III.

God! thou art mighty!—at thy footstool bound, Lie gazing to thee Chance, and Life, and Death; Nor in the Angel-circle flaming round, Nor in the million worlds that blaze beneath Is one that can withstand thy wrath's hot breath— Woe in thy frown—in thy smile, victory! Hear my last prayer—I ask no mortal wreath; Let but these eyes my rescued country see, Then take my spirit, All-Omnipotent, to thee.

IV.

Now for the fight—now for the cannon-peal— Forward—through blood and toil, and cloud and fire! Glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel, The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire; They shake—like broken waves their squares retire,— On, them, hussars!—now give them rein and heel; Think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire:— Earth cries for blood—in thunder on them wheel! This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph seal.

KARL THEODORE KORNER.

SELF-RELIANCE.

1. To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men,—that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost, and our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each, the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato and Milton is that they set at naught books and traditions, and spoke not what men, but what THEY thought.

2. A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty.

3. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression with good-humored inflexibility then most when the whole cry of voices is on the other side. Else to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another.

4. There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better 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 to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. 5. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in the memory is not without pre- established harmony. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray.

6. We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents. It may be safely trusted as proportionate and of good issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his work made manifest by cowards. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no invention, no hope.

7. Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying their perception that the Eternal was stirring at their heart, working through their hands, predominating in all their being.

8. And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids pinched in a corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers and benefactors, pious aspirants to be noble clay under the Almighty effort, let us advance on Chaos and the Dark.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

ADAMS AND JEFFERSON.

1. Adams and Jefferson, I have said, are no more. As human beings, indeed, they are no more. They are no more, as in 1776, bold and fearless advocates of independence; no more, as on subsequent periods, the head of the government; no more, as we have recently seen them, aged and venerable objects of admiration and regard. They are no more. They are dead.

2. But how little is there of the great and good which can die? To their country they yet live, and live forever. They live in all that perpetuates the remembrance of men on earth; in the recorded proofs of their own great actions, in the offspring of their intellect, in the deep engraved lines of public gratitude, and in the respect and homage of mankind. They live in their example; and they live, emphatically, and will live, in the influence which their lives and efforts, their principles and opinions, now exercise, and will continue to exercise, on the affairs of men, not only in their own country, but throughout the civilized world.

3. A superior and commanding human intellect, a truly great man,— when heaven vouchsafes so rare a gift,—is not a temporary flame, burning bright for awhile, and then expiring, giving place to returning darkness. It is rather a spark of fervent heat, as well as radiant light, with power to enkindle the common mass of human mind; so that, when it glimmers in its own decay, and finally goes out in death, no night follows; but it leaves the world all light, all on fire, from the potent contact of its own spirit.

4. Bacon died; but the human understanding, roused by the torch of his miraculous mind to a perception of the true philosophy and the just mode of inquiring after truth, has kept on its course successfully and gloriously. Newton died; yet the courses of the spheres are still known, and they yet move on, in the orbits which he saw and described for them, in the infinity of space.

5. No two men now live—perhaps it may be doubted whether any two men have ever lived in one age,—who, more than those we now commemorate, have impressed their own sentiments, in regard to politics and government, on mankind; infused their own opinions more deeply into the opinions of others; or given a more lasting direction to the current of human thought. Their work doth not perish with them. The tree which they assisted to plant will flourish, although they water it and protect it no longer; for it has struck its roots deep; it has sent them to the very center; no storm, not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it; its branches spread wide; they stretch their protecting arms broader and broader, and its top is destined to reach the heavens.

6. We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. No age will come, in which the American Revolution will appear less than it is—one of the greatest events in human history. No age will come, in which in it will cease to be seen and felt, on either continent, that a mighty step, a great advance, not only in American affairs, but in human affairs, was made on the 4th of July, 1776. And no age will come, we trust, so ignorant, or so unjust, as not to see and acknowledge the efficient agency of these we now honor, in producing that momentous event.

DANIEL WEBSTER.

THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW.

I.

Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle cry! Never with mightier glory than when we had reared thee on high, Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege at Lucknow— Shot through the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised thee anew, And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.

II.

Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives— Women and children among us—God help them, our children and wives! Hold it we might—and for fifteen days or for twenty at most. "Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his post!" Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the best of the brave; Cold were his brows when we kissed him—we laid him that night in his grave.

III.

"Every man die at his post!" and there hailed on our houses and halls Death from their rifle bullets, and death from their cannon balls, Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight barricade, Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we stoopt to the spade, Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell, Striking the hospital wall, crashing through it, their shot and their shell,

IV.

Death—for their spies were among us, their marksman were told of our best, So that the brute bullet broke through the brain that could think for the rest; Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain at our feet— Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us round; Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a street, Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace— and death in the ground!

V.

Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! down, down! and creep through the hole, Keep the revolver in hand! You can hear him—the murderous mole. Quiet! ah! quiet—wait till the point of the pickaxe be through! Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than before— Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.

VI.

Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced on a day, Soon as the blast of that underground thunder-clap echoed away, Dark through the smoke and the sulphur, like so many fiends in their hell— Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell— Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemies fell.

VII.

What have they done? where is it? Out yonder. Guard the Redan! Storm at the Water-gate, storm at the Bailey-gate! storm, and it ran Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drowned by the tide— So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who shall escape? Kill or be killed, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers and men.

VIII.

Ready! take aim at their leaders—their masses are gapped with our grape— Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging forward again, Flying and foiled at the last by the handful they could not subdue; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.

IX.

Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and in limb, Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure, Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on him— Still, could we watch at all points? We were every day fewer and fewer.

X.

There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that passed— "Children and wives—if the tigers leap into the folds unawares, Every man die at his post—and the foe may outlive us at last, Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into theirs."

XI.

Roar upon roar—in a moment two mines, by the enemy sprung, Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. Riflemen, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be as true. Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank fusilades; Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung, Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with hand grenades—, And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.

XII.

Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out-tore Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more. Riflemen, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the sun— One has leapt up on the breach, crying out, "Follow me, follow me!" Mark him—he falls! then another, and him, too, and down goes he.

XIII.

Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but that the traitors had won? Boardings, and raftings, and doors—an embrasure; make way for the gun! Now, double charge it with grape! It is charged, and we fire, and they run. Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due. Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few, Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote them, and slew— That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew.

XIV.

Hark! cannonade! fusilade! is it true that was told by the scout? Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell mutineers?

Surely, the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears! All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout; Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers.

XV.

Forth from their holes and their hidings our women and children come out, Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good fusileers, Kissing the war-hardened hand of the Highlander wet with their tears. Dance to the pibroch! saved! we are saved! is it you? is it you? Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing of Heaven! "Hold it for fifteen days!" we have held it for eighty- seven! And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England blew.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

SONNETS.

To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.

J. KEATS.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn, Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide. Doth God exact day labor, light deny'd, I fondly ask? but patience to prevent That murmur soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.

JOHN MILTON.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise; I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith; I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BBOWNING.

IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY.

I.

Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea-stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.

II.

What though on hamely fare we dine. Wear hodden gray and a' that, Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man, for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that!

III.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that; The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that!

IV.

A king can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he maunna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.

V.

Then let us pray that come it may— As come it will for a' that— That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth May bear the gree, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that.

ROBERT BURNS.



CHAPTER IV.

FORMING THE ELEMENTS.

HAMLET TO THE PLAYERS.

1. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness.

2. Oh, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig- pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows, and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it.

3. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure.

4. Now this, overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one, must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh, there be players, that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, Pagan, nor man, have so strutted, and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

Morning, evening, noon and night, "Praise God!" sang Theocrite. Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned. Hard he labored, long and well; O'er his work the boy's curls fell. But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"

II.

Then back again his curls he threw, And cheerful turned to work anew. Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done; I doubt not thou art heard, my son: As well as if thy voice to-day Were praising God, the Pope's great way. This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter's dome."

III.

Said Theocrite, "Would God that I Might praise him, that great way, and die!" Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone. With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day. God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night Now brings the voice of my delight."

IV.

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, Spread his wings and sank to earth; Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well; And morning, evening, noon and night, Praised God in place of Theocrite. And from a boy, to youth he grew: The man put off the stripling's hue:

V.

The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay: And ever o'er the trade he bent, And ever lived on earth content. (He did God's will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.) God said, "A praise is in mine ear; There is no doubt in it, no fear:

VI.

"So sing old worlds, and so New worlds that from my footstool go. Clearer loves sound other ways; I miss my little human praise." Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell The flesh disguise, remained the cell. 'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

VII.

In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallery, With his holy vestments dight, Stood the new Pope, Theocrite; And all his past career Came back upon him clear, Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, Till on his life the sickness weighed;

VIII.

And in his cell, when death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer: And rising from the sickness drear, He grew a priest, and now stood here. To the East with praise he turned, And on his sight the angel burned. "I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, And set thee here; I did not well,

IX.

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere, Vain was thy dream of many a year. Thy voice's praise seemed weak: it dropped— Creation's chorus stopped! Go back and praise again The early way, while I remain. With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up creation's pausing strain.

X.

"Back to the cell and poor employ; Resume the craftsman and the boy!" Theocrite grew old at home; A new Pope dwelt at Peter's dome. One vanished as the other died: They sought God side by side.

ROBERT BROWNING.

SPEECH AND SILENCE.

1. He who speaks honestly cares not, needs not care, though his words be preserved to remotest time. The dishonest speaker, not he only who purposely utters falsehoods, but he who does not purposely, 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 malefactors omitted, or inserted, in the Criminal Calendar.

2. To him that will well consider it, idle speaking is precisely the beginning of all Hollowness, Halfness, Infidelity (want of Faithfulness); it is the genial atmosphere in which rank weeds of every kind attain the mastery over noble fruits in 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 uttermost withstood.

3. Wise, of a wisdom far beyond our shallow depth, was that old precept, "Watch thy tongue; out of it are the issues of Life!" Man is properly an incarnated word: the word that he speaks is the man himself. Were eyes put into our head, that we might see, or that we might fancy, and plausibly pretend, we had seen? Was the tongue suspended there, that it might tell truly what we had seen, and make man the soul's brother of man; or only that it might utter vain sounds, jargon, soul-confusing, and so divide man, as by enchanting walls of Darkness, from union with man?

4. 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 till some meaning lie behind, to set it wagging.

5. 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."

6. Fool! thinkest thou that because no one stands near with parchment 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.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

THE RICH MAN AND THE POOR MAN.

I.

So goes the world;—if wealthy, you may call THIS friend, THAT brother;—friends and brothers all; Though you are worthless—witless—never mind it: You may have been a stable-boy—what then? 'Tis wealth, good sir, makes HONORABLE MEN. You seek respect, no doubt, and YOU will find it.

II.

But if you are poor, Heaven help you! though your sire Had royal blood within him, and though you Possess the intellect of angels, too, 'Tis all in vain;—the world will ne'er inquire On such a score:—Why should it take the pains? 'Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains.

III.

I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever, Witty and wise:—he paid a man a visit, And no one noticed him, and no one ever Gave him a welcome. "Strange!" cried I, "whence is it?" He walked on this side, then on that, He tried to introduce a social chat; Now here, now there, in vain he tried; Some formally and freezingly replied, And some Said by their silence—"Better stay at home."

IV.

A rich man burst the door; As Croesus rich, I'm sure He could not pride himself upon his wit, And as for wisdom, he had none of it; He had what's better; he had wealth. What a confusion!—all stand up erect— These crowd around to ask him of his health; These bow in HONEST duty and respect; And these arrange a sofa or a chair, And these conduct him there. "Allow me, sir, the honor;"—Then a bow Down to the earth—Is't possible to show Meet gratitude for such kind condescension?

V.

The poor man hung his head, And to himself he said, "This is indeed beyond my comprehension;" Then looking round, One friendly face he found, And said, "Pray tell me why is wealth preferred To wisdom?"—"That's a silly question, friend!" Replied the other—"have you never heard, A man may lend his store Of gold or silver ore, But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?"

KHEMNITZER.

THE GATHERING OF THE FAIRIES.

I.

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night— The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Naught is seen in the vault on high But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue, A river of light on the welkin blue. The moon looks down on old Cro'nest; She mellows the shades on his craggy breast; And seems his huge gray form to throw In a silver cone on the waves below. His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut-bough and the cedar made, And through their clustering branches dark Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark, Like starry twinkles that momently peak Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.

II.

The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnished length of wavy beam In an eel-like, spiral line below; The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid. And naught is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katy-did, And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill, Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and woe, Till the morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow.

III.

'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell;— The wood-tick has kept the minutes well; He has counted them all with click and stroke Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak; And he has awakened the sentry Elve Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the Fays to their revelry; Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell— 'Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell. "Midnight comes, and all is well! Hither, hither wing your way! 'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day!"

IV.

They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullein's velvet screen, Some on the backs of beetles fly From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swing in their cobweb hammocks high, And rocked about in the evening breeze; Some from the hum-bird's downy nest— They had driven him out by elfin power, And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering rising-stars inlaid; And some had opened the four-o'clock, And stole within its purple shade. And now they throng the moonlight glade, Above—below—on every side, Their little minim forms arrayed In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride.

V.

They come not now to print the lea, In freak and dance around the tree, Or at the mushroom board to sup, And drink the dew from the buttercup;— A scene of sorrow waits them now. For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow; He has loved an earthly maid, And left for her his woodland shade; He has lain upon her lip of dew, And sunned him in her eyes of blue, Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, Played in the ringlets of her hair, And, nestling on her snowy breast, Forgot the Lily-King's behest,— For this the shadowy tribes of air To the Elfin Court must haste away!— And now they stand expectant there, To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay.

VI.

The throne was reared upon the grass, Of spice-wood and of sassafras; On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell Hung the burnished canopy, And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell Of the tulip's crimson drapery. The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, On his brow the crown imperial shone, The prisoner Fay was at his feet, And his Peers were ranged around the throne.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

THE SONG OF THE RAIN.

Lo! the long, slender spears, bow they quiver and flash Where the clouds send their cavalry down! Rank and file by the million the rain-lancers dash Over mountain and river and town: Thick the battle-drops fall—but they drip not in blood; The trophy of war is the green fresh bud: Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

II.

The pastures lie baked, and the furrow is bare, The wells they yawn empty and dry; But a rushing of waters is heard in the air, And a rainbow leaps out in the sky. Hark! the heavy drops pelting the sycamore leaves, How they wash tha wide pavement, and sweep from the eaves! Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

III.

See, the weaver throws wide his own swinging pane, The kind drops dance in on the floor; And his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet rain On the step by her half-open door; At the tune on the skylight, far over his head, Smiles their poor crippled lad on his hospital bed. Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

IV.

And away, far from men, where high mountains tower, The little green mosses rejoice, And the bud-heated heather nods to the shower, And the hill-torrents lift up their voice: And the pools in the hollows mimic the fight Of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in the light; Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

V.

And deep in the fir-wood below, near the plain, A single thrush pipes full and sweet, How days of clear shining will come after rain, Waving meadows, and thick growing wheat; So the voice of Hope sings, at the heart of our fears, Of the harvest that springs from a great nation's tears: Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

SPECTATOR.

HEARTY READING.

1. Curiosity is a passion very favorable to the love of study, and a passion very susceptible of increase by cultivation. Sound travels so many feet in a second; and light travels so many feet in a second. Nothing more probable: but you do not care how light and sound travel. Very likely: but make yourself care; get up, shake yourself well, pretend to care, make believe to care, and very soon you will care, and care so much that you will sit for hours thinking about light and sound, and be extremely angry with any one who interrupts you in your pursuits; and tolerate no other conversation but about light and sound; and catch yourself plaguing everybody to death who approaches you, with the discussion of these subjects.

2. I am sure that a man ought to read as he would grasp a nettle: do it lightly, and you get molested; grasp it with all your strength, and you feel none of its asperities. There is nothing so horrible as languid study, when you sit looking at the clock, wishing the time was over, or that somebody would call on you and put you out of your misery. The only way to read with any efficacy is to read so heartily that dinner-time comes two hours before you expected it.

3. To sit with your Livy before you, and hear the geese cackling that saved the Capitol: and to see with your own eyes the Carthaginian sutlers gathering up the rings of the Roman knights after the battle of Cannae, and heaping them into bushels; and to be so intimately present at the actions you are reading of that when anybody knocks at the door it will take you two or three seconds to determine whether you are in your own study, or in the plains of Lombardy, looking at Hannibal's weather-beaten face, and admiring the splendor of his single eye.

4. This is the only kind of study which is not tiresome; and almost the only kind which is not useless: this is the knowledge which gets into the system, and which a man carries about and uses like his limbs, without perceiving that it is extraneous, weighty, or inconvenient.

SYDNEY SMITH.

IVRY.

I.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through the corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy murmuring daughters; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy; For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war! Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre!

II.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont'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 looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

III.

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed; And he has bound a snow white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye, He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!" "And if my standard bearer fall, as fall full well he may— For never I saw promise yet of such a bloody fray— Press where you see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

IV.

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint-Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies—upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

V.

Now God be praised, the day is ours; Mayenne hath turned his rein; D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is slain; Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, Remember Saint Bartholomew! was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry—"No Frenchman is my foe; Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?

VI.

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white— Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine, Up with it high; unfurl it wide—that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

VII.

Ho! maidens of Vienna! ho! matrons of Lucerne— Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, for whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!

LORD MACAULAY

THE DAFFODILS.

I.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

II.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of the bay; Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

III.

The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company; I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought;

IV.

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

WORDSWORTH

CHEERFULNESS.

1. A cheerful man is pre-eminently a useful man. He knows that there is much misery, but that misery is not the rule of life. He sees that in every state people may be cheerful; the lambs skip, birds sing and fly joyously, puppies play, kittens are full of joy, the whole air is full of careering and rejoicing insects— that everywhere the good outbalances the bad, and that every evil that there is has its compensating balm.

2. Then the brave man, as our German cousins say, possesses the world, whereas the melancholy man does not even possess his share of it.

Exercise, or continued employment of some kind, will make a man cheerful; but sitting at home, brooding and thinking, or doing little, will bring gloom. The reaction of this feeling is wonderful. It arises from a sense of duty done, and it also enables us to do our duty.

3. Cheerful people live long in our memory. We remember joy more readily than sorrow, and always look back with tenderness on the brave and cheerful.

We can all cultivate our tempers, and one of the employments of some poor mortals is to cultivate, cherish, and bring to perfection, a thoroughly bad one; but we may be certain that to do so is a very grave error and sin, which, like all others, brings its own punishment; though, unfortunately, it does not punish itself only.

4. Addison says of cheerfulness, that it lightens sickness, poverty, affliction; converts ignorance into an amiable simplicity, and renders deformity itself agreeable; and he says no more than the truth.

5. "Give us, therefore, oh! give us"—let us cry with Carlyle— "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.

6. "Wondrous is the strength of cheerfulness, altogether past calculation its powers of endurance. Efforts, to be permanently useful, must be uniformly joyous,—a spirit all sunshine, graceful from very gladness, beautiful because bright."

7. Such a spirit is within everybody's reach. Let us but get out into the light of things. The morbid man cries out that there is always enough wrong in the world to make a man miserable. Conceded; but wrong is ever being righted; there is always enough that is good and right to make us joyful.

8. There is ever sunshine somewhere; and the brave man will go on his way rejoicing, content to look forward if under a cloud, not bating one jot of heart or hope if for a moment cast down: honoring his occupation, whatever it may be; rendering even rags respectable by the way he wears them; and not only being happy himself, but causing the happiness of others.

J. H. FRISWELL.

"APRIL IN THE HILLS."

I.

To-day the world is wide and fair With sunny fields of lucid air, And waters dancing everywhere; The snow is almost gone; The noon is builded high with light, And over heaven's liquid height, In steady fleets serene and white, The happy clouds go on.

II.

The channels run, the bare earth steams, And every hollow rings and gleams With jetting falls and dashing streams; The rivers burst and fill; The fields are full of little lakes, And when the romping wind awakes The water ruffles blue and shakes,

And the pines roar on the hill.

III.

The crows go by, a noisy throng; About the meadows all day long The shore-lark drops his brittle song; And up tihe leafless tree The nut-hatch runs, and nods, and clings; The bluebird dips with flashing wings, The robin flutes, the sparrow sings, And the swallows float and flee.

IV.

I break the spirit's cloudy bands, A wanderer in enchanted lands, I feel the sun upon my hands;

And far from care and strife The broad earth bids me forth, I rise With lifted brow and upward eyes. I bathe my spirit in blue skies,

And taste the springs of life

V.

I feel the tumult of new birth; I waken with the wakening earth; I match the bluebird in her mirth;

And wild with wind and sun, A treasurer of immortal days, I roam the glorious world with praise, The hillsides and the woodland ways,

Till the earth and I are one.

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.

THE END