? and where does he tarry, the lord of the field? Ye saw him at morning how gallant and gay ! in bridal adorning the Btar of the day: now weep for the lover, — his triumph is sped, his hope it is over ! the chieftain is dead ! But, oh ! for the maiden who mourns for that chief, with heart over- laden and rending with grief ! she sinks on the meadow, — in on» morning-tide a wife and a widow, a maid and a bride ! Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole ! your comfort is rending the depths of Uer soul. True — true, 'twas a story for ages of pride, he died in his glory — but, oh, he has died ! The dead-bells are tolling in sad Mala- hide, the dead-wail is rolling along the seaside; the crowds, heavy- hearted, withdraw from the green, for the sun has departed that brighten'd the scene I Gerald Griffin. ALEXANDER'S FEAST. ' rr^ WAS at the royal feast for Persia won -*- By Philip's warlike son — Aloft in awful state the godlike hero sate On his imperial throne ; his valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound (So should desert in arms be crown'd) ; The lovely Thais by his side sate like a blooming eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride : — Happy, happy, happy pair ! None but the brave, none but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair 1 Tiraotheus placed on high amid the tuneful quire With flying fingers touch' d the lyre : The trembling notes ascend the sky and heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove who left his blissful seats above — Such is the power of iniglity love ! A dragon's flery form belied the god; Sublime on radiant spires he rode 280 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. When he to fair Olympia prest, And while he sought her snowy breast ; Then round her slender wrist he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. — The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ! A present deity ! they shout around : A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound! With ravish'd ears the monarch hears, Assumes the god; aifects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung : Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young : The jolly god in triumph comes! sound the trumpets, beat the drums! Flush'd with a purple grace he shows his honest face : Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes ! Bacchus, ever fair and young, drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, drinking is the soldier's pleasure •• Rich the treasure sweet the pleasure. Sweet Is pleasure after pain. Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain! The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; And while he Heaven and Earth defied Changed his hand and check'd his pride. He chose a mournful Muse, soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius great and good, by too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen from his high estate, And welteruig in his blood ; Deserted, at his utmost need, by those his former bounty fed; On the bare earth exposed he lies with not a friend to close his eyes. — With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his alter'd soul the various turns of Chance below; And now and then a sigh he stole, and tears began to flow. The mlglity master smiled to see That love was In the next degree; T was but a kindred sound to move- ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 281 For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, In Lydian measures Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung is toil and trouble, honor but an empty bubble, Never ending, still beginning; fighting still, and still destroying: If the world be worth thy winning, think, O thinlc, it worth enjoying-* Lovely Tliais sits beside thee, take the good the gods provide thee ! — The many rend the skies with loud applause ; So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair w^ho caused his care, And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again : A.t length with love and wine at once opprest The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. Now strike the golden lyre again : A. louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! Break his bands of sleep asunder And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark ! the horrid sound Has raised up his head : as awaked from the dead, And amazed he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, Bee the Furies arise ! see the snakes that they rear How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! Behold a ghastly band each a torch in his hand ! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain And unburied remain inglorious on the plain : Give the vengeance due to the valiant crew 1 Behold how they toss their torches on high. How they point to the Persian abodes And glittering temples of their hostile gods. — The princes applaud with a furious joy : And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way to light him to his prey, And like another Helen, fired another Troy ! — Thus, long ago, ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow. While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute 332 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. And sounding lyre could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, "With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. — Let old Timotheus yield the prize or both divide the crown; He raised a mortal to the skies ; she drew an angel down ! Dryden. NATURE AND GOD. li^VERY moment of our lives, we breathe, stand, or move in -' — ^ the temple of the Most High ; for the whole universe is that temple. Wherever we go, the testimony to His power, the impress of His hand are there. Ask of the bright woilds around us, as they roll in the ever- lasting harmony of their circles ; and they shall tell 30U of Him whose power launched thera on their courses. Ask <^f the mountains, that lift their heads among and above the clouds; and the bleak summit of one shall seem to call aloud to the snow-clad top of another, in proclaiming their testimony to the Agency which has laid their deep founda- tions. Ask of ocean's waters ; and the roar of their boundless waves shall chant from shore to shore a hymn of ascription to that Being, who hath said, "Hitherto shall ye come and no further." Ask of the rivers ; and as they roll onward to the sea, do they not bear along their ceaseless tribute to the ever-working Energy, wliich struck open their fountains and poured them do>^n through the v lleys? Ask of every region of the earth, from the burning equator to the icy pole, from th rock-hound coast to the phiin, covered with its luxuriant vegetation ; and will you not find on them all, tlie "^cord of the Creator's presence ? HUNTING SONG. 233 Ask of the countless tribes of plants and animals -, and shall they not testify to the action of the great Source of Life ? Yes, from every portion, from every department of nature, comes the same voice : everywhere we hear Thy name, O God ; everywhere we see Thy love. Creation, in all its depth and height, is the manifestation of Thy Spirit, and without Thee the world were dark and dead. The universe is to us as the burning bush which the Hebrew leader saw : God is ever present in it, for it burns with His glory, and the ground on which we stand is always holy. Francis. WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day ; All the jolly chase is here "With hawk and horse and hunting-spear; Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily, merrily mingle they, «' Waken, lords and ladies gay." "Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Springlets in the dawn are steaming. Diamonds on the brake are gleaming. And foresters liave busy been To track the buck in tliicket green; Now we come to chant our lay, " "Waken, lords and ladies gay." "Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the greenwood haste away ; "We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size ; We can show tlie marks ho made "When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; You shall see him brought to bay ; Waken, lords and ladies gay. 2S4 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Louder, louder chant the lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay! Tell them youth and mirth and glee Run a course as well as we ; Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk ; Think of this, and rise with day. Gentle lords and ladies gay ! Scott THE BATTLE OF WATEELOO. r I ^HERE was a sound of revelry by night, -*- And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her ctiivalry ; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when Music ai-ose with its voluptuous swell. Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again. And all went merr}^ as a marriage-bell : But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell 1 Did ye not hear it? — No ; 't was but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance ! Let joy be uncoufined ; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet ; To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! Arm ! arm ! it is — it is the cannon's opening roar ! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And wlicn they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed Into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 235 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out j'oung hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Blnce upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips, " The foe ! They come ! they come I " And wild and high the " Camerons' gathering" rose ! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, — and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so All the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears I And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, — alas I Ere evening to be trodden like thn grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this flery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 236 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day, Battle's magnificently stern array I The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is covered thick vs'ith other clay. Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent! Byron^ DEATH OF MAEMION. BLOUNT and Fitz-Eustace rested still with Lady Clare upon the hill', on which (for far the day was spent) the western sunbeams now were bent. The cry they heard, its meaning knew, could plain their distant comrades view: sadly to Blount did Eustace say, ''Unworthy office here to stay ! no hope of gilded spurs to-day. —But see ! look up — onEloddenbentthe Scottish foe has fired his tent." And sudden as he spoke, from the sharp ridges of the hill, all downward to the banks of TilL was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and fast, anJ rolling far, the cloud enveloped Scotland's war, as down the hill they broke ; nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, announced their march ; their tread alone, at times one warning trumpet blown, at times a stifled hum, told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rushing come. Scarce could they hear or see their foes, until at weapon-point they close. They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,, with sword-sway, and with lance's thrust; . . . long looked the anxious squires ; their eye could in the darkness naught descry. At length the freshening western blast aside the shroud of battle cast; and first, the ridge of mhiglcd spears above the brightening cloud appears; and in the smoke the pennons fiew, as in the storm the white sea-mew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far, the broken billows of the war, and plum6d crests of chieftains brave, floating like foam upon the wave ; but naught distinct tliey see : wide raged the battle on tlie plain; spears shook, and falcliions flashed amain; fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, wild and disorderly. Amid tlie scene of tumult, high they saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : and stainless Tunstall's banner white, and Edmund Howard's Hon bright, still bear them bravely in the flght; although against them come of gallant Gordons many a one, with iluntly and with Home. DEATH OF MARMTON. 237 Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle; though there the western mountaineer rushed with bare hopom on the spear, and flung the feeble targe aside, and with bo^Ji hands the broadsword plied, 't was vain : but Fortune, on the tight, with fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight. Then fell that spo'.'ess banner white, the Howard's lion fell ; yet still Lord Marmion's /alcon flew with waver- ing flight, while flcrcer grew around the battle-yjll. The Border slogan rent the sky ! a Home ! a Gordon ! was ih^, cry : loud were the clanging blows; advanced, — forced back, — rovr low, now high, the pennon sunk and rose; as bends the bark's mast in the gale, when rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail. It wavered 'mid the foes. No longer Blount the view could bear : " By Heaven and all its saints ! I swear, I will not see it lost I Fitz-Eustacc, you with Lady Clare may bid your beads, and patter prayer, — I gallop to the host." And to the fray he rode araain, followed by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desoerate charge, made, for a space, an opening large, — the rescued banner rose, — but darkly closed the war around, like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, it sunk among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too: yet sta}'ed, as loath to leave the helpless maid, when, fast as shaft can fly, bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, the loose rein dangling from his head, housing and saddle bloody red. Lord Marmion's steed rushed by; and Eustace maddening at the sight, a look and sign to Clara cast, to mark he would return in haste, then plunged into the flght. Ask me not what the maiden feels, left in that dreadful hour alone : perchance her reason stoops or reels ; perchance a courage not her own braces her mind to desperate tone. The scattered van of England wheels; she only said, as loud in air the tumult roai'ed, "Is Wilton ihere?"— they fly, or maddened by despair, fight but to die, — "Is Wilton there? " With that, straight up the hill there rode two horsemen drenched with gore, and in their arms, a helpless load, a wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand; his arms were smeared with blood and sand. Dragged from among the horses* feet, with dinted shield, and helmet beat, the falcon-crest and plumage gone, can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . Young Blount his armor did unlace, and, gazing on lus ghastly face, said, " By Saint George, he 's gone I that spear-wound has our master sped, — and see the deep cut on his head! good-night to Marmion." — "Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease : he opes his eyes," said Eustace ; " peace I " ^38 CLASSIC SELECTIONS, When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : "Where 's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? linger ye here, ye hearts of hare! redeem my pennon, — charge again! cry — ' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — Vain ! last of my race — on battle-plain that shout saall ne'er be heard again ! — Yet my last thought is England's — fly, to Dacre bear my signet ring : tell him his squadrons up to bring. Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; Tunstall lies dead upon the field, his life-blood stains the spotless shield : Edmund is down : — my life is reft ; the admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of Are, — with Chester charge, and Lancashire, full upon Scotland's central host, or victory and England's lost. Must I bid twice? —hence, varlets! fly! leave Marmion here alone — to die." They parted, and alone he lay ; Clare drew her from the sight away, till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, and half he murmured, " Is there none, of all my halls have nurst, page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring of blessed water from the spring, to slake my dying thirst? " woman ! in our hours of ease, uncertain, coy, and hard to please, and variable as the shade by the light, quivering aspen made ; when pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering angel thou ! — Scarce were the piteous accents said, when, with the baron's casque, the maid to the nigh streamlet ran : forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; the plaintive voice alone she hears, sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side, but in abhorrence backward drew; for, oozing from the mountain's side, where raged the war, a dark red tide was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn! — behold her mark a little fountain cell, where water, clear as diamond-spark, in a stone basin fell. Above, some half-worn letters say, dkink w'eary PILGRIM, DRINK AND PRAY, FOR THE KIND SOUL OF SYBIL GRAY, WHO BUILT THIS CROSS AND WELL. She filled the helm, and back she hied, and with surprise and joy espied a monk supporting Marmion's head; a pious man, whom duty brought to dubious verge of battle fought, to shrive the dying, bless the dead. ^ Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, and, as she stooped his brow to lave, — " Is it the hand of Clare," he said, " or injured Constance, bathes my head? " Then as remembrance rose, — " Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare; forgive and listen, gentle Clare!" "Alas!" she aaid, " the while, — 0, tliink of your immortal weal! in vain for Con- stance is your zeal; uha died at Holy Isle." Lord Marmion started SOLILOQUIES FROM HAMLET. 289 from the ground, as light as if he felt no wound : though in the action burst the tide, in torrents, from his wounded side. "Then it was truth," he said: "I knew that the darli presage must be true. I would the Fiend, to whom belongs the vengeance due to all her wrongs, would spare me but a day! for wasting fire, and dying groan, and priests slain on the altar stone, might bribe him for delay. It may not be!— this dizzy trance — curse on yon base marauder's lance, and doubly cursed my failing brand! a siuful heart malies feeble hand." Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, supported by the trembling monk. With fruitless labor, Clara bound, and strove to stanch the gushing Wound : the monk with unavailing cares, exhausted all the Church's prayers. Ever, he said, that, close and near, a lady's voice was in his ear, and that the priest he could not hear ; for that she ever sung, " In the lost battle, home down by the flying, where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying .'" So the notes rung. "Avoid thee. Fiend I with cruel hand shake not the dying sinner's sand ! O, look, my son, upon yon sign of the Redeemer's grace divine; O, think on faith and bliss ! — By many a death-bed I have been, and many a sinner's parting seen, but never aught like this." The war, that for a space did fail, now trebly thundering swelled the gale, and — Stanley ! was the cry, — a light on Marmion's visage spread, and fired his glazing eye : with dying hand, above his head, he shook the fragment of his blade, and shouted, "Victory! — charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" were the last words of Marmion. Scott. SOLILOQUIES PEOM HAMLET. I. A Y, so, God be wi' ye. [^Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guilden -^^ stern-l Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I ! Is it not monstrous, that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to liis own conceit, That from her worlcing all his visage wann'd, Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting "With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing I For Hecuba ! 240 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. What 's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears, And cleave the general ear with horrid speech; Make mad the guilty and appall the free. Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak. Like John-a-dreams, unpregnaut of my cause, And can say nothing ; no, not for a king Upon whose property and most dear life A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? breaks m)-- pate across? Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat, As deep as to the lungs? who does me this? Ha! 'Swounds, I should take it : for it cannot be But I am pigeou-liver'd and lack gall To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave's off"al : bloody, bawdy villain ! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain ! 0, vengeance! Why, what an ass am I ! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murder'd. Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a trull, unpack my heart with words. And fall a-cursing, like a very drab, A scullion ! Fie upon 't ! f oh ! About, my brain ! I have heard That guilty creatures sitting at a play Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions ; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I 'U have these players SOLILOQUIES FROM HAMLET. 24 3 Play somethlni^ like ths murder of my father Before mine uncle : I '11 observe liis looks ; I'll tent him to the quick : if he but blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be the devil : and the devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me : I '11 have grounds More relative than this : the play 's the thing Wherein I '11 catch the conscience of the king. n. rp^O be or not to be : that is the question : -*- Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suflter The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die : to sleep; No more ; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to : 't is a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep : perchance to dream ! — ay, there 's the rubj For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause : there 's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time. The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, Th(! pangs of despised love, the law's delay. The insolence of ofTice and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who 'd these fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovor'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? 242 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. Shakeapeare. OF STUDIES. O TUDIES serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. ^^ Their chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring ; for ornament, is iu discourse ; and for ability, is iu the judg- ment and disposition of business : for expert men can exe- cute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one ; Init the general counsels, and the plots and marshalling of affairs come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is sloth ; to use them too much for ornament is affectation ; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humor of a scholar : they perfect nature, and are perfected by experience : for natural abilities are like nat- ural plants, that need pruning b}- study ; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men condemn studies, simple men admire them; and wise men use them ; for they teach not their own use ; b'\t that is a wisdom without them and above them, won by observation. Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and con sider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, an(? some few to be chewed and digcstetl ; lliat is, some books are to be read only in parts ; others to be read, but not curiously ; and some few to be read wliolly, and with diligence and atten- tion. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 248 made of them by others ; but that would be only in the less im- portant argument, and the meaner sort of books ; else distilled books are, like common distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man ; and therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory ; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit ; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. If a man's wit be wandering, let him study the mathemat- ics ; for in demonstrations, if his wit be called away never so little, he must begin again : if his wit be not apt to distinguish or find differences, let him study the schoolmen ; if he be not apt to beat over matters, and to call up one thing to prove and illustrate another, let him study the lawyers' cases ; so every defect of the mind may have a special receipt. Bacon. INTIMATIONS OF DIMOETALITT. npHERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, -*- The earth, and every common sight to me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, the glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — ■ Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more I The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose ; The moon doth with delight look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth ; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound as to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief : 244 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng ; The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay ; land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, and with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday. Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy ! Ye blessSd creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal. The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it aU. O evil day ! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning this sweet May morning. And the children are pulling on every side. In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm. And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — I hear, I hear, with joy I hearl But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have looked upon. Both of them speak of something that is gone ; The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat : Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, and cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home. Heaven lies about us in our infancy ; Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy. But ho beholds the light, and whence it flows, he sees It in his joy; INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 245 The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended ; At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day- Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. And even with something of a mother's mind And no unworthy aim. The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, Forget the glories he hath known. And that imperial palace whence he came- Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pygmy size ! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes ! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life. Shaped by himself with newly learned art j A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral ; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song : Then will he flt his tongue To dialogues of business, love or sisrii*} But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and prid© The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his " humorous stage" With all the Persons down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. 246 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage ; thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted forever by the eternal Mind — Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! On whom those truths do rest Which Ave are toiling all our lives to And, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; Thou, over whom thj' immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by ; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke. Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight. Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! O joy 1 that in our embers Is something that doth Uve, That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction — not, indeed. For that which is most worthy to be blest ; Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast t Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, fallings fi'om us, vanishings* Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized. High instincts before which our aiortal nature INTIMATIONS OP IMxMORTALITY. 247 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ; But for those first afiections, those shadowy recollections, "Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fouutaiii-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence : truths that wake, to perish never, "Which neither listlessuess, nor mad endeavor, nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence, In a season ot calm weather, though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither. Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, j^e birds ! sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound ! We in thought will join your throng. Ye that pipe and ye that play. Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May ! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind ; In the primal sympathy Which, having been, must ever be, Jp tbft soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering. In tlie faith that looks through death. In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Think not of any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 1848 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway, I love the broolis which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent briglitness of a new-born day is lovely yet ; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do talie a sober colorhig from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Tlianks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears. To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. Wordaieorth. GOODY BLAKE AND HAERT GILL. "V^OUNG TTarry was a lusty drover, and who so stout of limb as he? -*- His cliecks were red as ruddy clover, liis voice was like tlie voice of three. Auld Goody Blake was old and poor, ill fed she was, and thinly clad ; and any man who passed her door, might see how poor a hut she liad. All day she spun in her poor dwelling, and then her three hours work at night ! alas ! 't was hardly worth the telling, it would not pay for candle-light. This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, her hut was on a cold hillside, and in tliat country coals axe dear, for they come far by wind and tide. . . . Now when the frost was past enduring, and made her poor old bones to ache, could anything be more alluring, than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And now and then, it must be said, when her old bones were cold and chill, she left her fixe, or left her bo<:l, to seek tlie hedge of Harry Gill. Now Harry he had long suspected this trespass of old Goody Blake, and vowed that she should be detected, and he on her would vengeance take. And oft from his warm Are he 'd go, and to the fields his road would take, and there, at night, in frost and snow, he watched to seize old Goody Blake. And once beliind a rick of barley, thus looking out did Harry stand; the moon was full and shining clearly, and crisp wiUi frost the stubHe land. He hears a uolso — he 'sail awake — again 1 — on tiptoe dowu SIR PATRICK SPENS. 24V» the hill he softly creeps. 'T Is Goody Blake! she's at the hedge of Uarry GilL Right glad was he when he beheld her : stick after stick did Goody pull : he stood behind a bush of elder, till she had flUed her apron full. When with her load she turned about, the by-road back again to take, he started forward with a shout, and sprang upon poor Goody Blake. And fiercely by the arm he took her, and by the arm he held her fast, and fiercely by the arm he shook her, and cried, " I 've caught you then at last ! " Then Goody, who had nothing said, her bundle from her lap let fall ; and kneeling on the sticks, she prayed to God that is the judge of all. She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, while Harry held her by the arm, "God! Avho art never out of hearing, O may he never more be warm!" The cold, cold moon above her head, thus on her knees did Goody pray : young Harry heard what she had said, and icy cold he turned away. No word to any man he utters, abed or up, to young or old ; but ever to himself he mutters, " Poor Harry Gill is very cold." Abes' or up, by night or day, his teeth they chatter, chatter still : now think, ye farmers all, I pray, of Goody Blake and Harry Gill. Wordsworth, SIE PATEICK SPENS. THE king sits In Dunfermline town, drinking the blude-red wine : "O where wiU I get a skeeiy skipper, to sail this new ship ol mine?" O up and spake an eldern knight, sat at the king's right knee, — " Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, that ever sailed the sea." Our king has written a braid letter, and sealed It with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, was walking on the strand- " To Noroway, to Noroway, to Noroway o'er the faem ; The king's daoj^hter of Noroway, 'tis thou maun bring her haxoe." The first word that Sir Patrick read, sae loud, loud laughed he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, the tear blindit his e'e. " wha is this has done this deed, and tauld the king o' me. To send us out, this time of the year, to sail upon the sea? "Be't wind, be't weet, be't hall, be't sleet, one ship must sail the faem ; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'tis we must fetch her hamo.** 250 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. They hoysed their sails on Monenday mom, wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed tn Noroway, upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week, a week, in Noroway, but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway began aloud to say, — "Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd, and a' our queenis fee," " Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud ! fu' loud I hear ye lie ! *' For I hae brought as much white monie, as gane my men and me, And I hae brought a half-f ou o' gude red goud, out o'er the sea wi' me." *' Make ready, make ready, my merry men a'! our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake ! my master dear, I fear a deadly storm ! " I saw the new moon, late yestreen, wi' the auld moon in her armj And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we '11 come to harm." They hadna sailed a league, a league, a league, but barely three, "When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, and gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, it was sic a deadly storm ; And the waves came o'er the broken ship, till a' her sides were torn. " O where will I get a gude sailor, to take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall topmast, to see if I can spy land? " " O here am I, a sailor gude, to take the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall topmast ; but I fear you '11 ne'er spy land." He hadna gane a step, a step, a step, but barely ane, When a bolt flew out of our goodly ship, and the salt sea it came in. " Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, another of the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, and letna the sea come in." They fetched a web o' the silken claith, another of the twine. And they wrapped them roun' that gude ship's side, — but still the sea came in. O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords to weet their cork-heeled shoon i But lang or a' the play was played, tliey wat tlicir hats aboon. And mony was tlie fcatiier-bod, that lloatod on the facm; And mony was 'the gude lord's won, that never mair came hame. The laydes wrung tlicir fingers white, the maidens tore their hair, A' for the sake of their true loves; for them they '11 see ua mair. MIDSUMMER. 25J O lang, lang may the ladyes sit, wi' their fans into tbelr hand. Before they see Sir ratriclc Speus come sailing to tlie strand 1 And lang, lang may tlie maidens sit, -w ^eir gowd kaims in their haiTj A' waiting for tlicir ain dear loves .- lor them tlicy 'U see na mair. O forty miles off Aberdeen, 't is fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, wi' the Scots lords at his feet. Old Ballad. Anon^noxu. MIDSUMMEE. AROUND this lovely valley rise The purple hills of Paradise. O, softly on yon banks of haze Her rosy face the Summer lays ! Becalmed along the azure sky, The argosies of Cloudland lie, Whose shores, with many a shining rift, Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. Through all the long midsummer day The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. I seek the coolest sheltered seat, Just where the field and forest meet, — Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland. The ancient oaks austere and grand, And fringy roots and pebbles fret The ripples of the rivulet. I watch the mowers, as they go ^ Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row. With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring. Behind, the nimble youngsters rui^, And toss the thick swaths in the sun. The cattle graze, while, warm and still, Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, And bright, where summer breezes break, The green wheat crinkles like a lake. The butterfly and humble-bee Come to the pleasant woods with me ; Quickly before me runs the quail. Her chickens skulk behind the rail ; 252 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, And tlie woodpeclcer pecljs and flits, Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, The brooldet rings its tinkling bells, The swarming insects drone and hum, The partridge beats his tlirobbing drum. The squirrel leaps among the boughs. And chatters in his leafy house, The oriole flashes by ; and, look ! Into the mirror of the brook. Where the vain bluebird trims his coet. Two tiny feathers fall and float. As silently, as tenderly, The down of peace descends on me, O, this is peace ! I have no need Of friend to talk, of book to read : A dear Companion here abides ; Close to my thrilling heart He hides : The holy silence is His voice : I lie and listen, and rejoice. J' T. Trotobridge, From ♦' The Vagabonds, and OtJter Poems." TO THE DAISY. "TTTITII little here to do or see, of things that in the groat world ^ ' be, sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee, for thou art worthy, thou unassuming commonplace of Nature, with that homely face, and yet with something of a grace which love makes for thee ! Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit and play with similes, loose types of things tlirough all degrees, thoughts of thy raising ; and many a fond and idle name I give to thee, £or praiiie or iilam© as Is the humor of the game, while I am gazing- A nun dt-mure, of lovviy port; or sprightly maiden, of Love's coart. In thy simplicity the sport of all temptations; a queen in crown of rubles drcst; a starveling In a scanty vest; ar« all, as seems to suit thee best, thy appellations. A little Cyc:lops, with one eye staring to threaten and defy, that thought comes next — and instantly the freak is over, the shape will vanish, and behold ! a silver shield with boss of go'd that spreads itself Bome fairy bold in flght to cover. I see theo glittering from afar — and then thou art a pretty star, not LETTER SCENE FROM MACBETH. 253 quite so fair as many are in heaven above thee ! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, self-poised iu air thou seem'st to rest; — may peace come never to his nest who shall reprove thee ! Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last when all my reveries are past I call thee, and to that cleave f:ist, sweet silent creature! that brcath'st with me in sun and air, do thou, as thou art wont, repair my heart with gladness, and a share of thy meek nature ! Wordsworth. LETTER SCENE FEOM MACBETH. 'T~ ABY MACBETH. [Beading a letter.] " They met me in the ■ / -^ day of success; and I have learned by the perfectest report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves — air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me, 'Thane of Cawdor' ; by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with, ' Hail, king that shalt be ! ' This have I thought good to deliver tliee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell." Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; and shalt be What thou art promised. — Yet do I fear thy nature ; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great ; 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 crown"d withal. [Enter Messkxgkb. What is your tidings? Messenger. The king comes here to-night. L. Much. Thou 'rt mad to say It 254 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Is not thy master with him? who, were 't so, Would have inform' d for preparation. Mess. So please you, it is true ; our thane is coming : One of my fellows had the speed of him ; Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message. L. Macb. Give him tending ; [ Exit Mbssekobr, He brings great news. — The raven himself is hoarse, That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. — Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unses me here; And fill me, from the crown to tli' toe, top-full Of direst cruelty ! make thick my blood ; Stop up th' access and passage to remorse ; That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief ! Come, thick night. And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes. Nor Heaven peep tlirough the blanket of the dark, To cry " Hold, hold ! " — [Enter Macbeth. Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor I Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter I Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant. Macbeth. My dearest love, Duncan comes here to-night. L. Macb. And when goes hence? Macb. To-morrow, — as he purposes. L. Mnrb. 0, never Shall sun tliat morrow see ! Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time. Look like tlie time ; l)oar welcome In your eye. Your hand, your tongue : look like the innocent flower, THE ELOQUENCE OF ADAMS. 265 But be the serpent under 't. He that 's coming Must be provided for : and you shall put This night's great business into my dispatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. Mncb. "We will speak farther. L. Macb. Only look up clear; To alter favor ever is to fear. Leave all the rest to me. Shaketpeare. HELEN TO THE SOLDIEES. "DOLDLY she spoke, — '■ Soldiers, attend! -L-' My father was the soldier's friend ; Cheer'd him in camps, in marches led, And with him in the battle bk'd. Not from tlie valiant or the strong, Should exile's daughter suffer wrong." Scott. THE ELOQUENCE OF ADAMS. WHEN public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is vahiable in speech, further than as it is connected with hioh intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It can- not be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be mar- shalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the suDject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it ; they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech shock and disgust men, when 256 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and then' country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and sub- dued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Tlien patriotism is eloquent ; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear concep- tion, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beam- ing from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, riglit onward to his object, — this, this is elo- quence ; or rather it is something greater and higher than all eloquence ; it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. In July, 1776, tlie controversy had passed the stage of argu- ment. An appeal had been made to force, and opposing armies were in the field. Congress, then, was to decide whether tho tie which had so long bound us to the parent State was to be severed at once, and severed forever. All the Colonies had signified their resolution to abide by this decision, and the people looked for it with the most intense anxiety. And surely, fellow-citizens, never, never were men called to a more impor- tant political deliberation. If we contemplate it from the point where they then stood, no question could be more full of inter- est : if we look at it now, and judge of its importance by its effects, it appears in still grf^ater magnitude. Let us, then, bring before us the assembly which was about to decide a question thus big with the fate of empire. Let us open their doors, and look in upon their deliberations. Let us sur- vey the anxious and care-worn countenances, let us hear the firm-toned voices, of this band of patriots. Hancock presides over the solemn sitting ; and one of those not yet prepared to pronounce for absouite independence is on the floor, and is urging his reasons for dissenting from the Dec- laration. *'Let ufl pause ! This step, once taken, cannot be retraced. THE ELOQUENCE OF ADAMS. 257 This resolution, once passed, will cut off all hope of reconcilia- tion. If success attend the arms of England, we shall then be no longer Colonies, with charters and with privileges : these will all be forfeited by this act ; and we shall be in the condi- tion of other conquered peoples, at the mercy of the conqueroi-s. For ourselves, we may be ready to run the hazard ; but are we ready to carry the country to that length ? Is success so prob- able as to justify it? Where is the military, where the naval power, by which we are to resist the whole strength of the arm of England? . . . *' "While we stand on our old ground, and insist on redress of grievances, we know we are right, and are not answerable for consequences. Nothing then can be imputed to us. But if we now change our object, carry our pretensions further, and set up for absolute independence, we shall lose the sympathy of mankind. "We shall no longer be defending what we possess, but struggling for something which we never did possess, and which we have solemnly and uniformly disclaimed all intention of pursuing, from the very outset of the troubles. Abandoning thus our old ground of resistance only to arbitrary acts of oppression, the nations will believe the whole to have been mere pretence, and they will look on us, not as injured, but as ambi- tious subjects, " I shudder before this responsibility. It will be on us, if, relinquishing the ground on which we have stood so long, and stood so safely, we now proclaim independence, and carry on the war for that object, while these cities burn, these pleasant fields whiten and bleach with the bones of their owners, and these streams run blood. It will be upon us, it will be upon us, if, failing to maintain this unseasonable and ill-judged Declara- tion, a sterner despotism, maintained by military power, shall be established over our posterity, when we ourselves, given up by an exhausted, a harassed, a misled people, shall have expiated our rashness and atoned for our presumption on the scaffold." 258 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. It was for Mr. Adams to reply to arguments like these. "We know his opinions, and we know his character. He would com' mence with his accustomed directness and earnestness. "Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true inde( d that in the begin- ning we aimed not at independence. But there's a Divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England has driven us to arms ; and, blinded to her own interest for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why then should we defer the Declaration ? Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or safet}- to his life and his own honor? Are not you, Sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you not both al- ready the proscribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance ? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws? " If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up, the war? Do we mean to submit to the measures of Parliament, Boston-Port Bill and all? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves f^hall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust? I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall submit. Do we mean to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, putting him forth to inour the dangers of war, :is well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives? I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a gen- eral conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of tiiat plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved THE ELOQUENCE OF ADAMS. 25S you, that George Washington be ajipointed commander of the forces raised, or to be raised, for defence of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him. . . . " Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see clearly, through this day's business. You and I indeed may rue it. We may not live to the time when this Declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die, colonists ; die, slaves ; die, it may be, iguominiously and on the scaffold. Be it so ; be it so ! If it be the pleasure of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a free country. " But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, I see the bright- ness of the future, as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual return they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of sub- jection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exulta- tion, of gratitude, and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the bour is come. My judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it ; and I leave off, as I began, that live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment, Independence now, and Independence forever." Webster. 260 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. THE BRAVE. i I OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest -*— *- With all their country's wishes blest? "When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. Returns to deck their hallowed mould, It there shall dress a sweeter sod Than blooming Fancy ever trod. By Fairy hands their knell is rung : By forms unseen their dirge is sung : There Honor walks, a pilgrim gray, To deck the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall a while repair To dwell a weeping hermit there. Collins. THE IlfTEEVIEWER. [^Enter Reporter of the Daily Thunderstorm.'] 'TNTEB VIEWER. Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you. Author. Come to what? Int. Interview you. A. Ah, I see. Yes — yes. Um. Yes — yes. I say, — how do you spell it? Int. Spell what? A. Interview. Int. Oh, ray goodness ! What do you want to spell it for? A. I don't want to spell it ; I want to see what it means. Int. Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell 5'ou what it means, if you — if you — A. Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you. Int. I-u — iw, t-e-r — «er, inter. A. Then you spell it with an If Int. Why certainly. A. Oil, tliat is wliat took me so long I Int. Wliy, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with? A. Well, I — I — I — hardly know. I had the unabridged ; aad THE INTEVIEWER. 261 I Was ciphering around iu the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition. Int. Why, ray friend, they would not have a picture of it, even the latest e — My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world; but you do not look as — as intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm, — I mean no harm at all. A. Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter, and who could liave no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes — yes — they always speak of it with rapture. Int. I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know It is the custom now to interview any man who has become notorious. A. Indeed? I had not heard of it before. It must be very inter- esting. What do you do it with? Int. Ah, well — well — well — this is disheartening. It ought to be done with a club, in some cases; but customarily it coiisists iu the interviewer asking questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history? A. Oh, with pleasure, — with pleasure ! I have a very bad mem- ory, but I hope that you will not mind that. That is to say, it is an irregular memory, singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes at a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me. Int. Oh, it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can I A. 1 will put my whole mind upon it. Int. Thanks. Are you ready to begin? A. Ready. Int. How old are you? A. Nineteen in June. Int. Indeed, I would have taken you to be thlrty-flve or six. Where were you bom? A. In Missouri. Int. When did you begin to write? A. In 1836. Lit. Why, how could that be, If you are only nineteen now? A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow. Int. It does Indeed. What was the date of your birth? 262 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. A. Monday, Oct. 81, 1693. Int. What! Impossible! That would make you a hondred and eighty years old. How do you account for that? A. I don't account for it at all. Int. But you said at first you were only nineteen; and now, you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy. A. Why, have you noticed that? {Shaking hands.'] Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy; but somehow I could not make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing? Int. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters? A. Eh? I — I — I — I think so ~ yes — but I don't remember. Int. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard. A. Why, what makes you think that ! Lit. How could I think otherwise? Why, look here. Who is this a picture of on the wall? Is n"t that a brother of yours? A. Oh, yes, yes, yes. Now you remind me of it, that was a brother of mine. That 's William, — Bill we called him. Poor old Bill. Int. Why. is he dead, then? A. Ah, well I suppose so. We could never tell. There was a grekt mysteiy about it. Int. Tliat is sad, very sad. He disappeared then? A, Well, yes, in a sort of a general way. We buried him. Int. Buried him! Buried him without knowing whether he was dead or not? A. Oh, no! He was dead enough. Int. Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, — and you knew he was dead — A. No, no. We only thouglit he was. Int. Oh, I see! He came to life again? A. No, he did n't. Int. Well, I never heard anything like this. Somebody was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery? A. Ah, th.it's just it. That's It exactly. You see we were twins, — defunct and I: and we got mixed in the bath-tub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't kno-y which. Some think it was Bill ; some think it was me. ItU. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think? THE BOYS. 263 A, Goodness knows. I would give whole worlds to know. This Bolcmn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. Bat I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any crea- ture before. One of us had a peculiar mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand ; that was me. That was the child that was drowned. Int. Very well ; then I don't see that there is any mystery about It, after all. A. You don't? Well, I do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But 'sh; don't mention it where tlie family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heartbreaking troubles enough without adding this. Arranged as a Dialogue, /rom Mark Twain, THE BOYS. HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? If there has, take him out, without making a noise. Hang tlie almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite ! Old Time is a liar ; we 're twenty to-night ! We 're twenty ! We 're twenty ! Who says we are more? lie 's tipsy, — young jackanapes I — show him the door ! " Gray temples at twenty?" — Yes! ichite if we please; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there 's nothing can freeze f Was it snowing I spoke of ? Excuse the mistake ! Look close, — you will see not a sign of a flake! We want some new garlands for those we have shed, And these are white roses in place of the red. We've a trick, — we young fellows, — you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we wore old; That boy we call ' Doctor," and tliis. we call " Judge".. It's a neat little fiction, — of course it 's all fudge. That fellow 's the " Speaker," the one on the right; " Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chafl"; There 's the " Reverend " — what 's his name ! — don't make me laugh That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book. 264 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. And the Royal Society thought it was true t So they chose him right in, — a good joke it was, too* There 's a boy, we pretend, with a three-declier bram, That could harness a team witli a logical chain; When he spolie for our manhood in syllabled fire. We called him " The Justice," but now he's the " Squire." And there 's a nice youngstet of excellent pith ; Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith ; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — Just read on his medal, "My couutry," " of thee"! Ton hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call. And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all. Yes, we're boys, — always playing with tongue or with pen-, And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay. Till the last dear companion drops smiling away? Then here 's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray ! The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of Thy children, the boys ! Eolmet. BEinSDICK Ain) HIS FRIENDS. I. TiENEDICK. I do much wonder, that one man, seeing how mucli another man is a fool when lie dedicates his behaviors to love, will, ^ter he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argu« ment of his own scorn, by falling in love : and such a man is Claudlo. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and life ; and now had he ratlier hear the tabor and the pipe. I have known when he would have walked ten mile afoot to sec a good armor: and now will lie lie ten nights awake, carving tiie fasliiou of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain, and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now Is he turned orthographer ; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so BENEDICK AND HIS FRIENDS. 266 eonverted, and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn, but Love may transform me to an oyster; but I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair,— yet I am well ; another is wise, — yet I am well; another virtuous, — yet I am well : but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her ; fair, or I 'II never look on her ; mild, or come not near me ; noble, or not I for an angel ; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what color it please God. Ha! the prince and monsieur Love ! I will hide me in the arbor. [ WitMrawa. Enter Don Pedro, Leonato, and Claxjdio. Don Pedro. By my troth, a good song. Benedick (aside). An he had been a dog, that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief! I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it. D. Pe. See you where Benedick hath hid himself? Clati. Oh, very well, my lord. D. Pe. Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day? that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick? Clau. Oh, ay : — stalk on, stalk on : the fowl sits. (Aside to Pedro.) I did never think tliat lady would have loved any man. Leo. No, nor I neither ; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor. Ben. Is 't possible? Sits the wind in that corner? (Aside.") Leo. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it; but that she loves him with an enraged affection, — it is past the infinite of thought. Z>. Pe. May be, she doth but counterfeit. Clau. Faith, like enough. Leo. O, counterfeit! There never was counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion, as she discovers it. D. Pe. "Why, what effect of passion shows she? Clau. Bait the hook well ; this fish will bite. (Aside.) Leo. What effects, my lord? She will sit you — You heard my daughter tell you how. Clau. She did, indeed. 266 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. D. Pe. How, how, I pray you? Too amaze me: I would hare thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection. Leo. I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick. Ben. (aside). I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure hide itself in such reverence. Clau He hath ta"en the infection : hold it up. {Aside) D. Pe. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick? Leo. No; and swears she never will : that's her torment. Clau. Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says. "Shall I," says she, " that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?" Leo. This says she now when she is beginning to write to him : for she '11 be up twenty times a night ; and there will she sit in her smock, till she have writ a sheet of paper : — my daughter tells us all. Clau. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses ; — " O sweet Benedick! God give me patience ! " Leo. She doth indeed ; my daughter says so. D. Pe. It were good, that Benedick knew of it by some other, If she will not discover it. Clau. To wliat end? He would but make a sport of it, and tor- ment the poor lady worse. D. Pe. An he should, it were an alms to hang him. She 's an excel- lent sweet lady ; and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous. Clau. And slie is exceeding wise. D. Pe. In everything, l)Ut in loving Benedick. Leo. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian. D. Pe. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me : I would have daffed all other respects, and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what lie will say. Leo. Were it good, think you? Clau. Hero thinks surely she will die : for she says, she will die If he love her not; and she will die ere she makes her love known; and slie will die if he woo her, rather than she will 'bate one breath of her accustomed crossness. D. Pe. She doth well : if slie should make tender of her love, 'tis very p'^siblo he '11 scorn it; for the man, as you all know, hath a con- BENEDICK AND HIS FRIENDS. 267 Jemptible spirit. Well, I cm sorry for j'our niece. Shall we go seek Benedick, and tell him of her love? Clau. Never tell him, my lord; let her wear It out with good counsel. Leo. Nay, that's Impossible; she may wear her heart out first. D. Pe. "Well, we will hear farther of it l)y your daughter; let it cool the while. I love Benedick well ; and I could wisli he would mod- estly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy to have so goc>d a lady. Leo. My lord, will you walk? dinner Is ready. Clau. (aside). If he do not dote on her upon this, I will neveu. trust my expectation. 2>. Pe. Let us send her to call him in to dinner. Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudio, and Lkoxato. Ben. (advancing). This can be no trick : the conference was sadly borne. — They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady : It seems, her affections have their full bent. Love me ! why. It must be requited. I hear how I am censured : they say, I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too, that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. — I did never think to marry : — I must not seem proud. — Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. They say, tne lady is fair, — 't is a truth, I can bear them witness ; and virtuous, — 't is so, I cannot reprove it ; and wise, but for loving me. — By my troth, it is no addition to her wit ; — nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage. But doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat In his youth, that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips, and sentences, and these paper bullets of the brain, awe a man from the career of his humor? Ko; the world must be peopled. When I said, I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she 's a fair lady : I do spy some marks of love In her. Beatrice {entering). Against my will, I am sent to bid you come In to dinner. Ben. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. Bea. I took no more pains for those thanks, than you take pains to thank me : if it had been painful, I would not have come. 268 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Ben. You take pleasure then in the message? Bea. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point, and choke a daw withaL You have no stomach, signior ; fare you well. [Exit. Ben. Ha! " Against my will I am sent to bid you come to dinner." — There 's a double meaning in that. " I took no more pains for those thanks, than you took pains to thank me." — That's as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain ; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture. [Exit. n. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Lkonato, and Benedick. 2>. Pe. I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then I go toward Arragon. Clau. I '11 bring you thither, my lord, if j-ou 'II vouchsafe me. D. Pe. Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your marriage, as to show a child his new coat, and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold with Benedick for his company ; for, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mii'th : he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's bowstring, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him ; he hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks. Ben. Gallants, I am not as I have been. Leo. So say I ; methinks, you are sadder. Clari. 1 hope he be in love. Z). Pe. Hang him, truant ! there 's no true drop of blood lu him, tc be truly touched with love : if he be sad, he wants money. Ben. I have the toothache. D. Pe. Draw it. Ben. Hang it! Clau. You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards. D. Pe. What! sigh for the toothache? Ben. Well, every one can master a grief but he that has It. Clau Yet say I, he is in love. D. Pe. There Is no appearance of fancy In him, unless It be a fancy that he hatli to strange disguises; as, to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to-morrow; or in tlie shape of two countries at once, as, a (Jerman from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. THE TITMOUSE. 269 Clan. If he be not In love with some woman, there Is no DeiJering •Id signs : he brushes his hat o' mornings ; what should that bode? D. Pe. Hath any man seen hira at the barber's? Clau. No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him ; and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls. Leo. Indeed, he looks younger than he did by the loss of a beard. D. Pe. Nay, he rubs himself with civet : can you smell hira out by that? Clau. That 's as much as to say, the sweet youth 's in love. D. Pe. The greatest note of it is his melancholy. Clau. And when was he wont to wash his face? D. Pe. Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they say of him. Clau. Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept into a lute- string, and now governed by stops. D. Pe. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for hira. Conclude, conclude, he is in love. Clau. Nay, but I know who loves him. D. Pe. That would I know too : I warrant, one that knows him not. Clau. Yes, and his ill conditions ; and, in despite of all, dies for hira. 2). Pe. She shall be buried with her face upwards. Ben. Yet is this no charm for the toothache. — Old signior, walk aside with me : I have studied eight or nine wise words to speaK to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear. [Exeunt Bex. and Lko. D. Pe. For my life, to break with him about Beatrice. Clau. 'T is even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice ; and then the two bears v/ill not bite one another When they meet. Shakespeare. THE TITMOUSE. "V7"0U shall not be overbold -^ When you deal with arctic cold, As late I found my lukewarm blood Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. How should I fight? my focman fine Has million arras to one of mine : East, west, for aid I looked in vain, East, west, north, south, are his domain. Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home ; Must borrow his winds who thero would come. 270 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Up and away for life ! be fleet ! The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, Sings in my ears, my hands are stones, Curdles the blood to the marble bones, Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense, And hems in life with narrowing fence. Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep, The punctual stars avIU vigil keep, Embalmed by purifying cold, The winds shall sing their dead-march old. The snow is no ignoble shroud. The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. Softly, — but this way fate was pointing, T was coming fast to such anointing, When piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, Chic-chic-a-dee-dee ! saucy note Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said, " Good day, good sir! Fine afternoon, old passenger! Happy to meet you in these places, Where January brings few faces." This poet, though he live apart. Moved by his hospitable heart. Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, To do the honors of his court. As fits a feathered lord of land-f Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand. Hopped on the bough, then, darting low. Prints his small imjiress on the snow, Shows feats of his gymnastic play. Head downward, clinging to the spray. Here was this atom in full Ijreath, Hurling deflance at vast death ; This scrap of valor just for play Fronts tlio north-wind in waistcoat gray. As If to shame my weak behavior; I greeted loud my little savior : THE TITMOUSE. 271 " You pet ! what dost here? and what for? In these woods, thy small Labrador, At this pinch, wee San Salvador! What Are burns in that little chest So frolic, stout, and sclf-possest? Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine ; Ashes and jet all hues outshine. Why are not diamonds black and gray, To ape thy dare-devil array? And I affirm, the spacious North Exists to draw thy virtue forth. I think no virtue goes with size; The reason of all cowardice Is, that men are overgrown, And, to be valiant, must come down To the titmouse dimension." 'T is good-will makes intelligence, And I began to catch the sense Of my bird's song: " Live out of doors In the great woods, on prairie floors. I dine in the sun ; when he sinks in the sea, I too liave a hole in a hollow tree; And I like less when Summer beats With stifling beams on these retreats. Than noontide twilights which snow makes With tempest of the blinding flakes. For well the soul, if stout within, Can arm impregnably the skin ; And polar frost my frame defied. Made of the air that blows outside." With glad remembrance of my debt, I homeward turn ; farewell, my pet! When here again thy pilgrim comes. He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs. Doubt not, so long as earth has bread, Thou first and foremost shalt be fed; The Providence that is most large Takes hearts like thine in special charge, 572 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Helps who for their own need are strong, And the sky dotes on cheerful song. Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant O'er all that mass and minster vaunt ; For men mis-hear thy call in spring. As 't would accost some frivolous wing, Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be ! And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee ! I think old Caesar must have heard In northern Gaul my dauntless bird, And, echoed in frosty wold, Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. And I will write our annals new, And thank thee for a better clew, I, who dreamed not when I came here To find the antidote of fear, Nor hear thee say in Roman key, Pcean ! Veni, vidi, vici. Emerton. A KILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. *XTOON by the north clock ! -^^ Noon by the east ! High noon, too, by these hot sun- beams which fall scarcely aslope upon my head, and almost make the water bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. Truly, we public characters have a tough time of it ! And among all the town officers, chosen at March meeting, where is he that sustains for a single moment the burden of such manifold duties as are imposed in perpetuity upon the Town Pump? To speak within bounds, I am the chief person of the munici- pality, and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother officers, by the cool, steady, upright, downright, and impartial discharge of my business and the constancy with which I stand at my post. Summer or winter nobody seeks me in vain : for all day long I am seen at the busiest corner, just above the market, stretching out my arms to rich and poor A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 278 alike ; and at night I hold a lantern over ray head, both to show where I am, and to keep people out of the gutters. At this sultry noontide I am cupbearer to the parched popu- lace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to ray waist. Like a drara-seller on the mall at a rauster day, I cry aloud to all, in my plainest accents and at the tip-top of my voice. " Here it is, gentlemen ! Here is the good liquor ! "Walk up ! walk up, gentleraen ! walk up ! walk up ! Here is the superior stuff ! Here is the unadulterated ale of Father Adam ! better than cognac, Jamaica, strong beer, or wine at any price : here it is by the hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to pay. Walk up, gentlemen, walk up and help yourselves ! " It were a pity if all this outcry should bring no customers. Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen. Quaff and away again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice cool sweat. You, my friend, will need another cupful, to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as thick there as it is on 3'our cowhide shoes. I see that you have trudged half a score of miles to-day, and, like a wise man, have passed by the taverns, and stopped at the running brooks and well curbs. Otherwise, betwixt heat within and fire without, 3'ou would have been burnt to a cinder, or melted down to nothing at all, in the fashion of a jelly-fish. Drink and raake room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to quench the fiery fever of last night's potations which he drained from no cup of mine. Welcome, most rubicund sir ! You and I have been great strangers hitherto : nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man ! (he water absolutely hisses down your red gullet, and is converted quite into steam, in the miniature Tophet which you mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and tell me on the word of an honest toper, did you ever in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram-shop, spend the price of your 274 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. children's food for a swig half so delicious ? Now for the first time these ten years you know the flavor of good cold watei. Good by, and whenever you are thirsty, remember that I keep a constant supply at the old stand. Who next? O, ni}' little friend, you are let loose from school, and come hither to scrub vour bloomiuaf face, and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferrule, and other sehool-lioy troubles, in a draught irom the Town Pump. Take it, pure as the current of your young life ; take it, and may your heart and tongue never thirst with a fiercer thirst than now. There, my dear child, put down the cup and yield your place to this elderly gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving- stones, that I suspect he is afraid of breaking them. What ! he limps by without so much as thanking me, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who have no wine cellars. Well, well, sir, no harm done I hope ! Go draw the cork, tip the decanter, but when your great toe shall set you a-roaring it will be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant titillation of tlie gout it is all one to the Town Pump. This thirsty dog with his red tongue lolling out does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers away again ! Jouler, did your worship ever have the gout? Ahem ! dry work this speechifying, especially to all unprac- tised orators. I never conceived, till now, what toil the temper- ance lecturer undergoes for my sake. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir. My dear hearers, when the world shall liave been regenerated through my instrumentality, you will collect your useless vats and liquor casks into one great pile, and make a bonfire in honor of tlie Town Piiini) ! And when I shall have decayed like my predecessors, let a marble fountain richly sculptured take my place upon this spot. Such monuments should be erected THE BARD. 275 ever3Mvhere and inscribed with the distinguished champions of their cause. One o'clock ! Nay then, if the dinner-bell begins to ring I may as well hold m}' peace ; but here comes a pretty girl of my acquaintance, with a large stone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a husband while drawing her water, as Rachel did of old. Hold out your pitcher, my dear. There ! it is full to the brim. Now run home, peeping nt your own image in the pitchef as you go, and forget not in a glass of my own liquor to drink success to the Town Pump. nmothorne. THE BAED. " nr) UIN seize thee, ruthless King I -*- ^ Confusion on tliy banners wait I Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mocli tlie air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, tjTant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nighily fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears ! " — Sucli were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay. As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array : — Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; " To arms ! " cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance, On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe. With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; (Loose his beard and hoary hair Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air,) And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre : *' Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 276 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. O'er thee, O King ! their hundred arms they wave. Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. " Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale : Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of mj"^ tuneful art, Dear as the liglit that visits tliese sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries, — No more I weep ; they do not sleep ; On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit ; they linger yet. Avengers of their native land : With me in dreadful harmony they join. And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. " Weave the warp, and weave the woof. The winding-sheet of Edward's race : Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo witli affright The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king! She-wolf of p'rance, with unrelenting fangs. That toar'st the bowels of thy mangled mate. From thee he ))orn, who o'er tliy country hangs The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. THE BARD. 277 «« Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies ! No pitying heart, no eye, aflford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. lie rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born? — Gone to salute the rising mom. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes : Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway. That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey. " Fill high the sparkling bowl. The rich repast prepare ; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray. Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course. An d thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lastmg shame. With many a foul and midnight murder fed. Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame. And spare the meek usurper's holy head ! Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread ; The bristled boar iu infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doomt " Edward, lo ! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof; The thread is spun;) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove ; The work is done ;) 278 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Stay, O stay I nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height, Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight. Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail : — All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue, hall ! " Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old, In bearded majestj', appeal*. In the midst a form divine ! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line : Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. "What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play ! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings. Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-color'd wings, *' The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love, And Truth severe by fairy Fiction dresfc. In buskin'd measui'es wove Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of tlie cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity espirft. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud Ealsed by tliy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs tiic golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. EARLY DAWN AND SUNRISE. 279 Enough for me : with joy I see The different doom our fates assign : Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; To triumph and to die are mine." — He spol The breezy call of incense-breathing mom. The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no mere the blazing hearth shall bum, Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire's return. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stui)born glebe has broke; How jocund did tlioj' drive their team afield! llow bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke I Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of tlie Poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Await alike tli' inevitable hour : — The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, "Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or ZJlattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death? 298 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire : Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living IjTe ; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. FuU many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unf athom'd caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. And read their liistory in a nation's eyes Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined, Forbade to wade through slaugliter to a throne. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at tlie Muse's flame. Far from the maddhig crowd's ignobh strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial, still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 299 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews, To teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb f orgetf ulness a prey. This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th* unhonor'd dead. Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate — Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, " Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ; " There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. " One morn I miss'd him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree : Another came, nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he ; " The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,— Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon ag&d thoam." JOO CLASSIC SELECTIONS. THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, A Youth to Fortune and to Eame unknown : Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy inark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send : He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, He gain'd from heaven ('t was all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or di-aw his frailties from their clread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. Qray. THE BIBLE. THE Bible is the treasure of the poor, the solace of the sick, and the support of the dying ; and while other books may amuse and instruct in a leisure hour, it is the peculiar triumph of that book to create hght in the midst of darkness, to alleviate the sorrow which admits of no other alleviation, to direct a beam of hope to the heart which no other topic of con- solation can reach ; while guilt, despair, and death vanish at the touch of its holy inspiration. There is something in the spirit and diction of the Bible which is found peculiarly adapted to arrest the attention of the plain- est and most uncultivated minds. The simple structure of its sentences, combined with a lofty spirit of poetry — its familiar allusions to the scenes of nature and the transactions of common life — the delightful intermixture of narration with the doctrinal and preceptive parts — and the profusion of miraculous facts which convi rt it into a sort of enchanted ground — its constant advertence to the Deity, whose perfections it renders almost vis- ible and palpable — unite in bestowing ui)on it an interest which attaches to no other performance, and which, after assiduous BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 301 and repeated perusal, invests it with much of the charm of novelty ; like the great orb of day, at which we are wont to gaze with unabated astonishment from infancy to old age. What other book besides the Bible could be heard in public assemblies from year to year, with an attention that never tires, and an interest that never cloys? With few exceptions, let a portion of the sacred volume be recited in a mixed multitude, and though it has been heard a thousand times, a universal still- ness ensues, every eye is fixed, and every ear is awake and attentive. Select, if you can, any other composition, and let it be rendered equally familiar to the mind, and see whether it will produce this effect. RoUrt Saii. BERNARDO DEL CAEPIO. rpiIE warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heait of Are, -■- And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire ; " I bring thee here my fortress-licys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee f aitli, ray liege, my lord ! — Oh ! break my father's chain ! " " Rise, rise ! even now thy fatlier comes, a ransomed man this day : Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way." Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed. And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band. With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land : "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he. The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." His dark eye flashed, liis proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went : He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took — What was there in its touch that all his flery spirit shook? That hand was cold, a frozen thing, — it dropped from his like lead I He looked up to the face above, — the face was of the dead! 302 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. A plume waved o'er the noble brow, — the brow was fixed and whiter He met, at last, his father's eyes, — but in them was no sight ! Up from the ground he sprang and gazed; — but who could paint that gaze? They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze: — They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood; For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. " Father ! " at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then : Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men ! He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown, — He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow, " No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword for, now; My king is false — my hope betrayed ! My father — oh ! the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth! " I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee,'yet! I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met ! Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then; —for thee my fields were won; And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son ! " Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein. Amidst the pale and 'wildered looks of all the courtier train ; And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face — the king before the dead : " Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me, what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought, — give answer, where are they? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay 1 «' Into these glassy eyes put light ; — be still I keep down thine ire I — Bid these white lips a blessing speak, — tliis earth is not my sire: Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed I — Thou canst not? and a king ! — his dust be mountains on thy head! " INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 303 He loosed the steed, — his slack hand fell ; — upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place: His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain : — His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain. Ml K, Uemant INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. ~V7"0U know, we French stormed Ratisbon ! -*- A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day ; "With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my aimy-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall — " Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy : You hardly could suspect — (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. •' Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace We 've got you Ratisbon ! The Marshal's in the market-place, Ami you '11 be there anon 804 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed ; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief's eye flashed ; but presently Softened itself, as slieatlies A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes ; ♦• You 're wounded ! " " Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quiclc, he said : '« I 'm killed, Sire ! " And liis chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. Brovming, AMERICA'S DUTY TO EESIST. IT is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of tope. We are apt to shut our e^'es against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty ? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not the things which so nearly concern tlieir temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth, — to know the worst, and to provide for it. I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided ; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past ; and, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years to justif}^ those hopes with which gentle- men have been pleased to solace themselves, and the House? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, Sir ; it will prove a snare to your feet: suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover out AMERICA'S DUTY TO RESIST. 805 waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies nece8<»ary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we sliown our- selves so unwilling to be reconciled, that fotce must be called in to win back our love ? Let us not deceive ourselves, Sir : these are the implements of war and subjugation, — the last arguments to which kings resort. I a-^k gentlemen, Sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world to call for all this accumula- tion of navies and armies? No, Sir, she has none. They are meai.t for us : they can be meant for no otlier. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so lung forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten yrars. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. "We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable ; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall w3 find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I be seech you. Sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done evervthinsr that could be done to avert the storra which is now coming on. AVe h;ive petitioned ; we have remon- strated ; we have supplicated ; we hrme-^irostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest Ihe tyrannical hands of the ministry and Parliament. Otu- peti- tions have been slighted ; our remonstrances have produced addi- tional violence and insult ; our supplications have been disre- garded ; and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot of the throne. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free, if we mean to preserve inviolate 306 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending, if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious obiect of our contest shall be obtained, we must fight ! I repeat it, Sir, we must fight ! An appeal to arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us. They tell us. Sir, that we are weak — unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger ? Will it be the next week — or the next year ? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction ? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hug- ging the delusive phantom of hope until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of Nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the hoh' cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible under any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, Sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God, who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to figlit our battles for us. The battle. Sir, is not to tlie strong alon" ; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, Sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery. Our chains are forged — their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston. The war is inevitable ; and let it come ! I repeat it, Sir — let it come ! It is in vain. Sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry peace ! peace ! but tlicre is no peace. The war is actually begun ! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to PROSPICE. 307 our ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our brethren are ah-eady in the field ! Why stand we here idle ? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I know not what course others may take ; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death I Patrick Henry. PEOSPIOE. FEAR, death? — to feel the fog in my throat, The mist iu my face, When the snows begin, and tlie blasts denote I am Hearing the place. The power of the night, the press of the storm. The post of the foe. Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go ; For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall. Though a battle 's to light ere the guerdon be gained. The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more. The best and the last ! I would hate that death bandagea my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers. The heroes of old. Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, dai'kness, and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave. The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, Oh, thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again. And with God be the rest I UrowtUng. 308 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. TO THE NIGHT. QWIFTLY walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night! ^ Out of the misty eastern cave Where all the long and lone daylight Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear Which make thee terrible and dear, — swift be thy flight 1 Wrap thy form in a mantle gray star-inwrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand — come, long-sought When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee ; When light rode high, and the dew was gone. And noon lay hea^T' on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighd for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me?* Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmur'd like a noontide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me? — And I replied, No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon — Sleep will come when thou art fled ; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night — Swift be thine approaching flight, come soon, soon I SSeUey CHAEACTER OF NAPOLEON. T TE is fallen ! We may now pause before that splendid -^ — •- prodigy, which towered amongst us like some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance its magnificence attracted. Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne a scep- tred hermit, wrapped in the solitude of his own originality. A Hiind, bold, independent, and decisive, — a will, desijotic in THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 309 its dictates, — an energy that distanced expedition, and a con. science pliable to every touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary character, — the most extraordinary, perhaps, that in the annals of this world ever rose, or reigned, or fell. Flung into life in the midst of a revolution that quickened e\ery energy of a people who acknowledge no superior, he commenced his course, a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity ! With no friend but his sword, and no fortune but his talents, he rushed into the list where rank, and wealth, and genius had arrayed tliemselves, and competition fled from him as from the glance of destiny. He knew no motive but interest, — he acknowledged no criterion but success, — he worshipped no God but ambition, and with an eastern devotion he knelt at the shrine of his idola- try. Subsidiary to this, there was no creed th:it he did not pro- fess, there was no opinion that he did not promulgate ; in the hope of a dynasty, he ui)held the crescent ; for the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the cross ; the oqDhan of St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the republic ; and with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the throne and the tribune, he reared the throne of his despotism. A professed Catholic, he imprisoned the Pope ; a pretended patriot, he impoverished the country ; and in the name of Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore without shame, the diadem of the Caesars. C. PAaHj:>s. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE 8TAIES. QOMEWHAT back from tho village street ^ Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; Across its antique portico Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; And, from its station in the hall, An ancient timepiece says to all, •■' Forever — never I Never — forever I " 810 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, ' ' Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " By day its voice is low and light ; But in the silent dead of night. Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say at each chamber door, ' ' Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth. Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. And as if, like God, it all things saw. It calmlj' repeats those words of awe, * ' Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality ; His great fires up the chimney roared; The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at tlie feast. That warning timepiece never ceased, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " There groups of merry children played ; There youths and maidens dreaming strayed Oil, precious hours! oh, golden prime 4nd afilucnco of love and timol THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS. 311 Even as a raiser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night; There, in tliat silent room below, The dead laj% in his shroud of snow ; And, In the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " All are scattered, now, and fled, — Some are married, some are dead ; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, " Oh, when shall they all meet again?" As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply, " Forever — never ! Never — forever I " Never here, forever there, Where c!l parting, pain, and care. And death, and time, shall disappear, — Forever there, but never here t The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, " Forever — never I Never — forever 1 " LongjetUifUK THE ISLAND OP THE SCOTS. • rpHE stream," he said, " is broad and deep, and stubborn is the foe ; -'- Yon island-strength is guarded well — say, brothers, will ye gol From home and kin for many a year our steps have wandered wide, And never may our bones be laid our fathers' graves beside. No sisters liave we to lament, no wives to wail our fail ; The traitor's and the spoiler's hand has reft our hearths of all. But we have hearts, and we have arms, as strong to will and dare, As when our ancient banners flew within the northern air. 312 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Come, brothers ! let me name a spell shall rouse your souls again, And send the old blood bounding free tlirough pulse, and heart, anon crow-bar ; and my remaxkd left some deep impression on them, I do believe. Ge7i. Tell me now — and tell me truly. To whom are you sent In this city? Sen. To no one. Gen. Sir ! I warn you that I will not be trifled with. Sen. I tell you, I tell you that I have come here to no one. What more can I say? Gen. You must confess. Sen. I have nothing to confess. Gen. Sir ! you have much to confess, and I will wring it out of you. Beware how you trifle with my patience. If you wish to regain your liberty confess at once, and you may escape your just punish- ment. But if you refuse, I '11 shut you up in a dungeon for ten years ! Sen. You will do no such thing. Gen. What! Won't I? Sen. You will not. On the contrary, you will have to make apolo- gies for these insults. 824 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Gen. I ! — Apologies ! Insults. Sen. You have arrested us on a false charge, based on some slan- derous or stupid information of some of j-our infernal spies. What right have you to pry into the private aflairs of an American traveller? We have nothing to do with you. Gen. You are associated with conspirators. You are charged with treasonable correspondence with rebels. You countenanced revolu- tion in Florence. You openly took part with Republicans. You are a notorious friend of La Cica. And you came here with the intentiou of fomenting treason in Venice ! Sen. Whoever told you that, told miserable lies — most horrid lies. I am no emissary of any party. I am a private traveller. Gen. Sir, we have correspondents in Florence on whom we can rely better than on you. They watched you. Sen. Then the best thing you can do is to dismiss those corre- spondents and get rogues who have half an idea. Gen. Sir, I tell you that they watched you well. You had better confess all. Your antecedents in Florence are known. You are in a position of imminent danger. I tell you — beware ! Sen. Then you, General, I tell you — beware! Do you know who you've got hold of? No conspirator; no contemptible 7-talian ban- dit, or Dutchman either; but an American citizen. Your government has already tried tlie temper of Americans on one or two remarkable occasions. Don't try it on a third time, and don't try it on with me. Since you want to know Avho I am, I '11 tell you. I, Sir, am an Ameri- can Senator. I take an active and prominent part in the government of that great and glorious country. I represent a constituency of several hundred thousand. You tell me to beware. I tell you — ■ Beware! for, if you don't let me go, you '11 have to give me up at the cannon's mouth. If you don't let me off by evening, I won't go at all till I am delivered up with humble and ample apologies, both to us and to our country, Avliom you have insulted in our persons. Gen. Sir, you are bold ! Sen. Bold ! Send for tlie American Consul of this city and see if he don't corroborate this. But you liad better make haste ; for if you subject me to fiirtlier disgrace it will lie tlie worse for your govern- ment, and particularly for you, my friend. You '11 have the town bat- tered down al)Out your ears. Don't get another nation down on you, aiid above all, don't let tliat nation be tlie American. What I tell you THE AMERICAN SENATOR IN ITALY. 325 is the solemn truth, and if you don't mind it you will know it some day to your sorrow. Gen. Let the Consul be called. [Enter American CojisuL] Gen. Do you know the prisoner? Consul. I do. Gen. He is here under a very heavy accusation. I have well sub- stantiated charges by which he is implicated in treason and conspiracy. He has been connected with Revolutionists of the worst stamp in Florence, and there is strong proof that he has come here to commu- nicate with Revolutionists in this city. Con. Who accuses him of this? Are they here? Gen. No; but they have written from Florence warning me of his journey here. Con. Does the prisoner confess? Gen. Of course not. He denies. He requested me to send for you. I don't want to be unjust; so if you have anything to say, say on. Con. These charges are impossible. Gen. Impossible? Con. He is altogether a different man from what you suppose. He is an eminent member of the American Senate. Any charges made against one like him Avill have to be well substantiated; and any injury done to him will be dangerous in the highest degree. Unless you have undeniable proofs of his guilt, it will be best to free him at once — or else — Gen. Or else w^hat? Con. Or else there will be very grave complications. Gen. (to Senator). How does it happen that you were so particu- larly intimate with all the Revolutionists in Florence, and an habitue of La Cica's salon? that your mission was well known throughout the city? that you publicly acknowledged the Florentine rebellion in a speech? that the people carried you home in triumph? and that before leaving you received private instructions from La Cica? Sen. To your questions I will reply in brief : First, I am a free aiad independent citizen of the great and glorious American Republic. If I associated with Revolutionists in Florence, I did so because I am accustomed to choose my own society, and not to recognize any law or any master that can forbid my doing so. I deny, however, that I was in any way connected witli plots, rebellions, or conspiracies. Secondly, I was friendly with the Countess because I considered her 326 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. a most remarkably fine woman, and because she showed a disposition to be friendlj' with me — a stranger in a strange land Thirdly, I confess I made a speech, but what of that? It 's not the first time, by a long chall^. I don't know what you mean by " acknowledging." As a private citizen I congratulated them on their success, and would do so again. If a crowd calls on me for a speech, I'm there. The people of Florence dragged me home in a carriage. "Well, I don't know why they did so. I can't help it if people will take possession of me and pull me about. Fourthly, and lastly, I had an interview with the Countess, had I? Well, is it wrong for a man to bid good by to a friend? I ask you, what upon earth do you mean by such a charge as that? Do you take me for a puling infant? Gen. On that occasion she taught you some mysterious words which were to be repeated among the Revolutionists here. iSen. Never did anything of the kind. That 's a full-blown flctioa Gen. I have the very words. Sen. That 's impossible. You 've got hold of the wrong man. Gen. I will read them. It is a mysterious language with no appar- ent meaning, nor have I been able to find the key to it in any way. It is very skilfully made, for all the usual tests of cipher writing fail in this. The person who procured it did not get near enough till the latter part of the interview, so tiiat he gained no explanation what- ever from the conversation. Listen : " Ma oiiillina sola ouda ste ensoce fremas dis ansit ansin assalf a one tu affa lastinna belis." Sen. Oh dear ! Oh de-ar ! Oh dee-.\u ! Oil ! Will you allow me to look at the paper? I wiU not injure it at all. Gen. Certainly. Sen. You see, gentlemen, the Florence correspondent has been too sharp. I can explain all tliis af, once. I was with the Countess, and we got talking of poetry. Now, I don't know any more about poetry than a horse. Gen. Well? Sen. Well, she insisted on my making a quotation. I had to give in. The only one I could think of was a line or two from Watts. Gen. Watts? Ah ! I don't know him. Sen. He was a minister — a parson. So I said it to her, and she repeated It. These friends of 3'oiirs, General, liave taken it down, but their spellin' Is a little unusual. Listen. Here is tlie key : — " My wlllinK soul would etny In »uch a frarao ns this, And sit aud uiiig hursclf away lo everlualiug bliss." TRAY. 327 t7cn. Give these gentlemen our apologies. In times of trouble, when States have to be held subject to martial law, proceedings are abrupt. Their own good sense will, I trust enable them to appreciate the difficulty of our position. Arranged as a dialogue/rvm De MUU. ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND. rpWO Voices are there, one is of the Sea, -*- One of the Mountains, each a mighty voice: In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty! There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou f ought'st against him, — but hast vainly striven : Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. — Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left— For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee I Wordsuwrth. TEAY. SENG me a hero. Quench my thirst of soul, ye bards ! Quoth Bard the first: "Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don his helm and eke his habergeon," — Sir Olaf and his bard. *' That sin-scathed brow" (quoth Bard the second), " that eye wide ope as though Fate beckoned my hero to some steep, beneath which precipice smiled tempting Death" — You too, without your host have reckoned. "A beggar-child" (let's hear this third) "sat on a quay's edge; like a bird sang to herself at careless play, and fell into the stream. • Dismay ! help, you the standcrs-by ! ' None stirred. By-standers reason, think of wives and children ere they risk their lives. Over the balustrade has bounded a mere instinctive dog, and pounced plumb on the prize. ' How well he dives ! ' "'Up he comes with the child, see, tiglit In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite a depth of ten feet — twelve, I bet! Good dog! 828 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. " ♦ What, off again? There's yet another child to save? All right! How strange we saw no other fall ! It 's instinct in the animal. Good dog! " ' But he 's a long while under ; if he got drowned, I should not Wonder — strong current, that against the wall ! " 'Here he comes, holds in mouth this time — what may the thing be? Well, that's prime! Now, did you ever? Reason reigns in man alone, since all Tray's pains have fished — the child's doll from the slime.' " And so, amid the laughter gay, trotted my hero off, — old Tray, — till somebody, prerogatived with reason, reasoned, ' Why he dived, his brain would show us, I should say. John, go and catch, — or, if needs be, purchase that animal for me. By vivisection, at expense of half an hour and eighteen pence, how brain secretes dog's soul, we '11 see!'" Browning. PEELUDE TO DEAMATIO IDYLS. *' You are sick, that's sure," they say. " Sick of what? " they dis- agree. *"Tis the brain," thinks Doctor A ; "'Tis the heart," holds Doctor B. "The liver, — my life I'd lay." "The lungs!" "The lights ! " "Ah me! So ignorant of man's whole of bodily organs plain to see, — so sage and certain, frank and free, about what 's under lock and key— man's soul." Browning. THE INQUIEY. rpELL me, ye wing6d winds, that round my pathway roar, -*- Do ye not know some spot Avhere mortals weep no more? Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in the west. Where, free from toil and pain, the weary soul may rest? The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low. And sighed for pity as it answered — " No." Tell me, thou mighty deep, whose billows round me play, Know'st though some favored spot, some island far away, Where weary man may find the bliss for which he sighs, — Where sorrow never lives, and friendship never dies? The loud waves, rolling in perpetual (low. Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer — " No." THE DREAM OF CLARENCE. 329 And thou, serenest moou, that, with such lovely face, Dost look upon the earth, asleep in night's embrace; Tell me, in all thy round, hast thou not seen some spot, Where miserable man might And a happier lot? Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, And a voice, sweet, but sad, responded — " No." Tell me, my secret soul ; — oh ! tell me, Hope and Faith, Is there no resting-place from sorrow, sin, and death? — Is there no happy spot, where mortals may be blessed. Where grief may find a balm, and weariness a rest? Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given, Waved their bright wings, and whispered — " Yes, in Heaven ! * Charles Mackay. THE DREAM OF CLAEENCE. TDBAKENBJJBY. Why looks your Grace so heavily to-day? Clarence. Oh, I have passed a miserable night, So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night. Though 't were to buy a world of happy days ; So full of dismal terror was the time ! Brak. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you, tell me. Clar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower, And was erabark'd 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 Lancaster, That had befallen us. As we passed 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. heaven! Methought, what pain it was to drown! What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears ! What ugly sights of death within mine eyes I 330 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Methought I saw a thousand fearful "svrecks ; A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon : Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl. Inestimable sloues, 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, thei'e were crept, As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep. And mocked the dead bones that lay scatter'd by. Brak. Had you such leisure, in the time of death, To gaze upon the 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 find the empty, vast, and wandering air ; But smothered it within my panting bulk, Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony? Clar. No, no ! my dream was lengthened after life; Oh, then began tlie tempest to my soul ! I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger soul Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, Who cried aloud, " Wliat scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?" And so he vanish'd. Then came wandering by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood, and he shrieked out aloud, " Clarence is come, — false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,'^ That stabb'd me in the field by Teicksbury ! Seize on him. Furies f take him to your torments f* With that, methought a legion of foul fiends Environed me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, tliat, with the very noise, I trembling waked, and, for a season after, Could not believe but that I was In hell; Such terrible Impression made my dream THE SAILOR'S WIFE. S81 Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you; I am afraid, mctliinks, to hoar you tell it. Clar. Ah I Bralccnbnry, I have done those things, That now give evidence against my soul, For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me ! — God ! if my deep pra3'ers cannot appease Thee, But Thou wilt be avenu^'d on my misdeeds, Yet execute Thy wrath on me alone : Oh, spare ray guiltless wife, and my poor children ! — 1 prithee, Brakenbury, stay by me ; My soul is heavy, and I fiun would sleep. Brak. I will, my lord ; God give your Grace good rest ! — [Claren'ck reposes himself on a chair. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours. Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night. Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honor for an inward toil : And, for uufclt imaginations, They often feei a world of restless cares : So that, between their titles and low name. There *s nothing differs but the outward fame. Shakespeara. THE SAILOR'S WIFE. A ND are ye sure the news is true? and are ye sure he 's weel? -^-^ Is this a time to think o' wark? yc jades, lay by your wheel ; Is this the time to spin a thread, when Colin 's at the door? Reach down my cloak, I '11 to the quay, and see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, there's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house when our gudeman's awa'. And gie to me my bigonet, my bishop's satin gown ; For I maun tell the bailie's wife that Colin 's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, my stockins pearly bluer It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, for he's baith leal and true. Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, put on the muckle pot; Gle little Kate her button gown and Jock his Sunday coat; And mak their shoon as black as slaes, their hoce as ^^hite>as snaw; It *s a' to please my ain gudeman, for he 's I^een long awa. 332 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. There 's twa fat hens upo' the coop been fed this month and man*; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, that Colin weel may fare ; And spread the table neat and clean, gar ilka thing look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared, when he was far awa? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, his breath like caller air; His very foot has music in 't as he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? and will I hear hhn speak? I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, in troth I 'ra like to greet ! If Colin 's weel, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave : And gin I live to keep him sae, I 'm blest aboon the lave : • And will I see his face again, and will I hear him speak? I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, in troth I 'ra like to greet. For there 's nae luck about the house, there 's nae luck at a' ; There 's little pleasure in the house when our gudeman 's awa', Mickle. THE STAGE-OOACH. TTTHEN the coach came round at last, with -'London" ^ ' blazoned in letters of gold upon the boot, it gave Tom such a turn, that he was half disposed to run away. But he did n't do it ; for he took his seat upon the box instead, and looking down upon the four grays, felt as if he were another gray himself, or, at all events, a part of the turn-out ; and was quite confused by the novelty and splendor of his situa- tion. And really it might have confused a less modest man than Tom to find himself sitting next that coachman ; for of all the swells that ever flourished a whip, professionallj-, he might have been elected emperor. He did n't handle his gloves like another man, but put them on — even when he was standing on the pavement, quite detached from the coach — as if the four grays were, somehow or other, at the ends of the fingers. It was the same with his hat. He did things with his hat, which nothing but an unlimited knowledge of horses and the wildest freedom of the road could ever have made him perfect in. Valuable THE STAGE-CO ACI I. 333 little parcels were brought to him with particular instructions, and he pitched them into his hat, and stuck it on again, as if the laws of gravity did not admit of such an event as its being knocked off or blown off, and nothing like an accident could befall it. The guard too ! Seventy breezy miles a day were written in his very whiskers. His manners were a canter ; his conversation a round trot. He was a fast coach upon a down- hill turnpike road; he was all pace. A wagon couldn't have moved slowly, with that guard and his key-bugle on the top of it. These were all foreshadowiugs of London, Tom thought, as he sat upon the box, and looked about him. Such a coachman and such a guard never could have existed between Salisbury and any other place ; the coach was none of your steady-going, yokel coaches, but a swaggering, rakish, dissipated, London coach ; up all night, and lying by all day, and leading a terrible life. It cared no more for Salisbury than if it had been a hamlet. It rattled noisily through the best streets, defied the cathedral, took the worst corners sharpest, went cutting in everywhere, making everything get out of its way ; and spun along the open country-road, blowing a lively defiance out of its key-bugle, as its last glad parting legacy. It was a charming evening. Mild and bright. And even with the weight upon his mind which arose out of the immensity and uncertainty of London, Tom could not resist the captivating sense of rapid motion through the pleasant air. The four grays skimmed along, as if they liked it quite as well as Tom did ; the bugle was in as high spirits as the grays ; the coachman chimed in sometimes with his voice ; the wheels hummed cheerfully in unison ; the brass-work on the harness was an orchestra of little bells ; and thus as they went clinking, jingliug, rattling smoothly on, the whole concern, from the buckles of the leaders' coupling- reins to the handle of the hind boot, was one great instrument of music. 334 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Yoho ! past hedges, gates, and trees ; past cottages and bams, and people going home from work. Yoho ! past donkey-chaises, drawn aside into the ditch, and empty carts with rampant horses, whipped up at a bound upon the little water-course, and held by struggling carters close to the five-barred gate, until the coach had passed the narrow turning in the road. Yoho ! by churches dropped down by themselves in quiet nooks, with rustic burial-grounds about them, where the graves are green, and daisies sleep — for it is evening — on the bosoms of the dead. Yoho ! past streams, in which the cattle cool their feet, and where the rushes grow ; past paddock- fences, farms and rick-yards ; past last year's stacks, cut, slice by slice, away, and showing, in the waning light, like ruined gables, old and brown. Yoho ! down the pebbly dip, and through the merry water-splash, and up at a canter to the level road again. Yoho ! Yoho! Yoho ! among the gathering shades ; making of no account the deep reflections of the trees, but scampering on through light and darkness, all the same, as if the light of London, fifty miles away, were quite enough to travel by, and some to spare. Yoho ! beside the village green, where cricket-players linger j-et, and every little indentation made in the fresh grass by bat or wicket, ball or plaj'er's foot, sheds out its perfume on the night. Away with four fresh horses from the Bald-faced Stag, where topers congregate about the door admiring ; and the last team, with traces hanging loose, go roaming off towards the pond, until obsen'ed and shouted after by a dozen throats, while vol- unteering boys pursue them. Now with the clattering of hoofs and striking out of fiery sparks, across the old stone bridge, and down again into the shadow}- road, and through the open gate, and far away, away, into the wold. Yoho ! See the bright moon ! High up before we know it : making the earth reflect the objects on its breast like water. Hedges, trees, low cottages, church steeples, blighted stumps and flour- THE STAGE-COACH. jJ86 ishing 3'oung slips, have all grown vain upon the sudden, and mean to contemplate their own fair images till morning. The poplars yonder rustle, that their quivering leaves may see them- selves upon the ground. Not so the oak ; trembling does not become him; and he watches himself in his stout old burly steadfastness, without the motion of a twig. The moss-grown gate, ill-poised upon its creaking hinges, crippled and decayed, swings to and fro before its glass like some fantastic dowager ; while our own ghostly likeness travels on, Yoho ! Yoho ! through ditch and brake, upon the ploughed land and the smooth, along the steep hillside and steeper wall, as if it were a phantom- hunter. Clouds too ! And a mist upon the hollow ! Not a dull fog that hides it, but a light airy gauze-like mist, which in our e3'es of modest admiration gives a new charm to the beauties it is spread before : as real ga':ze has done ere now, and would again, so please you, though we were the Pope. Yoho ! Why, now we travel like the moon herself. Hiding this minute in a grove of trees, next minute in a patch of vapor ; emerging now upon our broad clear course ; withdrawing now, but always dash- ing on, our journey is a counterpart of hers. Yoho ! A match against the moon ! The beauty of the night is hardly felt, when day comes leaping up. Yoho ! Two stages and the country roads are almost changed to a continuous street. Yoho! past market gardens, rows of houses, villas, crescents, terraces, and squares ; past wagons, coaches, carts ; past early workmen, late strag- glers, drunken men, and sober carriers of loads ; past brick and mortar in its every shape ; and in among the rattling pavements, where a jaunty-seat upon a coach is not so easy to preserve ! Yoho I down countless turnings, and through countless mazy ways, until an old inn-yard is gained, and Tom Pinch, getting down, quite stunned and giddy, is in London. From Martin Chuailewit. JHckent. S3S CLASSIC SELECTIONS. THE MINSTEEL EOT. fpiHE minstrel boy to the war is gone, -*- In the ranks of death you '11 find liim, His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. " Land of song ! " said the warrior bard, ' ' Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, tliy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee ! " The minstrel feU ! — but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under ; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asimder ; And said, ' ' No chains shall sully thee. Thou soul of love and bravery ; Thy songs were made for tlie pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery ! " Moore„ MICE AT PLAY. TjlOUB children sat around a wood-fire, in an old-fashioned country- -^ house. The red embers blazed up merrily, and showed four flushed little faces, four very tangled heads of hair, eight bright, merry eyes, and — I regret extremely to add — eight very dirty little hands, belonging, respectively, to Bess, Bob, Archie, and Tom. Mamma was away, you may be sure. If she were at home, the children would have made a very different appearance. O yes, indeed, quite and entirely different ! The round table was wlieeled in front of the fire, and the student- lamp in the centre shed its liglit on Tom's letter, whicli he was writing to his motlier. Archie Avas leaning back in the large chair; his arm, which he had broken in riding tlie triclc^mule of the circus the day before, was In a splint; hut judging from tlie rapid disappearance of the gingerbread on the plate near him, it is to be doubted if new cider, trick-mules, or broken arms seriously impair the appetite. " Bess, stop jogging the table ! How on earth can a fellow write with you around? " " Read what yon 'vc written," said Bess. " Yes, do," chhnod in Archie. They were bf)th anxious to know what account their mother would receive of their performance. " Wait till MICE AT PLAY. 337 It 's done," answered Tom. Writing a letter was no joke for Thomas Bradley, junior. •' How on earth do you spell circus?" he asked. " S-u-r-k-e-ss," answered Bess, promptly. " No you don't ! " cried Tom. " I know better." "If you know so much, why do you ask?" retorted Bess. "Oh, come, Bess! do tliink, can't you? " " There is a c in it," put in Archie; " for I saw the big red-and-blue posters in the village, and I know there was a c in circus." "Then it's c-1-r-k-i-s," said Bess. "Yes; I guess that's right," said Tom, thoughtfully, writing the word, and then holding his head back from the paper, first on one side and then on the-other, to see if it looked natural. "I'm not exactly sure," he said at last. " It looks kinder queer. And mamma does make such a row if I don't spell right! What's the use in spelling, anyway? If the folks know what you mean, that's enough — one way is as good as another. Pshaw ! " he continued, " I don't believe it is right. See here. Bob ! you 're a first-rate little boy — a real, regular first-rate good boy, j^ou are. " " If it 's upstairs, I won't," declared Bob, who knew that flattery always preceded errands. Bob was one of the kind who learned by experience. " Oh, j'es, Bobby ! That's a lovely harness you've made for pussy. I could n't have done better myself. You know where my dictionary is, up in my room, on tlie table. Run along and get it, — that 's a good boy." Bob kept on Avilli his work. "Come, Bo))by," said Tom, encouragingly. "Go yourself!" was Bob's polite suggestion. " Oh, I 'm so tired. I 'vc done nothing but run for doctors all day long. Come, Bob, I'll tell mamma what a good boy you are, if you will." " Won't you tell her I dropped the teapot down the well?" asked Bob. " Oh, did yon?" cried Tom, Bess, and Archie, all in a breath. Bob nodded liis head, and looked at them all Avith a calm stare. "Which one?" asked the three children, anxiously. " The big silver one," said Bob. "How? Why? What were you doing with it?" " The gardener would n't lend me the watering-pot and I wanted to water my garden, so I just thought that would do instead ; and I went to fill it at the well, and tlie bucket hit it right over into the well. It was the bucket's fault. I ain't to blame." JJ3« CLASSIC SELECTIONS. «' Whe-e-ew!" at last whistled Tom. " If you won't tell mamma, I '11 go for j'our book," said Bob. " Well, I won't tell her in this letter, any way." " Don't tell her at all," insisted Bob. *' If you don't go right off and get it, I '11 write it this moment." '♦ I '11 go, I '11 go ! " cried Bob. " That's the worst scrape yet," said Bess. " For if I did get lost, I was found again ; and if I did tear my clothes, they are all mended now ; and if Archie did break his arm, he 's got it mended now, too; but the teapot! That's dropped down the well, and there it is." Bessie's argument was convincing. There was no more to be said. After a wliile, Tom's letter was finished, and ran as follows : — " Dear Mamma : I wish you was home. "We have dun a good rncnny bad things. Bcps got lost in the woods, and most drowned In Rainy Pond. I shot Kate thru the head with a squirt of water, and most killed her. Archie broUe his arm trying to wride the trik-mule at the curkis. Bob has dun worst of all ; but I said 1 wood n't tel that. Bob hasdun a dredful thin^; but I sed I wood n't tel, so I won't. It's orful. Papa is very good to us, and don't make us wash too much. The bred is orful ; Maggy is crofas. But ■we're all well, except Archy's arm, and Dr Jarvis says if he don't get fever he will get wel. " Your loveing sou, " Tom. " P. 8. You wil feel orful bad about what Bob 's dun." The next morning all four children were gathered around the well, at the bottom of Avliich lay the silver teapot. " I see it, I see it ! cried Tom, eagerly. " It's down at the bottom." " Did you suppose it would float?" asked Bess. '• Let me see," cried Bob. "You clear out," said Archie; "you've made all this mischief. You 'd better go before you tumble in yourself, you Utile goose. I can't go after it, with my broken arm." " Now, I suppose we will hear of nothing but your broken arm for a month, and you'll sliirk everything for it. ' I can't study 'cause my arm 's broken ; I can't go erraiuls 'cause my ann 's broken ; I can't go to church 'cause my arm's broken': tliat will be your whim, Archie; but don't ti-y your (lodges on me, for I won't stand it. If it really hurts you, I'm sorry, and I'll lick any fellow that touches you till you get well again; but none of ycir humbug. Of course you can't go down the well; you could n't if your arm Avas n't broken." Meanwhile Bess had gone to the house for a long flshlng-pole, and Boon retunied carrying it. " We'll fasten a hook to tlve end of It and fl.sh the teapot np," said fihe. " Ho, ho I Do you suppose it will bito like a flsh? " laughed Tom. MICE AT PLAY. 339 "No, I do not, Tom Bradlc}'. But I suppose if I tie a string to the pole, and fasten an iron hook to one end, that I can wiggle it round in the water till the hook catches in the handle, and then ^\c can draw it up. That 's what I suppose." " There 's something in that, Bess. Let me try." "No; go and get one for yourself." "But where can I find one?" " In the smoke-house, where I got mine." " Oh, get rae one, too," cried Bob. " And me one, too," cried Archie. Before half an hour had passed, the four cluldren, all armed with fishing-poles, were intently wiggling in the water, catching tlieir hooks in the stones by the side of the well, entangling their lines, digging their elbows into each other's sides, in their frantic attempts to pull their hooks loose, scolding, pushing, and getting generally excited. Every few minutes Torn would pull Bess back by her sunbonnet, and save her from tumbling over in her eagerness; but so far from being grateful to her deliverer, Bess resented the treatment indignantly. " Stop jerking my head so ! " she cried. " You '11 be in, in a minute; you'd have been in then, if I had n't jerked you," answered Tom. "Well, what if I had? Let me alone. If I go in, that's my own lookout." " Your own look in, you mean. My gracious ! would n't you astonish the toads down there ! But you'd get your face clean." "Now, Tom, you let rae be. I 'most had it that time." "So you've said forty times. This is all humbug. I 'm going down on the rope for it." " Oh, no, Tom ; please tion't. Indeed you'll be drowned; the rope will break; you'll kill your.self ; you'll catch cold," cried Bess, in alarm. "Pooh! girl! coward!" retorted thankless Tom. "Who's afraid of what? Stand back, small boys, I'm going in." "You'll poison the water," suggested Archie. "It will be so cold," moaned Bob. " I '11 scream for a hundred years, •without stopping, Tom," cried Bess, wildly. "You sha'u'tgo down — you ; I '11 call some one. Murray ! Peter ! Maggie ! c-o-o-o-o-o-o-me ! 0-o-o-o-h, c-o-o-o-o-me ! " " Stop screaming, and help. Now, do you three hold on tight to this bucket ; don't let go for a moment ; pull away as hard as you can when I tell you to. Now for it." And, without more atlo, Tom clung to tlie other rope with his hands, and twisted his feet around the bucket-handle. " Hold on tight, and let me down easy," said Tom ; and the three cliildren lowered him little by little. A sudden splash and shiver told them he had reached water, and a shout of triumph declared that the teapot was rescued. As Tom shouted, all the children let go the rope and rushed to the side of the S40 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. well to look at the victorious hero. It was a most fortunate circum- stance that the water in the well was low. As it was, he stood in the cold water up to his shoulders. "What made you let go?" roared Tom. "Oh, Tom, have you got it? Have you, really? Ain't it cold? Are you hurt? Were you scared? Is the teapot broken?" "Draw me up? You silly children ! You goose of a Bess! Why don't you draw me up? " "I will, Tom; I'm going to," answered Bess. But all the united efforts could not raise Tom. " 111 run next door and call Mr. Wilson," said Bess, hopefully, and started. As Bess ran, she was suddenly stopped at the gate by the sight of a carriage which had just driven up, and out of Avhich now stepped Aimt Maria and Aunt Maria's husband. Uncle Daniel. These were the very grimmest and gi'andest of all the relations. For one awful moment Bess stood stunned. Then her anxiety for Tom overcame every other consideration, and before Aunt Maria could say, "How do you do, Elizabeth?" she had caught her uncle by his august coat-tail, and, in a piteous voice, besought him to come and pull on the rope. "Pull on a rope, Elizabeth ! " said Uncle Daniel, who was a very slow man ; " why should I pull on a rope, my dear? " "Oh, come quick! hurry faster! Tom's down in the well!" cried Bess. " Tom down a well ! How did he get there? " "He went down for the teapot," sobbed Bess; "the silver teapot, and we can't pull him up again ; and he's cramped with cold. Oh, do hurry ! " Uncle Daniel leisurely looked down at Tom. Then he slowly took off his coat, and as slowly carried it into the house, stopped to give an order to his coachman, came with measured pace to the three frightened children ; then took hold of the rope, gave a long, strong, calm pull, and in an instant Tom, " dripping with coolness, arose from the well." Meil Forest. THE SAILOR'S SONG. rpO sea ! to sea ! the calm is o'er, -'- The wanton water leaps in sport, And rattles down the pebbly shore, The dolpliin wheels, the sea-cows snort, An unseen nu-rniaid's pearly song Conies bubl)ling up, the weeds among. Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar: To sea ! to sea ! the calm is o'er. APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 341 To sea! to sea! our white-winged bark Shall billowing cleave its watery way, And with its sliadow, fleet and dark, Break the caved Tritons' azure day, Like mountain eagle soaring light O'er antelopes on Alpine height. The anchor heaves ! The ship swings free! Our sails swell full ! To sea ! to sea ! APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar ; I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these, our interviews, in which I steal Prom all I may be, or have been before. To mingle with the universe, and feel ■yVhat I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! ■ Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, "When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, "Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals ; The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. S42 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. » Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, — what are they? Thy waters wasted them when they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou, Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. . Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime . Dark heaving ; — boimdless, endless, and sublime — The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and ray joy Of youthful sports was on tliy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wantoned witli tliy breakers — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a ten-or, 'twas a pleasing fear; For I was, as it were, a child of thee, And tnisted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. Bynm, HZAREE, MY GOD, TO THEB. "VJEARER, my God, to thee, nearer to the«! E'en though It be a -^^ cross that raiseth me ; still all my song shall be, — nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee. Though, like tlie wanderer, the sun gone down, darkness be over me, my r-jst a stone; yet in my dreams I'd be nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee. There let the way appear steps unto heaven ; all that thou sendcst me in mercy given; angels to beckon mc nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thco. THE VILLAGE PKEACHER. 843 Then with my waking thoughts, bright with thy praise, out of my etony griefs Betliel I 11 raise ; so by my woes to be nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee. Or, if on joyful wing cleaving the sky. sun, moon, and stars forgot, upward I fly; still all my song shall be, — nearer, my God, to tliee, nearer to thee. Jdama. THE VILLAGE PREACHER. "VTEAR yonder copse where once the garden smiled, -'-^ And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear. And passing rich with forty pounds a year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, or wished to change, his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power. By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise tlie wretclied tlian to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train; He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, "Whose beard descending swept his aged l)reast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. Sat by his fire and talked the night away, — Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won Pleased with his guests the good man learned to glow. And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve tlie wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; But, in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for allt And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 344 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. To tempt its new-fledged offspiing to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, AUured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid. And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaSected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man With ready zeal each honest rustic ran ; E'en children followed, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to ,''hare the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed ; Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed- To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Ooldsmiih. DOGBEEET AND VEEGE8. I. jy OGBERB Y. Are you good men and true? Verges. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salva- tion, body and soul. Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the Prince's watch. Ver. Well, give them their charge, neighbor Dogberry. Dog. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable? 1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read. Dog. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal ; God hath bless'd you with a DOGBERRY AND VERGES 345 good name : to be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune, but to write and read comes by nature. 2 Watch. Both which, master constable — Dog. You have ; I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it ; and for your writing and reading, let tliat appear Avheu there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch ; therefore bear you the lantern. This is your charge; you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince's name. 2 Watch. How if he will not stand? Dog. "Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go : and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave. Ver. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the Prince's subjects. Dog. True, and they are to meddle with none but the Prince's sub- jects. — You shall also make no noise in the streets ; for, for the watch to babble and talk, is most tolerable, and not to be endured. 2 Watch. "We will rather sleep than talk : we know what belongs to a watch. Dog. "Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman ; for I cannot see how sleeping should oflend : only, have a care that your bills be not stolen. — "Well, you are to call at all the ale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 2 Watch. How if they will not? Dog. "Why, then, let them alone till they are sober: if they make you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men j'oa took them for. 2 Watch. "Well, sir. Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man ; and, for such kind of men, the less you med- dle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. 2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him? Dog. Truly, by your office, you may ; but, I think, they that touch pitch will be defiled ; the most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is, and steal out of your company. 346 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Ver. ' You have been always called a merciful man, partner. Dog. Truly, I would not bang a dog by my will ; much more a man who hath any honesty in him. Ver. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse, and bid her still it. 2 Watch. How if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us? Dog. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying : for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when he bleats. Ver. 'T is very true. Dog. This is the end of the charge. You, constable, are to present the Prince's own person ; if you meet the Prince in the night, you may stay him. Ver. Nay by 'r Lady, that, I think, he cannot. Dog. Five shillings to one on 't, with any man that knows the statutes, he may stay him : marry, not without the Prince be willing: for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will. Ver. By'r Lady, I lliink it be so. Dog. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me : keep your fellows' counsels and your own, and good night. — Come, neighbor. 2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge : let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed. Dog. One word more, honest neighbors : I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato's door; for the wedding being tliere to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night. Adieu ; be vigitant, I beseech you, lExeuHi Bog. and Yeb. n. Leo. What would you with me, honest neighbor? Dog. Marry, sir; I would have some confidence with you, thai decerns you nearly. Leo. Brief, I pray you ; for you see, 'tis a busy time with me. Dog. Marry, tiiis it is, sir. Ver. Yes, in truth it is, sir. Leo. What is It, my good friends? Dog. An old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt, as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin bctweea hit* brows. DOGBERRY AND VERGES. 347 Ver. Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man living that is an old man, and no honester than I. Dog. Comparisons are odorous. Leo. Neighbors, you are tedious. Dog. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor Duke's offlcers; but, truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your Worship. Leo. All thy tediousness on me ! ha ! Dog. Yea, and 't were a thousand pound more than 't is : for I hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any man in the city ; and though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it. Ver. And so am I. Leo. I must leave you. Dog. Our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two auspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your "Worship. Leo. Take their examination yourself, and bring it me. I am now in great haste, as it may appear unto you. [Exit Leonato. Dog. It shall be suffigance. Go, good partner, go; get you to Francis Seacoal ; bid him bring his pen and ink-horn to the jail ; we are now to examination these men. Ver. And we must do it wisely. Dog. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here's that (touch- ing his forehead) shall drive some of them to a non com ; only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication, and meet me at the jaiL [Exeunt. m. Dog. Is our whole dissembly appeared? Ver. O, a stool and a cushion for the sextool Sex. Which be the malefactors? Dog. Marry, that am I and my partner. Ver. Nay, that 's certain ; we have the exhibition to examine. Sex. But which are the offenders that are to be examined? Let them come before Master Constable. Dog. Yea, marry, let them come before me. — What is your name, friend? Bor. Borachio. Dog. Pray write down Borachio, Yours, sirrah? Con. I am a gen-tleman, sir, and my name is Conrade. 348 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Dog. Write down master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you serve God? Con. Bar. Yea, sir, we hope. Dog. "Write down that they hope they serve God : and write God first ; for God defend, but God should go before such villains ! Mas- ters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves, and it will go near to be thouglit so shortly. How answer you for yourselves ? Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. Dog. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you ; but I will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah; a word in your ear, sir. I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves. Bar. Sir, I say to you we are none. Dog. Well, stand aside. 'Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down that they are none? Sex. Master Constable, you go not the way to examine ; you must call forth the watch that are their accusers. Dog. Yea, marry, that's the eftest way. Let the watch come forth. Masters, I charge you, in the Prince's name, accuse these men. 1 Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the Prince's brother, was a villain. Dog. Write down Prince John a villain. Why this is flat perjury to call a prince's brother, villain. Bar. Master Constable — Dog. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not like thy look, I promise thee. Sex. What heard you him say else? 2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John, for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully. Dog. Flat burglary as ever was committed. Ver. Yea, by the Mass, that it is. Sex. What else, fellow? 1 Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her. Dog. O villain ! tliou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemp- tion for this. Sex. What else? 2 Watch. This Is all. Sex. And this Is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John Is THE BELLS. 349 this morning secretly stolen awaj- ; Hero was in this manner accused, in this very manner refused, and, upon the grief of tiiis, suddenly died. Master Constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato's; I will go before, and show him their examination. lExit. Dog, Come, let them be opinioned. Ver. Let them be in the hands. Con. Off, coxcomb ! Dog. God's my life! where 's the sexton? let him write down the Prince 's officer, coxcomb. Come, bind them : — thou naughty varlet ! Con. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass. Dog. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? — O, that he were here to write me down an ass! — but, mas- ters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. — No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow ; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to ; and a rich fellow enough, go to ; and a fellow that hath had losses ; and one that hath two gowns, and every- thing handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass ! [JExeunt. Shakespeare. THE BELLS. I I EAR the sledges with the bells — silver bells — ' What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, in the icy air of night I While the stars that oversprinkle All tlie heavens, seem to tinkle with a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells — From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding-bells, golden bells ! vVhat a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! Through the balmy air of night how they ring out their delight I From the molten-golden notes, and all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the tui-tle-dove that listens, while she gloats on the moon I 350 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! how it dwells On the Future ! how it tells of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells-* Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells — To the rh3Tning and the chiming of the bells ! Hear the loud alarum bells — brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their afiVight! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher, with a desperate desire. And a resolute endeavor, now — now to sit or never. By the side of tlie pale-faced moon. Oil, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells of despair ! How they clang, and clash, and roar ! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air ! Yet the air, it fully knows. By the twanging and the clanging. How the danger ebbs and flows ; yet the ear distinctly tells In the jangling and the wrangling. How the danger sinks and swells. By the sinking or the swelling in tlie anger of the bells — of the bells-' Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells — In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! Hear the tolling of the bells — iron bells ! What a world of solemn thought their monody compals I In the silence of the night. How we sliiver with alTright At tlie melancholy menace of tlielr tone I For every sound that floats From the nist witliin their throats Is a groan. And the people — ah, the people — They tliat dwell up in the steeple, all alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotooe. UNION AND LIBERTY. 351 Feel a glory In so rolling on the human heart a stone — They are neither man nor woman — They are neither brute nor liuman — they are Ghouls : And their king it is who tolls ; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls a pajan from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells with the paean of the bells ! And he dances and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells — of the bells : Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells — of the bells, bells, bells, To the sobbing of the bells ; keeping time, time, time, As he kuells, knells, knells, in a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells — of the bells, bells, bells — To the tolling of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells, bells — Bells, bells, bells — To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. Edgar 'i, Po» UNION AND LIBEETT, "TT^LAG of the heroes who left us their glory, -*- Borne through our battle-fields' thunder and flame^ Blazoned in song and illumined in story, Wave o'er us all who inherit tlieir fame ! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore; "While through the sounding sky. Loud rings the Nation's cry, — Union and Liberty I — one evermore ! Light of our firmament, guide of our nation. Pride of her children, and honored afar. Let the wide beams of tliy full constellation Scatter each cloud that would darken a star! Empire unsceptred ! what foe shall assail thee, Bearing the standard of Liberty's van? Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee. Striving with men for the birthright of man ! 352 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Yet, if by madness and treachery blighted, Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw, Then, with the arms of thy millions united, Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law ! Lord of the universe ! shield us and guide us, Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun ! Thou hast united us, Avho shall divide us? Keep us, keep us the many in one ! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, "V\1iile through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry — Union and Liberty ! One evermore ! Eolmea. CICELY AlfD THE BEARS. •' /^H> y^s ! Oh, yes ! Oh, yes ! ding-dong ! " The bellman's voice ^-^ is loud and strong; so is his bell: "Oh, yes! ding-dong!" He wears a coat with golden lace ; see how the people of the place come running to hear what the bellman says! "Oh, yes! Sir Nich- olas Hildebrand has just returned from the Holy Land, and freely oSers his heart and hand — Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, j'cs! ding-dong !" all the women hurry along, maids and widows, a clattering throng. " Oh, sir, you are hard to understand ! To whom does he offer his heart and hand? Explain your meaning, we do command!" "Oh, yes! ding- dong! you shall understand! Oh, yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand invites the ladies of this land to feast with him, in his castle strong, this very day at three. Ding-dong! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes, ding-dong! " Then all the women went off to dress, Mary, Margaret! Bridget, Bess, Patty, and more than I can guess. They powdered their hair with golden dust, and bought new ribbons — they said they must — but none of them painted, we will trust. Long before the time arrives, all tlie women that could be wives are dressed within an inch of their lives. Meanwhile Sir Nicholas Hildebrand had brought with him from the Holy Land a couple of bears — Oh, that was grand! He tamed the Ijcars, and tliey loved him true : whatever he told tliem they would do — hark '. 't is the town clock striking two ! CICELY AND THE BEARS. 353 Among the maidens of low degree the poorest of all was Cicely — a shabbier girl could hardly be. " Oh, I should like to see the feast, but my frock is old, my shoes are pieced, my hair Is rough!" (_It never was greased.) The clock struck three! she durst not go! But stie heard the band, and, to see the show, crept after the people that went in a row. When Cicely came to the castle gate, the porter exclaimed, " Miss Shaggypate, the hall is full, and you come too late! " Just then the music made a din, flute, and cymbal, and culverin, and Cicely with a squeeze, got in. Oh, what a sight! Full fifty score of dames that Cicely knew, and more, filling the hall from dais to door! The dresses were like a garden bed, green and gold, and blue and red — poor Cicely thought of her tossy head ! She heard the singing — she heard the clatter — clang of flagon and clink of platter — but, oh, the feast was no such matter ! For she saw Sir Nicholas himself, raised on a dais just like a shelf, and fell in love with him— shabby elf! Her heart beat quick ; aside she .stepped : under the tapestry she crept, tousling her tossy hair, and wept ! Her cheeks were wet, her eyes were red. "Who makes that noise?" the ladies said; "turn out that girl with the shaggy head ! " Just then there was heard a double roar, that shook the place, both wall and floor: everybody looked to the door. It was a roar, it was a growl; the ladies set up a little howl, and flapped and clucked like frightened fowl. Sir Hildebrand for silence begs — in walked the bears on their hinder legs, wise as owls, and merry as grigs ! The dark girls tore their hair of sable; the fair girls hid underneath the table ; some fainted ; to move they were not able. But most of them could scream and screech. Sir Nicholas Hildebrand made a speech : "Order, ladies, I do beseech!" The bears looked hard at Cicely, because her hair hung wild and free — " Related to us, miss, you must be ! " Then Cicely, filling two plates of gold as full of cherries as they could hold, walked up to the bears, and spoke out bold : " Wel- come to you! and to you, Mr. Bear! Will you take a chair? will you take a chair? This is an honor, we do declare!" Sir Hildebrand strode up to see, saying, "Who may this maiden be? Ladies, this is the wife for me!" Almost before they could understand, he took up Cicely by tlie hand, and danced with her a saraband. Her hair was rough as a parlor broom; it swung, it swirled all round the room — those ladies were vexed, we may presume. Sir Nicholas kissed her on the face, and set her beside him on the dais, and made her the lady of 854 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. the place. The nuptials soon they did prepare, with a silver comb foi Cicely's hair; there were bands of music everywhere. And in that beautiful bridal show both the bears were seen to go upon their hind legs to and fro ! Now every year on the wedding day the boys and girls come out to play, and scramble for cherries as they may. "With a cheer for this and the other bear, and a cheer for St. Nicholas, free and fair, and a cheer for Cis, of the tossy hair — with one cheer more (if you will wait) for every girl Avith a curly pate, who keeps her hair in a proper state. Sing bear's grease ! curling-irons to sell ! Sing combs and brushes ! Sing tortoise-shell ! Oh, yes ! ding-dong ! the crier, the bell t Is n't this a pretty tale to tell ? Lilliput Levee. THE SAITDPIPEE. A CROSS the narrow beach we flit, "* ^ One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high. As up and down the beach we flit, — One little sandpiper and I. Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shi'ouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, One little sandpiper and I. I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of an}' wrong; He scans me with a fearless eye. Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I. ECHO AND THE FERRY. 855 CJomrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright ! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky : For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I? Celia Tliaxter. ECHO AND THE FEKRT. AY, Oliver ! I was but seven, and he was eleven ; He looked at me pouting irnd rosy. I l)lushed where I stood. They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven, A small guest at the farm) ; but he said, " Oh ! a girl was no good ! " So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to tlie wood. It was sad, it was sorrowful ! Only a girl — only seven ! At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. The pear-trees looked on in their white, and bluebirds flashed abou^ And they, too, were angry as Oliver. "Were they eleven? I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven — eleven. So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered ; And under and over the branches those little birds twittered, "While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven. A pity — a very great pity. One should be eleven. But soon I Avas happy, the smell of the world was so sweet, And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. Then I knew', foT: I peeped, and I found it was right they should scold Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter ; And then some one else —oh ! how softly— came after, came after "With laughter — with laughter came after. And no one- was near us to utter that sweet, mocking call, That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. But this was the country, perhaps it was close under heaven ; Oh ! nothing so likely ; the voice might have come from it even. I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings not at all, Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy f orgiver : She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile email, ^56 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Then flashed down her hole like a dart — like a dart from the quiver. And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss. So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver, And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall Wliite branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall — A little, low wall — and looked over, and there was the river, The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river, Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow; But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow, And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft, very low. " The ways will be long, but the days Avill be long," quoth the river, "To me a long liver, long, long," quoth the river — the river. I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky, The voice tliat had moclced coming after and over and under. But at last — in a day or two namely —Eleven and I Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. He said that was Echo. " "Was Eclio a wise kind of bee That had learned how to laugh : could it laugh in one's car and then fly, And laugh again yonder?" " No ; Echo " — he whispered it low — " "Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see And no one could find ; and lie did not believe it, not he ; But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. Yet I that had money — a sliilling, a whole silver shilling — We might cross if I tliought I would spend it." "Oh! yes, I was willing " — And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, And we heard how she raoclvcd at tlie folic witli a voice clear and merry When they called for the ferry ; but, oh ! she was very — was very Swift footed. She spoke and was gone ; and when Oliver cried, " Hie over ! hie over ! you man of the ferry — the ferry ! " By the still water's side she was heard far and wide — she replied, And slie mocked In her voice sweet and merry, " You man of tlie feny. You man of — you man of tlie ferry ! " " Ilic over ! " lie shouted. The ferryman came at liis calling? Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast. Sucli a chase ! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on ; it surpassed All measure her doubling, so close, then so far away falling. Then gone, and no more. Oh ! to see her but once unaware, And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there), ECHO AND THE FERRY. 857 Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair. We sought in the Avood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead ; In tlie field, and we found but the cucl\oo that talked overliead ; By tlie broolv, and we found the reed-sparrow deep-nested, in brown; Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo was flown. So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call. The church mxs among them, gray moss over roof, over wall. Very silent, so low. And we stood on the green, grassy mound And loolccd in at the windoAV, for Echo, pcrliaps, in lier round Might have come in to hide there. But, no ; every oalt-carven seat Was empty. We saw the great Bible, old, old, very old. And the parson's great prayer-book beside it ; we heard the slow beat Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and play On the low chancel step and the railing ; and Oliver said, "Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came hereto be wed iShe stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown; And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her." Then quoth small Seven, *' Shall I wear a wliite gown and have flowers to walk upon ever? " AH doubtful : " It takes a long time to grow up," quoth Eleven ; "You're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never Last on till you're tall." And in whispers, — because it was old And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told, Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk, Neither heard nor beheld, but about us — in whispers we spoke. Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand, AVhile bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter the land. And Eclio came Ijack e'en as Oliver drew to tlie ferry. "O Katie!" "O Katie!" "Come on then!" "Come on then!" "For, see, Tlie round sun, all red, lying low by the tree — by the tree." " By the tree." Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry ; "Hleover!" "Hieover!" "You man of the ferry "~" the ferry.' " You man of the ferry — " " You man of — you man of — the ferry." Ay, here — it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. 858 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Shall I come by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white To that little low church? And will Oliver meet me anon? Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over — passed on? "WiU the grave parson bless us? " Hark ! hark ! in the dim failing light I hear her!" As then the chUd's voice clear and high, sweet and merry, Now she mocks the man's tone with " Hie over ! Hie over, the ferry ! " "And, Katie!" "And, Katie!" "Art out with tlie glow-worms to-night. My Katie? " " My Katie ! " For gladness I break into laughter And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years ; Again, some one else — oh, how softly! — with laughter comes after, Comes after — with laughter comes after. Ingelow. THE OLD POLITICIAN. "^rOW that Tom Dunstan's cold, our shop is duller; scarce a story -'-^ is told ! And our chat has lost the old red Republican color I Though he was sickly and thin, he gladdened us with his face : how, warming at rich man's sin, with bang of the fist, and chin thrust out, he argued the case! He prophesied folk should be free, and the money-bags be bled; " She's coming, she's coming!" said he; " Cour- age, boys ! wait and see ! Freedom 's ahead ! " All day we sat in the heat, lilvc spiders spinning, stitching full fine and fleet, while the old Jew on his seat sat greasily grinning; and there Tom said his say, and prophesied Tyranny's death; and the tal- low burnt all day, and we stitched and stitched away in the thick smoke of our breath, wearily, wearily; with hearts as heavy as lead; but "Patience, she's coming!" said he; "Courage, boys! wait and see! Freedom 's ahead ! " And at night, when we took here the pause allowed to us, the paper came with the beer, and Tom read, sharp and clear, the news out loud to us; and then in liis witty Avay, he threw the jest about, — the cutting things he 'd say of the wealthy and the gay ! How he turned them Inside out, and it made our breath more free to hearken to what he said : " She 's coming, she 's coming ! " says he ; " Courage, boys, wait and see ! Freedom 's ahead ! " But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer would mutter, '* Master! If Free- dom means to appear, I think she might step here a little faster 1" DOUGLAS TO THE MOB. 859 Then It was fine to see Tom flame, and argne and prove and preach, till Jack was silent for shame, or a fit of coughing came o' sudden to spoil Tom's speech. Ah ! Tom had the eyes to see, when Tyranny should be sped ; " She's coming, she's coming!" said he; "Courage, boys ! wait and see I Freedom 's ahead ! " But Tom was little and weal<; the hard hours shook him; hoUower grew his clieek, and when he began to speak the coughing took him. Ere long the cheery sound of his chat among us ceased, and we made a purse all round, that he might not starve, at least; his pain was sorry to see, yet there, on his poor sick bed, " She's coming, in spite of me ! courage and wait ! " cried he, '* Freedom 's ahead ! " A little before he died, to see his passion! " Bring me a paper! " he cried, and then to study it tried in his old sharp fashion ; and, with eyebaiis glittering, his look on me he bent, and said that savage thing of the lords of Parliament. Then darkening, smiling on me, "What matter If one be dead? She's coming, at least! " said he; "Courage, boys ! ,vait and see ! Freedom's ahead ! " Ay, now Tom Dunstan 's cold, the shop feels duller ; scarce a story is told. Our talk has lost the old red Republican color. But we see a figure gray, and we hear a voice of death, and the tallow burns all day, and we stitch and stitch away in tlie thick smoke of our breath. Ay, here in the dark sit we, Avhile, wearily, wearily, we hear him call from the dead: "She's coming, she's coming!" said he. "Freedom's ahead ! " How long, O Lord, how long doth thy handmaid linger — she who shall right the wrong, make the oppressed strong? Sweet morrow, bring her ! Hasten her over the sea, O Lord, ere hope be fled ; bring her to men and to me ! O slave, pray still on thy knee, — " Freedom "s ahead ! " _ . £ucnanan. DOUaiii.S TO THE MOB. THrEAR, gentle friends, ere yet for me ' * Ye break the bands of fealty. My life, my honor, and my cause I tender free to Scotland's laws. Are these so weak as must require The aid of your misguided ire? Or, if I sufl'er causeless wrong. Is then my selflsh rage so strong. 360 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. My sense of public weal so low, That, for mean vengeance on a foe, Those cords of love I should unbind, Which knit my country and my kind? Oh, no ! Believe in yonder tower It will not soothe my captive hour. To know those spears our foes should dread, For me in kindred gore are red ; To know, in fruitless brawl begun, For me that mother wails her son ; For me, that widow's mate expires ; For me that orphans weep their sires : That patriots mourn insulted laws, And curse the Douglas for the cause. Oh let your patience ward such ill. And keep your right to love me still." SooU. THE GLOVE AWD THE LIONS. "TT" ING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, -'-^ And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled tlic benches round, the ladies bj' their side, And 'raongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed : And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show — Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws : With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another. Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a tlmnderous smotlier; The l)Ioody foam above tlie bars came wlilzzing through the air; Said Francis then, "Faitli! gentlemen, we 're better here than there! " Dc Lorge's love o'erhcard the king, — a beauteous lively dame, With smiling lips .and sharp briglit eyes, wiiich always seemed the same; She thought, " Tlic Count my lover is brave as brave can be — lie surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me: King, ladies, lovers, all look on: the occasion Is divine! I '11 drop my glove, to prove his love : great glory will be mmo 1 " THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 361 She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at hlin and smiled ; Ho bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild. The leap was quick, return was quick — he has regained the place — Then threw the glove — but not with love — right in the lady's face. " By Heaven," cried Francis, " rightly done ! " and he rose from where lie sat : ♦' No love," quoth he, " but vanity, sets love a task like that ! " Leigh Hunt, c THE UNDISCOVEEED OOUNTET. \OULD we but know The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel. Where lie those happier hills and meadows low, — Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil Aught of that country could we surely know, Who Avould not go? Might we but hear The hovering angels' higii imagined chorus. Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear, One radiant vista of the realm before us, — With one rapt moment given to see and hear, Ah, who would fear ! Were we quite sure To find tlie peerless friend who left us lonely ; Or there, by some celestial stream as pure, To gaze in eyes that here were lovclit only, — This weary mortal coil, were wc quite sure, Who would endure? Edmund Clarence Stedman. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOOEE. "^TOT a dnim was heard, not a funeral note, as his corse to the -'-^ rampart we hurried; not a soldier discharged his farewell shot o'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried liim darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning; by the struggling raooubeara's misty light and the lantern dimly burning. 362 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; but he lay like a warrior taliing his rest, with his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, and we spoke not a word of sorrow, but we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, and we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hoUow'd his narrow bed and smoothed down his lonely pillow, that the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, and we far away on the billow ! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone and o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; but little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, in the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done when the clock struck the hour for retiring : and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, from the field of his fame fresh and gory ; we carved not a line, and we laised not a stone — but we left him alone with his glory. Wolfe. ODE TO A NIGHTINaALE. MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had dnmk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had simk : 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, — That thou, light-wing5d Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a drauglit of vintage, that hath been CooI'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Frovengal song, and sunburnt mirth I O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded biihl)les winking at the brim And purple-stained mouth; ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 863 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen And with thee fade away into the forest dim : Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden -eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away I away ! for I will fly to thee. Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards. Already with thee ! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; But here there is no light Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree wild ; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; Fast- fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen ; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mus^d rhyme. To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 364 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy ! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou vpast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self -same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for horns. She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn ! the very word Is lilie a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hillside ; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep? K«at$. THE SINGINQ LESSON A NIGHTINGALE made a mistake ; she sang a fewnotra out of tunej -*--*- Iler heart was ready to break, and she liid from the moon. She wrung licr claws, poor tiling, bat was far too proud to speak; She tucked her liead under licr wing, and pretended to be asleep. A lark, arm-in-arm with a thrush, came sauntering up to the place; The nightingale felt herself blush, though featlicrs hid her face; Slie knew they lind lieard licr song, she felt them suickor and sneer; She thought this life was too long, and wished she could skip a year. HOW THE KING LOST HIS CROWN. 365 " O nightingale ! " cooed a dove ; " O nightingale ! what's the usej You bird of beauty and love, why behave like a goose? Don't skulk away from our sight, like a common, contemptible fowl; You bird of joy and delight, why behave like an owl? " Only think of all you have done; only think of all you can do; A false note is really fun from such a bird as you ! Lift up your proud little crest; open your musical beak; Other birds have to do their best, you need only to speak." The nightingale shyly took her head from under her wing. And giving the dove a look, straightway began to sing. There was never a bird could pass; the night was divinely calm; And the people stood on the grass to hear that wonderful psalm ! The nightingale did not care, she only sang to the skies ; Her songs ascended there, and there she fixed her eyes. The people that stood below she knew but little about; And this story's a moral, I know, if you '11 try to find it out! Ingelow. HOW THE Kma LOST HIS CROWN. rpHE King's men, when he had slain the boar, -*- Strung him aloft on the fisher's oar, And, two behind, and two before, In triumph bore him along the shore. "An oar!" says the King; "'tisatrifie! why Did the fisher frown and the good wife sigh? " " A trifle, sire ! " was the Fool's reply ; " Then frown or laugh who will : for I, Who laugh at all and am only a clown, Will never more laugh at trifles ! " A runner next day leaped down the sand. And launched a skiff from the fisher's strand; For he cried, "An array invades the land! The passes are seized on either hand ! And I must carry my message straight Across the lake to the castle gate ! " The castle he neared, but tiic waves were great, The fanged rocks foamed like jaws of Fate; And lacking an oar the boat went down. The Furies laugh at trifles. CLASSIC SELECTIONS. The swimmer against the waves began To strive, as a valiant swimmer can. "Methinks," said the Fool, " 'twere no bad plan If succor were sent to the drowning man ! " To succor a perilled pawn instead, The monarch moving his rook ahead — Bowed over the chessman, white and red — Gave " check" — then looked on the lake and said, ♦' The boat is lost, the man will drown ! " O King ! beware of trifles ! To the lords and mirthful dames the bard Was trolling his latest song ; the guard Were casting dice in the castle yard; And the captains all were drinking hard, Then came the chief of the halberdiers, And told to the King's astounded ears : " An army on every side appears ! An army with banners and bows and spears ! They have gained the wall and surprised the town I '■ Our fates are woven of trifles ! The red usurper reached the throne ; The tidings over the realm were blown : And, flying to alien lands alone With a trusty few, the king made moan, But long and loudly laughed the clown : " We broke the oar and the boat went down, And so the messenger chanced to drown ; The messenger lost, we lost the town ; And the loss of the town has cost a crown ; And all these things are trifles ! " Fri/in the Lost Earl and other Poems. Trowbridge, THE SKATER'S SONG. A WAY! away! our fires stream bright along the frozen river; and -^--^ their arrowy sparkles of frosty liglit on the forest branchea quiver. Away ! away ! for the stars are forth, and on the pure snowa of the valley, In a giddy trance, the moonbeams dance — come, let us our comrades rally ! THE ERL-KING. 367 Away! away! o'er the sheeted ice, away, away we go; on our steel- bound feet we move as fleet as deer o'er the Lapland snow. What though the sharp north winds are out, the skater heeds them not ; midst the laugh and shout of the jocund rout, gray winter is forgot. 'Tis a pleasant sight, the joyous throng in the light of the reddening flame, while, with many a wheel on the ringing steel, they wage their riotous game ; and though the night-air cutteth keen, and the white moon shineth coldly, their homes, I ween, on the hills have been — they should breast the strong blast boldly. Let others choose more gentle sports by t\ie side of the winter hearth; or'neath the lamps of the festal hall seek for their share of mirth; but as for me, away! away! where the merry skaters be — where the fresh wind blows and the smooth ice glows, there is the place for me I Pedbody. THE EEL-Kma. r\ WHO rides by night thro' the woodlanc? so wild? ^-^ It is the fond father embracing his child ; And close the boy nestles within his loved arm, To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm. " O father, see yonder ! see yonder ! " he says ; " My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze? " — " Oh, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud." " No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud." " O, come and go with me, tliou loveliest child; By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled ; My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy. And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy." " O father, my father, and did you not hear The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear? " — " Be still, my heart's darling — ray child, be at ease ; It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees." " wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy? My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy ; She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild, And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child." 368 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. " O father, my father, and saw j'ou not plain, The Erl-Iuug's pale daughter glide past thro' the rain?" — " O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon; It was the gray willow that danced to the moon." *' O, come and go with me, no longer delay, Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away. " — " O father ! O father ! now, now keep your hold. The Erl-King has seized me — his grasp is so cold ! " Sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild, Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child ; He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread, But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead ! Translated by Scott. GoeiA«. SCENE PROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN. li/flSS L. MAC TAB. Show the gentleman in. The country, then, has heard of my arrival at last. A woman of condition in a family can never long conceal her retreat. OUapod ! that sounds like an ancient name. If I am not mistaken, he is nobly descended. [Enter Ollapod. OUapod. Madam, I have the honor of paying my respects. Sweet spot here, among the cows ; good for consumptions. Cliarming woods hereabouts. Pheasants flourish ; so do agues. Sorry not to see the good lieutenant ; admire his room ; hope soon to have his company. Do you take, good madam? — do you take? Miss L. I beg, sir, you will be seated. Ollapod. {Places chairs and sits down.) Oh, dear madam. A charm- ing chair to bleed in. {Aside.) Miss L. I am sorry Mr. Worthington is not at home to receive you, sir. Ollapod. You are a relation of the lieutenant, madam? 3Iiss L. I! only by his mari'iage, I assure you, sir. Aunt to his deceased wife. But I am not surprised at your question. My friends In town would wondi r to see the Honorable Miss Lucretia Mac Tab, sister to the late Lord Lofty, cooped up in a farm-house. Ollapod. (Aside.) Tlie honorable! Ihinipli! a bit of quality tumbled into decay. Tlie sister of a dead peer in a pigstyc! Miss L. You are of the military, I am informed, sir. SCENE FROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 369 Ollapod. He, he! yes, madam. Comet Ollapod, of our volunteers; a fine healthy troop, ready to give the enemy a dose -whenever they dare to attack us. Miss L. I was always prodigiously partial to the military. My great-grandfather, Marmadnke, Baron Lofty, commanded a troop of horse under the Duke of Marlborough, that famous general of his age. Ollapod. Marll)orough was a hero of a man, madam, and lived at Woodstock — a sweet, sporting country, where Kosamond perished by poison — arsenic as like as anything. Miss L. And have you served much, Mr. Ollapod? Ollapod. He, he ! Yes, madam ; served all the nobility and gentry for miles round. 3fiss L. Sir! Ollapod. And shall be happy to serve the good lieutenant and his family. Miss L. "We shall be proud of your acquaintance, sir. A gentle- man of the army is always an acquisition among the Goths and Vandals of the country, wliere every sheepish squire has the air of an apothe- cary. Ollapod. Madam! Anapothe— Zounds! — hum! He, he! I — You must know, I — I deal a little in Galenicals myself. Miss L. Galenicals ! Oh, they are for operations, I suppose, among the military. Ollapod. Operations! He, he! Come, that 's very well, very well, indeed. Thank you, good madam ; I owe you one. Galenicals, madam, are medicines. Miss L. Medicines I Ollapod. Yes, physic — buckthorn, senna, and so forth. Miss L. (liising.) "Why, then, j'ou are an apothecary! Ollapod. (^liising and boicing.) At your service, madam. Miss L. At my service, indeed ! Ollapod. Yes, madam ; Cornet Ollapod, at the " Gilt Galen's Head " — of the Volunteer Association Corps of cavalry; as ready for a foe as a customer — always willing to charge thera both. Do you take, good madam? — do you take? Miss L. And has the Honorable Miss Lucretia Mac Tab been talking all this while to a petty dealer in drugs? Ollapod. Drugs! (Aside.) Humph! she turns up her honorable nose as if she was going to swallow them! (Aloitd.) No man more 370 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. respected than myself, madam — courted by tlie corps — idolized by invalids; and, for a shot, ask my friend, Sir Charles Cropland. Miss L. Is Sir Charles Cropland a friend of yours, sir? Ollapod. Intimate. He doesn't make wry faces at physic, what- ever others may do, madam. This village flanks the intrenchments of his park — full of fine fat venison, which is as light a food for diges- tion as — Miss L. But he is never on his estate here, I am told. Ollapod. He quarters there at this moment. Miss L. Bless me ! has Sir Charles, then — Ollapod. Told me all — your accidental meeting in the metropolis, and his visits when the lieutenant was out. Miss L. Oh, shocking! I declare I shall faint! Ollapod. Faint! Never mind that, w^ith a medical man in the room ; I can bring you about in a twinkling. Miss L. And what has Sir Charles Cropland presumed to advance about me? Ollapod. Oh, nothing derogatory — respectful as a duck-legged drummer to a commander-in-chief. Miss L. I have only proceeded in this affair from the purest motives, and in a mode becoming a Mac Tab. Ollapod. None dare to doubt it. Miss L. And if Sir Charles has dropped in to a dish of tea with myself and Emily in London, when the lieutenant was out, I see no harm in it. Ollapod. Nor I neither ; except that tea shakes the nervous system to shatters. But to the point. Tlie baronet's my bosom friend ; having heard you were here, " Ollapod," says he, squeezing my hand in his own, which had strong sj-mptoms of fever, — " Ollapod," says he, "you are a military man, and may be trusted." "I'm a cornet," says I, " and close as a pill-box." " Fly, then, to Miss Lucretia Mac Tab, that honorable picture of prudence — " Miss L. lie, lie! Did Sir Charles say that? Ollapod. (Aside ) How these tabbies love to be toadied. Miss L. In short, Sir Charles, I perceive, has appointed you his emissary to consult with me when he may have an interview. Ollapod. Mudam, you arc the sharpest shot at the truth I ever met in my life. And now we arc in consultation, what think you of a walk with Miss Bmily by the old elms, at the buck of the village, this evening ? A LAUGHING SONG. 371 Miss L. "Why, I am willing to take any steps which may promote Emily's future welfare. Ollapod. Take steps! What, in a walk? lie, he! Come, that's very well — very well, indeed ! Thank you, good madam ; I owe you one ! I shall communicate to my friend with due despatch. Command Cornet Ollapod on all occasions ; and whatever the gilt Galen's Head can produce — Miss L. {Curtesy inr/.) Oh, sir! Ollapod. By the by, I have some double-distilled lavender water, much admired in our corps. Permit me to send a pint bottle by way of present. Miss L. Dear sir, I shall rob you. Ollapod. Quite the contrary — (Aside) — for I '11 sot it down to Sir Charles as a quart. (Boicing to Lucketia.) Madam, your slave! (Going.) You have prescribed for our patient like an able physician. (LucRETiA crosses. ) Not a step ! Miss L. Nay, I insist ! Ollapod. Then I must follow in the rear. The physician always before the apothecary. Miss L. Apothecary ! Sir, in this business, I look upon you as a general officer. Ollapod. Do you? Thank you, good ma'am ; I owe you one! Golman. A LAUGHHIG SONG. "TTTHEN the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, ' ' And the dimpling stream runs luugliiug by ; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it ; When the meadows laugh with lively green. And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene : When Mary, and Susan, and Emily, With their sweet round mouths sing, " Ha, ha, he!" When the painted birds laugh in the shade, Wliere our table with cherries and nuts is spread: Come live, and be merry, and join with me To sing tlie sweet chorus of " Ha, ha, he ! " Blake. 372 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. THE "OLD, OLD SONG." "TTTHEN all the world is young, lad, and all the trees are green; ' ' And every goose a swan, lad, and every lass a queen ; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, and round the world away; Young blood must have its course, lad, and every dog his day. "When all the world is old, lad, and all the trees are brown ; And all the sport is stale, lad, and all the wheels run down ; Creep home and take your place there, the spent and n-.aimed among ; God grant you find one face there you loved when all was young. Kingtley, * LADY UNA AND THE LION. /^NE day, nigh weary of the irksome way, ^-^ From her unhasty beast she did alight ; And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay, In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; From her fair head her fillet she undight. And laid her stole aside : her angel's face, As the great eye of heaven, shined bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place : Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace. It fortuned, out of the thickest wood A ramping lion rushed suddenly, Hunting full greedy after savage blood : Soon as tlie royal virgin he did spy, With gaping moutli at her ran greedily To have at once devour'd her tender corse ; But to the prey when as he drew more nigh, His bloody rage assuag&d with remorse. And, with the siglit amazed, forgat his furious force. Instead thereof, he kiss'd her weary feet, And licked her lily hands with fawning tongue, As he her wrong6d innocence did wcet. Oh, how can beauty master the most strong, And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! Whose yielded pride and proud submission, Still dreading death, when she had markM long, Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion, And drizzling tears did shed for pure aflectlon. BE PATIENT. 373 " The lion, lord of every beast In field," Quoth slie, " liis princely puissance doth abat«, And mighty proud to humble weak does yield, Forgetful of the hungry rage which late Hira prick'd, in pity of my sad estate : — But he, my lion, and my noljle lord. How docs he find in cruel heart to hate Her thatliim loved, and ever most adored As the god of my life? why hath he me abhorr'd? "* Eedoonding tears did choak th' end of her plaint, "Which softly echo'd from the neighbour wood ; And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint, The kingly beast upon her gazing stood; Witli pity calm'd, down fell liis angry mood. At last, in close heart shutting up her pain, Arose the virgin born of heavenly brood, And to her snowy palfrey got again, To seek her strayed Champion if she might attain. The lion would not leave her desolate, But with her went along as a strong guard Of her chaste person, and a f aitliful mate Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard : Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and ward ; And when she waked, he waited diligent, "With humble service to her will prepared : From her fair eyes he took commandement. And ever by her looks conceived her intent, KB PATnaiT. TI)E patient! oh, be patient! Put your ear against the earth; -*-^ Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has birth — How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way, Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the blade stands up In day- Be patient ! oh, be patient ! The germs of mighty thought Must have their silent undergrowth — must underground be wrought^ But as sure as there 's a Power that makes the grass appear. Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade-time shall be here. 374 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Be patient! oh, be patient! — go and watcli the wheat-ears grow — So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change nor throe — Day after daj', day after day, till the ear is fully grown — And then again day after day, till the ripened field is brown. Be patient ! oh, be patient ! — though yet our hopes are green, The harvest-fields of freedom shall be crowned with sunny sheen. Be ripening ! be ripening ! — mature your silent way, Till the whole broad land is tougued with fire on freedom's harvest-day lAnton . EACH AND ALL. T ITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, -^— ^ Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; The heifer that lows in the upland farm. Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that gi'cat Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, "Whilst his files sweep round j^on Alpine height ; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one ; Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder-bough; I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; He sings the song, but it pleases not now, for I did not bring home the river and skyj — He sang to my ear, — they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore ; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave ; And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; But tlie poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore. With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. 375 The lover watched his graceful maid, As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her lieautj'^'s l)est attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. At last slio came to liis hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; — The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, ])iit fairy none. Then I said, " I covet truth ; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth." As I spoke, beneath my feet Tlie ground-pine curled its pretty wreath. Running over tlie club-moss burrs ; I inhaled tlie violet's breath ; Around me stood the oaks and firs ; Piue-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; Over me soared the eternal sky. Full of liglit and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard. The rolling river, the morning bird ; — Beauty through my senses stole ; I yielded myself to the perfect whole. Emerson. LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. LEAD, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom, lead Thou me on; The night is dark, and I am far from home, lead Thou me on; Keep thou my feet ; I do not ask to see The distant scene ; one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that thou shouldst lead me on; I loved to choose and see my path ; but now lead Thou me on! I loved the garish day. and, spite of fears. Pride ruled ray will. Remember not past years ! So long thy power has blest me, sure it still will lead me on O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till the night is gone, And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile ! N'ewfnatu 876 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. THE HAT. "TTTELL, yes ! On Tuesday last the knot was tied — ' ' Tied hard and fast ; that cannot be denied. Who would have thought it? Married ! IIow? What for? I who was ranlved a strict old bachelor; I who declined — and gave lame reasons why — Five, six, good comfortable matches; I Married ! A married man ! Beyond — a — doubt I How, do you ask, came such a thing about? What made so great a change, — a change like that? Imagine. Guess. You give it up? A hat, A hat, in short, like all the hats you see — A plain silk stove-pipe hat. This did for me. A plain black hat just lilse the one that's here. A hat? Why, yes. But how? Well, lend an ear. One day this winter I went out to dine. All was first-rate — the style, the food, the wine. The concert was announced for half past ten, And at tiiat hour I joined a crowd of men. The ladies, arm to arm, sweet, white, we found, Like rows of sugared almonds, seated round. I leaned against the door — there was no cliair. A stout, fierce gentleman, got up with care (A cuirassier I set him down to be). Leaned on the other door-post, hard by me, , Whilst far off in tlie distance some poor girl Sang, with her lovelorn ringlets out of curl, Some trashy stuff of love and love's distress. I could see nothing, and could hear still less, Still, I applauded, for politeness' sake. Next a dress-coat of fashionable make Came forward and began. It clad a poet. That's the last mode In Paris. Did you know It? I blush to write it — poems, you must know, All make me sleepy ; and it was so now. And a strange torpor I could not ignore Came creeping o'er me. " Heavens ! suppose I snore! Let me get out," I cried, " f7na»d. SWEET WTLLUWS GHOST. AS May Margaret sat in her bowerie, in her bower aU alone, Just at the parting o' midnight, she heard a mournful moan. " Oh, Is it my father, oh, is it my mother, oh, is it my brother John; Or is it Sweet William, my ain true love, to Scotland new come home?" " It is na thy father, it is na thy mother, it is na thy brother John ; But it is Sweet Wiliiam, thy ain true love, to Scotland new come home.* " Oh, hae ye brought onie fine tilings, onie new things for to wear, Or hae ye brouglit me a braid of lace to snood up my gowden hair?" *' I 've brought you no fine things, nor onie new things to wear, Nor have I brought you a braid of lace to snood up your gowden hair. O dear Margaret, O sweet Margaret, I pray thee speali to me; Gie me my faith and troth, Margaret, as I gave it to thee ! " '« Thy faith and troth thou 's never get, nor yet will I thee lend, Till thou come within my bower and kiss my cheek and chin." •• If I should come within thy bower, — I am no mortal man, — And should I kiss thy rosy lips, thy days would not be lang. ♦' dear Margaret, O sweet Margaret, I pray thee speak to m«; Gie me my faith and treth, Margaret, as I gave it to thee! " " Thy faith and troth thou 's never get, nor yet will I thee lend, Till thou take me to yon kirk-yard, and wed me with a ring." " My bones are buried In yon klrk-yard, afar beyond the sea, And 'tis but my spirit, Margaret, tliat 's spcakmg now to thee! " She stretched out her lily-white hand, and for to do her best; " Hae there your faith and troth, Willy, God send your soul to resti" And now she has kilted her robes of ,^een a piece oelow the knee. And a' the llve-lang winter night the dea.'l corpse followed she. " Is there onie room at your head, Willy, (K onie room at your feet. Is there onie room at your side, Willy, wherein that I may creep? " TINTERN ABBEY. 381 " There 's na room at my head, Margaret, there 's na room at my feet, There's na room at my side, Margaret, my cortln's made so meet." Then up and crew the red, red cock, and up then crew the gray; " 'T is time, 't is time, my dear Margaret, that you were going away ! " No more the ghost to Margaret said, but with a grievous groan Evanished In a cloud of mist and left her all alone. " O stay, my only true love, stay ! " the constant Margaret cried ; Wan grew her cheeks, she closed her een, stretched her soft limbs, and died. ArrcMgid from different editions. Old Ballad, THOSE EVENING BELLS. THOSE evening bells ! those evening bell* I How many a tale their music tells Of youth, and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime ! Those joyous hours are passed away ; And many a heart that then was gay Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And so 'twill be when I am gone, — That tuneful peal will still ring on ; While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. ThomaH Moore, TINTERN ABBEY. FIVE years have past ; five summers, with the length Of five long winters ! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a sweet inland murmur. Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. That on a wild secluded scene Impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day Is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 382 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Tnese plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with tlieir unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves Among the woods and copses, nor disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see These hedgerows — hardly hedgerows — little lines Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms. Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms. Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eje ; But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration : feelings too Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps. As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life— His little, nameless, imremerabercd acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust. To them I may have owed anotlier gift, Of aspect more sublime : that blessed mood. In which the burden of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world. Is lightened ; that serene and blessed mood! In which the allcctions gently lead us on. Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we arc laid asleep In l)ody, and become a living soul : While with an eye made quiet by the power TINTERN ABBEY. 58& Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, "We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oli ! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and tlie fever of the world. Have liung upon the beatings of ray lieart — How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to tliee ! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity. The picture of the mind revives again ; While here I stand, not only witli the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 1 came among tliese hills ; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led : more like a man Flying from something that he dreads than one Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. And tlieir glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, The mountain, and tlie deep and gloomy wood. Their colors and their forms, were then to me An appetite, a feeling and a love. That had no ne^ 1 of a remoter charm, By thouglit supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye. Tliat time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, 884 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. And all Its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts : a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : A motion and a spirit that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefoi'e am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods And mountains, and of all that we behold From this green earth ; of all the mighty world Of ej'e and ear, both what they half create And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize In Nature and the language of the sense The anchor of my purest thoughts; the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of aU my moral being. Wordtworch SONG OF MARION'S MEN. OUR band Is few, but true and tried, our leader frank and bold The British soldier trembles when Marion's name is tolcJ. Our fortress is tlie good green wood, our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, as seamen know the sea. We know its walls of tliorny vines, its glades of reedy grass. Its safe and silent islands witliin the dar' morass. Wo to the English soldiery that little dread us near! On them shall liglit at midnight a strange and sudden fear: Wlien waking to their tents on Are they grasp their arraa In vain, And they who stand to face us are beat to earth again ; THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. 88c And they who fly in terror deem a mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release from danger and from toil ; We talk the battle over, and share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, as if a hunt were up. And woodland flowers are gathered to crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind that in the pine-top grieves. And slumber long and sweetly, on beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon the band that Marion leads — The glitter of their rifles, the scampering of their steeds. 'T is life our flery barbs to guide across the moonlit plains ; 'T is life to feel the night-wind that lifts their tossing manes. A moment in the British camp — a moment — and away Back to the pathless forest, before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, grave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion, for Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band, with kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, and tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, and lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, forever, from our shore. Brya'nt. THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. "T SAID — Then, dearest, since 'tis so, -*- Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails. Since all my life seemed meant for fails. Since this was written and needs must be — My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness 5 Take back the hope you gave, — I claim Only a memory of the same, — And this beside, if you will not blame. Your leave for one more last ride with me. My mistress bent that brow of hers; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance : right I 836 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. The blood replenished me again ; My last thought was at least not vain : I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night? Hush ! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions — sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once — And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near antl yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here ! -^ Thus leant she and lingered — joy and fear Thus lay she a moment on my breast. Then we began to ride. My soul Smootlied itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay beliind. Wliat need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So miglit I gain, so might I miss. Miglit slie have loved me? just as well She miglit have hated, who can tell ! "Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I. Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and wlio succeeds? We rode ; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw otlier regions, cities new. As the world rushed by on eitlier side. I thouglit, — All labor, yet no loss Bear up l)eneath their unsucccss. Look at tlie end of work, contrast Tlic petty done, tlic undone vast, Tliis present of theirs with the hopeful pastl I hoped she would love me ; here we ride. THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. 887 What hand and brain went ever paired? What heart alike conceived and dared? Wliat act proved all its tliought hud been? What will but felt the fleshy screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There 's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave. What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only ; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'T is something, nay 't is much : but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you — poor, sick, old ere your time — Nearer one whit j^our own sublime Thau we who have never turned a rhyme? Sing, riding 's a joy ! For me, I ride. And you, great sculptor — so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave. And that 's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn ! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, *' Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fasliions end I* I gave my j-outh; but we ritle, in fine. Who knows what 's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being — had I signed the Un"HE gods preside not over treachery. And it must have been by -■- treason among those in whom I have placed my most familiar »rust that I am now where and what I am. I can but darkly surmise by whose baseness the act has been committed. It had been a nobler triumph to you, Roman, and a lighter fall to me, had the field of battle decided the fate of my kingdom, and led me a prisoner to your tent. Had not accursed treason given me up, like a chained slave, to your power, yonder walls must have first been beaten piecemeal down by your engines and buried me beneath their miiis, and famine clutched all whom the sword had spared, ere we had owned you master. "What is life when liberty and independence are gone? Was not that a woman's war that drove the Goths from upper Asia? "Was not that a woman's war that hemmed Sapor in his capital, and seized his camp? and that Avhich beat Ileruclianus, and gained thereby Syria and Mesopotamia? and that which worsted Probus, and so won the crown of Egypt? Does it ask for more, to be beaten by Romans, than to conquer these? Rest assured, great prince, that the war was mine. My people were indeed with me, but it was I who roused, fired, and led them on. I had indeed great advisers. Their 406 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. names are knoAvn throughout the world. "Why should I name the renowned Longinus, the princely Gracchus, the invincible Zabdas, the honest Otho? Their names are honored in Rome as well as here. They have been with me; but without lying or vanity, I may say I have been their head. You say a word from me would open these gates ; it is a word I cannot speak. Wouldst thou that I too should turn traitor? Tian. THE PATRIOT. An Old Story. TT was roses, roses, all the way, -*- With myrtle mixed in my path like mad : The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day. The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, " Good folk, mere noise repels — But give me your sun from j'onder skies ! " They had answered " And afterward, what else?" Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep I Naught man could do, have I left undone: And you see my han^est, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. There's nobody on the house-tops now — Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles' Gate — or, better yet, By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. I go In the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For tliey fling, whOi;Vcr lias a mind. Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG. 407 Thus I entered, and thus I j,'o ! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. " Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me? " — God might question ; now instead, Tis God shall repay : I am safer so. Broioning' THE LEAP OF EOUSHAN BEG. MOUNTED on Kyrat strong and fleet, His chestnut steed with four white feet, Eoushan Beg, called Kurroglou, Son of the road, and bandit chief, Seeking refuge and relief, Up the mountain pathway flew. Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed, Never yet could any steed Reach the dust-cloud in his course. More than maiden, more than wife. More than gold and next to life Roushan the Robber loved his horse. ( In the land that lies beyond Erzeroura and Trebizond, Garden-girt his fortress stood; Plundered khan, or caravan Journeying north from Koordistan, Gave him wealth and wine and food. Seven hundred and fourscore Men at arms his livery wore, Did his bidding night and day. Now, through regions all unknown. He was wandering, lost, alone, Seeking without guide his way. Suddenly the pathway ends, Sheer the precipice descends, Loud the torrent roars unseen ; Thirty feet from side to side Yawns the chasm; on air must ride He who crosses this ravine. iOa CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Following close in liis pursuit, At the precipice's foot, Reyhan the Arab of Orf ah Halted with his hundred men, Shouting upward from the glen, " La lUah ilia AUah ! " Gently Roushan Beg caressed Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breastj Kissed him upon both his eyes; f Sang to him in his wild way, J As upon the topmost spray '.IS Sings a bird before it flies. " O my Kyrat, O my steed, Round and slender as a reed, Carry me this peril through! Satin housings shall be thine. Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, O thou soul of Kurroglou ! ,J " Soft thy skin as silken skein. Soft as woman's hair thy mane, Tender are thine eyes and true | All thy hoofs like ivory shine, Polished bright; O, life of mine. Leap, and rescue Kurroglou! " Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, Drew together his four white feet, Paused a moment on the verge, Measured with his eye the space, And into the air's embrace Leaped as leaps the ocean surgSo As the ocean surge o'er sand Bears a swimmer safe to land, Kyrat safe his rider l)oro; Rattling down the deep aljyss Fragments of the precipice Roiled like pebbles on a shore. THE FERRY OF GALLAWAY. 409 Roushan's tasselled cap of red Trembled not upon his head, Careless sat he and upright ; Neither hand nor bridle shook, Nor his head he turned to look, As he galloped out of sight. Flash of harness in the air, Seen a moment like the glare Of a sword drawn from its sheath ; i Thus the phantom horseman passed. And the shadow that he cast Leaped the cataract underneath. Reyhan the Arab held his breath While this vision of life and death Passed above him. " Allahu ! " Cried he. " In all Koordistan Lives there not so brave a man As this Robber Kurroglou ! " Longfellow. I THE lEEEY OF GALLAWAY. N the stormy waters of Gallaway My boat had been idle the livelong day, Tossing and tumbling to and fro, For the wind was high and the tide was low. The tide was low and the wind was high. And we were heavy, my heart and I, For not a traveller all the day Had crossed the ferry of Gallaway. At set o' th' sun the clouds outspread Like wings of darkness overhead, "When, out o' th' west, my eyes took heed Of a lady, riding at full speed. The hoof-strokes struck on the flinty hill Like silver ringing on silver, till I saw the veil in her fair hand float, And flutter a signal for my boat. 410 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. The ■waves ran backward as if 'ware Of a presence more than mortal fair, And my little craft leaned down and lay "With her side to th' sands o' th" Gallaway. •♦ Haste, good boatman ! haste ! " she cried, " And row me over the other side ! " And she stript from her finger the shining ring, And gave it to me for the ferrying. " Woe 's me, my lady ! I may not go, For the wind is high and th' tide is low, And rocks like dragons lie in the wave ; — Slip back on your finger the ring you gave ! " •' Nay, nay ! for the rocks will be melted down, And the waters they never will let me drown, And the wind a pilot will prove to thee, For my dying lover, he waits for me ! " Then bridle-ribbon and silver spur She put in ray hand, but I answered her: " The wind is high and the tide is low; I must not, dare not, and will not go ! " Her face grew deadly white with pain, And she took her champing steed by th' mane. And bent his neck to th' ribbon and spur That lay in my hand, — but I answered her : '• Though you should proffer me twice and thrlc© Of ring and ribbon and steed the price, — The leave of kissing your lily-like hand, — I never could row you safe to th' land." " Then God have mercy ! " she faintly cried, " For my lover is dying the other side. O cruel, O crudest Gallaway, Be parted, and make me a path, I pray! " Of a sudden the sun slione large and bright, As if he were staying away the night, ODE ON TUE POETS. 411 And the rain on the river fell as sweet As the pitying tread of an angel's feet. And spanning the water from edge to edge, A rainbow stretched like a golden bridge ; And I put the rein in her hand so fair, And she sat in her saddle, th' queen o' th' air. And over the river, from edge to edge, She rode on the shifting and shimmering bridge, And landing safe on the farther side, — " Love is tliy conqueror, Death ! " she cried- AUce Cartf. ODE ON THE POETS. BARDS of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth i Have ye souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new? Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon ; With the noise of fountains wondrous, And the parle of voices thund'rous ; With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease. Seated on Elysian lawns Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; Underneath large bluebells tented. Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth ; Philosophic numbers smooth ; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries. Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again ; 412 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Aucl the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumbered, never cloying. Here, your earth-bom souls stiU speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights ; Of their passions and their spites ; Of their glory and their shame ; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away. Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth ! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new I KALLUNDBORG CHUKOH. «« "OUILD at Kallundborg by the sea J^ A church as stately as church may be, And there shalt thou wed my daughter fair," Said the Lord of Nesvek to Esbern Snare. And the Baron laughed. But Esbern said, " Though I lose my soul, I will Hclva wed I * And oflf he strode, in his pride of will, To the Troll who dwelt in Ulshoi hill. " Build, O Troll, a church for me At Kallundborg by the mighty sea ; Build it stately, and build it fair. Build it quickly," said Esbern Snare. But the sly Dwarf said, " No work is wrought By Trolls of the Hills, O man, for naught. What wilt thou give for thy church so fair?" •♦Set thy own price," quoth Esbern Snare. " When Kallundborg church is builded well, Thou must the name of its builder tell, Keats, KALLUNDBORG CHURCH. 418 Or thy heart and thy eyes must be ray boon." •' Build," said Esbern, "and build it soon." By night and by day the Troll wrought oaj He hewed the timbers, he piled the stono; But day by day, as the walls rose fair, Darker and sadder grew Esbern Snare. He listened by night, he watched by day, He sought and thought, but he dared not prc^ ; In vain he called on the EUe-maids shy, And the Neck and the Nis gave no reply. Of his evil bargain far and wide A rumor ran through the country-side ; And Helva of Nesvek, young and fair, Prayed for the soul of Esbern Snare. And now the church was wellnigh done; One pillar it lacked, and one alone ; And the grim Troll muttered, "Fool thou art I To-morrow gives me thy eyes and heart ! " By Kallundborg in black despair, Through wood and meadow, walked Esbern Snare, Till, worn and weary, the strong man sank Under the birches on Ulshoi bank. At his last day's work he heard the Troll Hammer and delve in the quarry's hole ; Before him the church stood large and fair : ♦' I have builded my tomb," said Esbern Snare. And he closed his eyes the sight to hide. When he heard a light step at his side : " O Esbern Snare ! " a sweet voice said, " Would I might die now in thy stead * " With a grasp by love and by fear made .stronjl. He held her fast, and he held her long ; With the beating heart of a bird af eared. She hid her face in Ms flame-red beard. 414 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. " O love ! " he cried, " let me look to-day In thine eyes ere mine are plucked away ; Let me hold thee close, let me feel thy heart Ere mine by the Troll is torn apart ! " I sinned, O Helva, for love of thee! Pray that the Lord Christ pardon me ! " But fast as she prayed, and faster still, Hammered the Troll in Ulshoi hill. He knew, as he wrought, that a loving heart Was somehow baffling his evil art; For more than spell of Elf or Troll Is a maiden's prayer for her lover's souL And Esbem listened, and caught the soimd Of a Troll-wife singing underground : «' To-morrow comes Fine, father thine : Lie still and hush thee, baby mine ! "Lie still, my darling! next sunrise Thou 'It play with Esbern Snare's heart and ey©«I' " Ho 1 ho ! " quoth Esbern, " is that your game? Thanlcs to the Troll-wife, I know his name ! " The Troll he heard him, and hurried on To Kallundborg cliurcli witli the lacking stone. " Too late, Gafler Fine ! " cried Esbern Snare; And Troll and pillar vanished in air ! That night the harvesters heard the sound Of a woman sobbing underground, And tlie voice of the Hill-Troll loud with blame Of the careless singer who told his name. Of the Troll of the Church they sing the rune By the Northern Sea in the harvest moon; And the fishers of Zealand hoar him still Scolding his wife in Ulshoi hill. And seaward over its groves of birch BtlU looks the tower of Kallundborg church. Where, first at its altar, a wedded pair, Stood Hclva of Nesvek and Esbcfn Snare ! WhiUUr. ODE TO MY INFANT SON. 415 THE SPIEIT OF NATURE. T IFE of Life ! Thy lips enkindle -*— ^ With their love the breath between them ; And thy smiles before they dwindle Make the cold air lire ; then screen thera In those looks, where whoso gazes Faints, entangled in their mazes. Child of Light ! Thy limbs are burning Through the veil which seems to hide them, As the radiant linos of morning Through thin clouds, ere they divide them. And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wherese'er thou shinest. Fair are others : none beholds Thee ; But thy voice sounds low and tender Like the fairest, for it folds thee From the sight, that liquid splendor; And all feel, yet see thee never, — As I feel now, lost forever! Lamp of Earth ! where'er thou movest Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness Till they fail, as I am failing, Dizzy, lost, yet uubewalling ! Shelley. ODE TO MY INFANT SON. rpHOU happy, happy elf ! -*- (But stop — first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself ! (My love, he 's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather light. Untouched by sorrow, and unsolled by sm (Dear me ! the cnild is ewallowiug a pin I) 416 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. Thou little, tricksy duck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door ! the door ! he '11 tumble down the stair t) Thou darling of thy sire ! (Why, Jane, he '11 set his pinafore afire !) Thou imp of mirth and joy ! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents ! — (Drat the boy I There goes my ink !) Thou cherub — but of eartli ; Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale. In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail !) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world tliat blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble — that 's his precious nose !) Thy father's pride and hope ! (He '11 break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint « (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove ! (He'll have that jug off, with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! (Are those torn clotlies his best?) Little epitome of man ! (He '11 climb upon the table — that 's his plan !) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (lie 's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No stornis, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on. My elfln Jolm ! Toss tlie light ball — bestride tlie stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick I) i THE LOST LEADER. 417 With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He 's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Tliou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nosel) Balmy and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar !) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I '11 tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he 's sent above !) Hood. THE LOST LEADER. JUST for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,— Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us. Lost all the others, she lets us devote ; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver So much was theirs who so little allowed : How all our copper had gone for his service ! Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud 1 We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die ! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Bums, Shelley, were with us, —they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen. He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! We shall march prospering, — not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre; Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire; Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod. 418 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. One more devil's-triumph aud sorrow for angeis, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! Life's night begins : let him never come bacK to us? There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again ! Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own ; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! Broiontng. AUX ITALIENS. AT Paris it was, at the Opera there ^ And she looked like a queen in a book, that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast, so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe with a tenor note The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, Avhile the gas burned lo-;,. " Non ti scordar di me " ? The Emperor there, in his box of state, Looked grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate, Where his eagles in bronze had beeij. The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye « You 'd have said that her fancy had gone back again. For one moment, under the old blue sky. To the old glad life in Spain. Well ! there in our front-row box we sat Together, my l)ri(le-betrothed and I ; My gaze was fixed on my opera hat. And hers on the stage hard by. AUX ITALIENS. 419 And both were silent, and both were sad. Like a queen, she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had ; So confident of her charm ! I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her fonner lord, good soul that he was! Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas. I hope that to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; I wish him well for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas. Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather; Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), And her warm white neck in its gohlen chain, And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again ; And the jasmin-fiower in her fair young breast ; Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmin-flower! And the one bird singing alone to his nest. And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife. And the letter that brought me back my ring. And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing ! For I thought of her grave below the hill Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over. And I thought ..." were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her ! " And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things were best. 420 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. That I smelt the smell of that jasmin-flower, Which she used to wear in her breast. It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold ! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet "When a mummy is half unrolled. And I turned and looked. She was sitting there In a dim box, over the stage ; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, And that jasmin in her breast ! I was here, and she was there. And the glittering horseshoe curved between— From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous, scornful mien. To my early love, with her eyes down cast. And over her prinu'ose face the shade (In short, from the Future back to the Past), There was but one step to be made. To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage ; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more. My thinking of her, or the music's strain. Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from tlie grave again With the jasmin in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed ! But she loves me now, and she loved me then I And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wcaltiiy, and young, and handsome still, And but for lier . . . well, we'll let that pass — She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love. With her primrose face ; for old things are best, And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in ray lady's breast. CLOSE OF THE ORATION OX THE CROWN. 421 The world is filled -with folly and sin, And Love must cling where it can, I say; For Beauty is easy enough to win, But one is n't loved every day. And I think in the lives of most women and men. There 's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven. But oh, the smell of that jasmin flower ! And oh, that music ! and oh, the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower Kon ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me I Bulwer-Lytton.. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. C10ME live with me and be my Love, and we will all the pleasures '' prove that hills and valleys, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks and see the shep- herds feed their flocks, by shallow rivers, to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies, a cap of flowers, and a ktrtle embroider'd all with leaves of mjTtle. A gown made of the finest wool, which from our pretty lambs we pull, fair lined slippers for the cold, with buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds with coral clasps and amber studs : and if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me and be my Love. Thy silver dishes for thy meat as precious as the gods do eat, shall on an ivory table be prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each May-morning : if these delights thy mind may move, then live with me and be my Love. Marlowe. CLOSE OF THE ORATION ON THE CEOWN. rr^ HE people gave their voice, and the danger that hung upon our -*- borders went by like a cloud. Then was the time for the upright citizen to show the world if he could suggest anything better : — now, his cavils come too late. The statesman and the adventurer are alike in nothing, but there Is nothmg in which they difier more than this. The statesmaii 'declares his mind before the event, and submits himself 422 CLASSIC SELECTIONS. to be tested by those who have believed him, by fortune, by his owb use of opportunities, by every one and everything. The adventurer U silent when he ouglit to have spoken, and then, if there is a disagree, able result, he fixes an e3'e of malice upon that. As I have said, the^ was the opportunity of the man who cared for Athens and for th« assertion of justice. But I am prepared to go further: — If any one has had a new liglil as to something which it would have been expedient to do then, I pro- test that this ought not to be concealed from me. But if there ncithei is nor was any such thing, if no one to tliis very liour is in a position to name it; then what was your adviser to do? Was he not to clioose the best of the visible and feasible alternatives? And this is what I did, ^schines, when the herald asked, "Who wishes to speak?" His question was not, Who wislies to rake up old accusations? or. Who wishes to give pledges of tlie future? In those days you sat dumb in the assemblies. I came forward and spoke. Come now — it is better late than never : point out what argument should have been discovered — wliat opportunity that might have served has not been used by me in the interests of Atliens — wliat alli- ance, what policy was available which I might better have commended to our citizens? As, however, he bears so hardly upon the results, I am ready to make a statement which may sound startling. I say that, if the event had been manifest to the whole world beforehand, if all men had been fully aware of it, if you, ^Eschincs, who never opened your lipn, had been ever so loud or so shrill in prophecy or in protest, not •oven then ought Athens to have forsaken this course, if Athens had