RE SPON SI BIL' I TIES, obligations.LA' TENT, secret; hidden.IN IQ' UI TY, wickedness.EF FECT' IVE, powerful; efficient.REC' TI TUDE, right.PEN' E TRA TIVE, entering; piercing.MAL' ICE, ill-will; hatred.CHIV' AL RY, heroism; valor.WAN' TON LY, wastefully.SHEEN, brightness.SHIM' MER, glitter; gleam.RE VER' SION, future possession.IN SID' I OUS, crafty; deceitful.A THWART', across.SUS' TE NANCE, food; support.IM POS' ED, laid on; assigned.
GAIL HAMILTON.
1. Oh, if this latent power could be aroused! If woman would shake off this slumber, and put on her strength, her beautiful garments, how would she go forth conquering and to conquer! How would the mountains break forth into singing, and the trees of the field clap their hands! How would our sin-stained earth arise and shine, her light being come, and the glory of the Lord being risen upon her!
2. One can not do theworld'swork; but one can doone'swork. You may not be able to turn the world from iniquity; but you can, at least, keep the dust and rust from gathering on your own soul. If you can not be directly and actively engaged in fighting the battle, you can, at least, polish your armor and sharpen your weapons, to strike an effective blow when the hour comes. You can stanch the blood of him who has been wounded in the fray,—bear a cup of cold water to the thirsty and fainting,—give help to the conquered, and smiles to the victor.
3. You can gather from the past and the present stores of wisdom, so that, when the future demands it, you may bring forth from your treasures things new and old. Whatever of bliss the "Divinity that shapes our ends" may see fit to withhold from you, you are but very little lower than the angels, so long as you have the
"Godlike power to do,—the godlike aim to know."
4. You can be forming habits of self-reliance, sound judgment, perseverance, and endurance, which may, one day, stand you in good stead. You can so train yourself to right thinking and right acting, that uprightness shall be your nature, truth your impulse. His head is seldom far wrong, whose heart is always right. We bow down to mental greatness, intellectual strength, and they are divine gifts; butmoral rectitudeis stronger than they. It is irresistible,—always in the end triumphant.
5. There is ingoodnessa penetrative power that nothing can withstand. Cunning and malice melt away before its mild, open, steady glance. Not alone on the fields where chivalry charges for laurels, with helmet and breastplate and lance in rest, can the true knight exultingly exclaim,
"My strength is as the strength of ten,Because my heart is pure;"
but wherever man meets man, wherever there is a prize to be won, a goal to be reached. Wealth, and rank, and beauty, may form a brilliant setting to the diamond; but they only expose more nakedly the false glare of the paste. Only when the king's daughter is all glorious within, is it fitting and proper that her clothing should be of wrought gold.
6. From the great and good of all ages rings out the same monotone. The high-priest of Nature, the calm-eyed poet who laid his heart so close to hers, that they seemed to throb in one pulsation, yet whose ear was always open to the "still sad music of humanity," has given us the promise of his life-long wisdom in these grand words:—
"True dignity abides with him aloneWho, in the silent hour of inward thought,Can still suspect and still revere himself."
7. Through the din of twenty rolling centuries, pierces the sharp, stern voice of the brave old Greek: "Let every man, when he is about to do a wicked action, above all things in the world, stand in awe of himself, and dread the witness within him." All greatness, and all glory, all that earth has to give, all that Heaven can proffer, lies within the reach of the lowliest as well as the highest; for He who spake as never man spake, has said that the very "kingdom of God is within you."
8. Born to such an inheritance, will you wantonly cast it away? With such a goal in prospect, will you suffer yourself to be turned aside by the sheen and shimmer of tinsel fruit? With earth in possession, and Heaven in reversion, will you go sorrowing and downcast, because here and there a pearl or ruby fails you? Nay, rather forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those which are before,press forward!
9. Discontent and murmuring are insidious foes; trample them under your feet. Utter no complaint, whatever betide; for complaining is a sign of weakness. If your trouble can be helped,help it; if not,bear it. You can be whatever youwillto be. Therefore, form and accomplish worthy purposes.
10. If you walk alone, let it be with no faltering tread. Show to an incredulous world
"How grand may be Life's might,Without Love's circling crown."
Or, if the golden thread of love shine athwart the dusky warp of duty, if other hearts depend on yours for sustenance and strength, give to them from your fullness no stinted measure. Let the dew of your kindness fall on the evil and the good, on the just and on the unjust.
11. Compass happiness, since happiness alone is victory. On the fragments of your shattered plans, and hopes, and love,—on the heaped-up ruins of your past, rear a stately palace, whose top shall reach unto heaven, whose beauty shall gladden the eyes of all beholders, whose doors shall stand wide open to receive the way-worn and weary. Life is a burden, but it is imposed by God. What youmakeof it, it willbeto you, whether a millstone about your neck, or a diadem upon your brow.Take it up bravely, bear it on joyfully, lay it down triumphantly.
QUESTIONS.—1. What are some of the duties of women? 2. What is said of goodness? 3. What was the adage of the old Greek? 4. What is said of discontent and murmuring?
ID' I OT, one devoid of reason.HOR' RI BLE, awful; dreadful.WOE' FUL, afflicted.HAR' ROW, disturb; harass.PRE SERVE', safely keep.SOOTH, fact; truth.SPOIL' ED, stripped; plundered.YEARN' ING, longing.IN SUF' FER A BLE, intolerable.CAN' TON, district; region.PAS TIME, amusement; diversion.ES PI' ED, saw; discovered.MOUNT AIN EER', dweller on a mountain.BRAWN' Y, strong; firm.FAG OTS, bundles of sticks.AUG MENT', increase; make larger.BEA' CON, signal-fire.BE TIDE', happen; befall.
J. SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
Emma.I never knew a weary night before!I have seen the sun a dozen times go down,And still no William,—and the storm was on,Yet have I laid me down in peace to sleep,The mountain with the lightning all a-blaze,And shaking with the thunder,—but to-nightMine eyes refuse to close, (sl.) The old man rests:Pain hath outworn itself, and turned to ease.How deadly calm's the night! ('') What's that? I'm grownAn idiot with my fears. I do not know,—The avalanche! Great Power that hurls it down,Watch o'er my boy, and guide his little steps!What keeps him? 'tis but four hours' journey hence:He'd rest; then four hours back again.What keeps him?Erni would sure be found by him,—he knowsThe track, well as he knows the road to Altorf!
Melchtal. Help! (in his sleep.)
Emma. What's the matter? Only the old man dreaming.He thinks again they're pulling out his eyes.I'm sick with terror! Merciful powers! what's thisThat fills my heart with horrible alarm?And yet it can not see.
Melch. (waking) Where am I?
Emma. Father!
Melch. My daughter, is it thou'! Thank Heaven, I'm here! Is't day yet'?
Emma. No'.
Melch. Is't far on the night'?
Emma. Methinks, about the turn on't.
Melch. Is the boyCome back'?
Emma. No', father'.
Melch. Nor thy husband'?
Emma. No'.
Melch. A woeful wife and mother have I made thee!Would thou hadst never seen me.
Emma. Father'!
Melch. Child'!
Emma. Methinks I hear a step !—I do! (knocking.) A knock!
Melch. 'Tis William!
Emma. No; it is not William's knock. (Opens the door.) I told you so. Your will?
EnterSTRANGER.
Stran. Seeing a light, I e'en made bold to knock, to ask for shelter; For I have missed my way.
Emma. Whence come you` friend'?
Stran. From Altorf.
Emma. Altorf'! Any news from thence'?
Stran. Ay`! News to harrow parents' hearts, and make The barren bless themselves that they are childless!
Emma. May Heaven preserve my boy!
Melch. What say'st thy news?
Stran. Art thou not Melchtal—he whose eyes, 'tis said,The tyrant has torn out'?
Melch. Yes`, friend', the same.
Stran. Is this thy cottage'?
Melch. No`; 'tis William Tell's.
Stran. 'Tis William Tell's—and that's his wife—Goodnight.
Emma. (Rushing between him and the door.) Thou stirr'st not hence until thy news be told!
Stran. My news! In sooth 'tis nothing thou would'st heed.
Emma. 'Tis something none should heed so well as I!
Stran. I must be gone,
Emma. Thou seest a tigress, friend,Spoiled of her mate and young, and yearning for them.Don't thwart her! Come, thy news! What fear'st thou, man?What more hath she to dread, who reads thy looks,And knows the most has come? Thy news! Is't bondage'?
Stran. It is.
Emma. Thank Heaven, it is not death! Of one—Or two?
Stran. Of two.
Emma. A father and a son,Is't not?
Stran. It is.
Emma. My husband and my sonAre in the tyrant's power! There's worse than that!What's that is news to harrow parents' breasts.The which the thought to only tell, 'twould seem,Drives back the blood to thine?—Thy news, I say!Wouldst thou be merciful, this is not mercy!Wast thou the mark, friend, of the bowman's aim.Wouldst thou not hare the fatal arrow speed,Rather than watch it hanging in the string?Thou'lt drive me mad! Let fly at once!
Melch. Thy news from Altorf, friend, whatever it is!
Stran. To save himself and child from certain death,Tell is to hit an apple, to be placedUpon the stripling's head.
Melch. My child! my child!Speak to me! Stranger, hast thou killed her?
Emma. No!No`, father'. I'm the wife of William Tell;Oh, but to be a man!—to have an armTo fit a heart swelling with the sense of wrong!Unnatural—insufferable wrong!When makes the tyrant trial of his skill?
Stran. To-morrow.
Emma. Spirit of the lake and hill,Inspire thy daughter! On the head of himWho makes his pastime of a mother's pangs,Launch down thy vengeance by a mother's hand.Know'st the signal when the hills shall rise'? (To Melchtal.)
Melch. Are they to rise'?
Emma. I see thou knowest naught.
Stran. Something's on foot! 'Twas only yesterday,That, traveling from our canton, I espiedSlow toiling up a steep, a mountaineerOf brawny limb, upon his back a loadOf fagots bound. Curious to see what endWas worthy of such labor, after himI took the cliff; and saw its lofty topReceive his load, which went but to augmentA pile of many another.
Emma. 'Tis by fire! Fire is the signal for the hills to rise! (Rushes out.)
Melch. Went she not forth!
Stran. She did,—she's here again,And brings with her a lighted brand.
Melch. My child,What dost thou with a lighted brand?
(Re-enterEMMAwith a brand.)
Emma. PrepareTo give the signal for the hills to rise!
Melch. Where are the fagots, child, for such a blaze?
Emma. I'll find the fagots, father. (Exit.)
Melch. She's gone Again!
Stran. She is,—I think into her chamber.
Emma. (Rushing in.)—Father, the pile is fired!
Melch. What pile, my child!
Emma. The joists and rafters of our cottage, father!
Melch. Thou hast not fired thy cottage?—but thou hast;Alas, I hear the crackling of the flames!
Emma. Say'st thou, alas! when I do say, thank Heaven.Father, this blaze will set the land a-blazeWith fire that shall preserve, and not destroy it.(f.)Blaze on!BLAZE ON! Oh, may'st thou be a beaconTo light its sons enslaved to liberty!How fast it spreads! A spirit's in the fire:It knows the work it does.—(Goes to the door, and opens it.)The land is free!Yonder's another blaze! Beyond that, shootsAnother up!—Anon will every hillRedden with vengeance! Father, come! Whate'erBetides us, worse we're certain can't befall,And better may! Oh, be it liberty,Safe hearts and homes, husbands and children! Come,—It spreads apace. (ff.) Blaze on—blaze on—BLAZE ON!
QUESTIONS.—1. What rule for the rising inflection onfather? See Note I., page 32. 2. What rule for the falling inflection onno? See Rule I., page 28.
HON' OR A BLE, noble; illustrious.IN' TEL LECT, mind; understanding.SCORE, account; motive.CLEV' ER, skillful; expert.SO' CIAL, familiar.CON FU' SION, fuss; tumult.CON DE SCEN' SION, loveliness; deference.COM PRE HEN' SION, understanding.
[Headnote 1: CROE SUS, a very wealthy king of ancient Lydia, in Asia Minor, was born about 591 before Christ.]
KHEMNITZER.
1. So goes the world`;—if wealthy, you may callThis—friend,that—brother`;—friends and brothers allThough you are worthless, witless,—never mind it;You may have been a stable-boy,—what then?'Tiswealth, my friends, makeshonorablemen.You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it.2. But, if you are poor', heaven help you`! though your sireHad royal blood in him`, and though youPossess the intellect of angels too.'Tis all in vain`;—the world will ne'er inquireOn such a score`:—why should it take the pains?'Tis easier to weigh purses`, sure, than brains'.3. 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 everGave 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."4. A rich man burst the door,As Croesus[Headnote 1] rich;—I'm sureHe 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 inhonestduty and respect;And these arrange a sofa or a chair,And these conduct him there."Allow me, sir, the honor`;"—Then a bowDown to the earth`.—Is'tpossible to showMeet gratitude for such kind condescension`!5. 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 storeOf gold or silver ore,But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?"
QUESTIONS.—1. How do you account for the different inflections in the last line of the second verse? See page 31, Note I. 2. What rule for the falling inflection oncondescension? See page 29, Note I.
EX HI BI' TIONS, displays.CIR CUM SCRIB' ED, encompassed.NA' VIES, ships of war.ARM' A MENTS, forces equipped for war.IM PED' ED, hindered, obstructed.LE VI' A THAN, huge sea-monster.MAG NIF' I CENCE, grandeur.UN A BAT' ED, undiminished.RE SERV' ED, kept.EN TRANC' ED, enraptured.PROM' ON TO RY, headland.RE VEAL'ED, laid open.SYM' BOL, token; sign.AD A MAN TINE, exceedingly hard.AP PER TAIN' ING, belonging.TRANS FORM' ING, changing.
[Headnote 1: AC' TI UM is the ancient name of a promontory of Albania, in Turkey in Europe, near which was fought (B.C. 29) the celebrated naval battle that made Augustus Caesar master of the Roman world.]
[Headnote 2: SAL' A MIS, an island opposite Attica, in Greece, near which (B.C. 480) occurred the famous naval engagement which resulted in the defeat of the Persians.]
[Headnote 3: NAV A RI' NO is a seaport town on the southwestern coast of Greece. It was the scene of the memorable victory of the combined English, French, and Russian fleets over those of the Turks and Egyptians, gained on the 20th of October, 1827.]
[Headnote 4: TRA FAL GAR', a cape on the southwestern coast of Spain. It is famous for the great naval battle, fought in its vicinity, Oct. 21st, 1805, between the fleets of the French and Spanish on the one side, and the English, under Lord Nelson, on the other. The English were victorious, though Nelson was mortally wounded.]
WALTER COLTON.
1. The most fearful and impressive exhibitions of power known to our globe, belong to the ocean. The volcano, with its ascending flame and falling torrents of fire, and the earthquake, whose footstep is on the ruin of cities, are circumscribed in the desolating range of their visitations. But the ocean, when it once rouses itself in its chainless strength, shakes a thousand shores with its storm and thunder. Navies of oak and iron are tossed in mockery from its crest, and armaments, manned by the strength and courage of millions, perish among its bubbles.
2. The avalanche, shaken from its glittering steep, if it rolls to the bosom of the earth, melts away, and is lost in vapor; but if it plunge into the embrace of the ocean, this mountain mass of ice and hail is borne about for ages in tumult and terror; it is the drifting monument of the ocean's dead. The tempest on land is impeded by forests, and broken by mountains; but on the plain of the deep it rushes unresisted; and when its strength is at last spent, ten thousand giant waves still roll its terrors onward.
3. The mountain lake and the meadow stream are inhabited only by the timid prey of the angler; but the ocean is the home of the leviathan,—his ways are in the mighty deep. The glittering pebble and the rainbow-tinted shell, which the returning tide has left on the shore, and the watery gem which the pearl-diver reaches at the peril of his life, are all that man can filch from the treasures of the sea. The groves of coral which wave over its pavements, and the halls of amber which glow in its depths, are beyond his approaches, save when he goes down there to seek, amid their silent magnificence, his burial monument.
4. The islands, the continents, the shores of civilized and savage realms, the capitals of kings, are worn by time, washed away by the wave, consumed by the flame, or sunk by the earthquake; but the ocean still remains, and still rolls on in the greatness of its unabated strength. Over the majesty of its form and the marvel of its might, time and disaster have no power. Such as creation's dawn beheld, it rolleth now.
5. The vast clouds of vapor which roll up from its bosom, float away to encircle the globe: on distant mountains and deserts they pour out their watery treasures, which gather themselves again in streams and torrents, to return, with exulting bounds, to their parent ocean. These are the messengers which proclaim in every land the exhaustless resources of the sea; but it is reserved for those who go down in ships, and who do business in the great waters, to see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep.
6. Let one go upon deck in the middle watch of a still night, with naught above him but the silent and solemn skies, and naught around and beneath him but an interminable waste of waters, and with the conviction that there is but a plank between him and eternity, a feeling of loneliness, solitude, and desertion, mingled with a sentiment of reverence for the vast, mysterious and unknown, will come upon him with a power, all unknown before, and he might stand for hours entranced in reverence and tears.
7. Man, also, has made the ocean the theater ofhispower. The ship in which he rides that element, is one of the highest triumphs of his skill. At first, this floating fabric was only a frail bark, slowly urged by the laboring oar. The sail, at length, arose and spread its wings to the wind. Still he had no power to direct his course when the lofty promontory sunk from sight, or the orbs above him were lost in clouds. But the secret of the magnet is, at length, revealed to him, and his needle now settles, with a fixedness which love has stolen as the symbol of its constancy, to the polar star.
8. Now, however, he can dispense even with sail, and wind, and flowing wave. He constructs and propels his vast engines of flame and vapor, and, through the solitude of the sea, as over the solid land, goes thundering on his track. On the ocean, too, thrones have been lost and won. On the fate of Actium[Headnote 1] was suspended the empire of the world. In the gulf of Salamis,[Headnote 2] the pride of Persia found a grave; and the crescent set forever in the waters of Navarino;[Headnote 3] while, at Trafalgar[Headnote 4] and the Nile, nations held their breath,
As each gun,From its adamantine lips,Spread a death-shade round the shipsLike the hurricane's eclipseOf the sun.
9. But, of all the wonders appertaining to the ocean, the greatest, perhaps, is its transforming power on man. It unravels and weaves anew the web of his moral and social being. It invests him with feelings, associations, and habits, to which he has been an entire stranger. It breaks up the sealed fountain of his nature, and lifts his soul into features prominent as the cliffs which beetle over its surge.
10. Once the adopted child of the ocean, he can never bring back his entire sympathies to land. He will still move in his dreams over that vast waste of waters, still bound in exultation and triumph through its foaming billows. All the other realities of life will be comparatively tame, and he will sigh for his tossing element, as the caged eagle for the roar and arrowy light of his mountain cataract.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is said of the volcano and earthquake? 2. Of the avalanche and tempest? 3. Of the ocean? 4. Of ships? 5. Where have naval battles been fought? 6. What influence has the ocean on man?
RE LAX' ED, loosened.AS SI DU' I TIES, kind, constant attentions.CON SIGN' ED, committed; given over.EX TE' RI OR, outer appearance.UN AF FECT' ED, sincere.UN PRE TEND' ING, unostentatious.HA BIL' I MENTS, vestments.SU PER STI' TIOUS, full of scruples.REC' ON CILE, make willing.PEN' E TRATES, sees through.PER VADE', (PER,through; VADE,go, orpass;) pass through; appear throughout.
WALTER COLTON.
1. Death is a fearful thing, come in what form it may,—fearful, when the vital chords are so gradually relaxed, that life passes away sweetly as music from the slumbering harp-string,—fearful, when in his own quiet chamber, the departing one is summoned by those who sweetly follow him with their prayers, when the assiduities of friendship and affection can go no farther, and who discourse of heaven and future blessedness, till the closing ear can no longer catch the tones of the long-familiar voice, and who, lingering near, still feel for the hushed pulse, and then trace in the placid slumber, which pervades each feature, a quiet emblem of the spirit's serene repose.
2. What, then, must this dread event be to one, who meets it comparatively alone, far away from the hearth of his home, upon a troubled sea, between the narrow decks of a restless ship, and at that dread hour of night, when even the sympathies of the world seem suspended! Such has been the end of many who traverse the ocean; and such was the hurried end of him, whose remains we have just consigned to a watery grave.
3. He was a sailor; but, beneath his rude exterior, he carried a heart touched with refinement, pride, and greatness. There was something about him, which spoke of better days and a higher destiny. By what errors or misfortunes he was reduced to his humble condition, was a secret which he would reveal to none. Silent, reserved, and thoughtful, he stood a stranger among his free companions, and never was his voice heard in the laughter or the jest. He has undoubtedly left behind many who will long look for his return, and bitterly weep when they are told they shall see his face no more.
4. As the remains of the poor sailor were brought up on deck, wound in that hammock which, through many a stormy night, had swung to the wind, one could not but observe the big tear that stole unconsciously down the rough cheeks of his hardy companions. When the funeral service was read to that most affecting passage, "we commit this body to the deep," and the plank was raised which precipitated to the momentary eddy of the wave the quickly disappearing form, a heavy sigh from those around, told that the strong heart of the sailor can be touched with grief, and that a truly unaffected sorrow may accompany virtue, in its most unpretending form, to its ocean grave. Yet how soon is such a scene forgotten!
"As from the wing the sky no scar retains,The parted wave no furrow from the keel,So dies in human hearts the thought of death."
5. There is something peculiarly melancholy and impressive in a burial at sea: there is here no coffin or hearse, procession or tolling bell,—nothing that gradually prepares us for the final separation. The body is wound in the drapery of its couch, much as if the deceased were only in a quiet and temporary sleep. In these habiliments of seeming slumber, it is dropped into the wave, the waters close over it, the vessel passes quickly on, and not a solitary trace is left to tell where sunk from light and life, one that loved to look at the sky and breathe this vital air.
6. There is nothing that, for one moment, can point to the deep, unvisited resting-place of the departed,—it is a grave in the midst of the ocean,—in the midst of a vast, untrodden solitude. Affection can not approach it, with its tears; the dews of heaven can not reach it; and there is around it no violet, or shrub, or murmuring stream.
7. It may be superstitious; but no advantages of wealth, or honor, or power, through life, would reconcile me at its close to such a burial. I would rather share the coarse and scanty provisions of the simplest cabin, and drop away unknown and unhonored by the world, so that my final resting-place be beneath some green tree, by the side of some living stream, or in some familiar spot, where the few that loved me in life, might visit me in death.
8. But, whether our grave be in the fragrant shade, or in the fathomless ocean, among our kindred, or in the midst of strangers, the day is coming when we shall all appear at one universal bar, and receive from a righteous Judge the award of our deeds. He that is wisest, penetrates the future the deepest.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is said of death? 2. What, of death at sea? 3. What renders a burial at sea peculiarly melancholy and impressive?
MYS TE' RI OUS, secret; mystical.UN RECK' ED, unheeded.AR' GO SIES, ships of great burden.WR ATH' FUL, furious; raging.PAL' A CES, splendid mansions.SCORN' FUL, disdainful.DE CAY', ruin; destruction.BOOM' ING, roaring.FES' TAL, joyous; merry.RE CLAIM', claim again; recover.
MRS. HERMANS.
1. What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!Pale, glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells,Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain!Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!We ask not such from thee.2. Yet more, the depths have more! what wealth untold,Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,Won from ten thousand royal argosies!Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!Earth claims nottheseagain.3. Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves have rolledAbove the cities of a world gone by!Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play!Man yields them to decay.4. Yet more, the billows and the depths have more!High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!They hear not now the booming waters roar;The battle-thunders will not break their rest.Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!Give back the true and brave!5. Give back the lost and lovely,—those for whomThe place was kept at board and hearth so long,The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown;But all is not thine own.6. To thee the love of woman hath gone down;Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown,Yet must thou hear a voice,—Restore the dead!Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!Restore the dead, thou Sea!
QUESTIONS.—1. What are some of the treasures of the deep? 2. What treasures has the sea won from trading vessels? 3. Over what does the sea roll? 4. What does the writer call on the sea to restore?
UN FOR' TU NATE, wretched person.CER E MENTS, grave-clothes.SCRU' TI NY, inquiry.MU' TI NY, resistance to rightful rule.WON' DER MENT, curiosity.PROV' I DENCE, care; protection.A MAZE' MENT, astonishment.DIS' SO LUTE, abandoned; licentious.SPUR' RED, pushed on; impelled.CON' TU ME LY, scorn; insult.IN HU MAN' I TY, cruel treatment.IN SAN' I TY, madness.
THOMAS HOOD.
1. One more Unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly importunate,Gone to her death!2. Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care,Fashioned so slenderly,Young, and so fair!3. Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;While the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing;Take her up instantly,Loving, not loathing.4. Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfully,Gently and humanly;Not of the stains of her;All that remains of herNow, is pure womanly.5. Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutiny,Rash and undutiful;Past all dishonor,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.6. Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,—Her fair auburn tresses;While wonderment guessesWhere was her home?7. Who was her father`?Who was her mother`?Had she a sister'?Had she a brother'?Or, was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other'?8. Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!Oh! it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.9. Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherly,Feelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God's providenceSeeming estranged.10. Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood with amazement,Houseless by night.11. The bleak winds of MarchMade her tremble and shiverBut not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river,Mad from life's history,Glad to death's mystery,Swift to be hurled—Anywhere, anywhere,Out of the world!12. In she plunged boldly,No matter how coldlyThe rough river ran—Picture it—think of it,Dissolute Man!13. Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care,Fashioned so slenderly,Young, and so fair!14. Perishing gloomily,Spurred by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest,Cross her hands humbly,As if praying dumbly,Over her breast!15. Owning her weakness,Her evil behavior,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Savior!
RE' QUI EM, hymn in honor of the dead.WED, joined; united.HENCE' FORTH, hereafter.DROOP, languish; fail.AF FEC TION, love.DIM' MED, dull; obscured.
1. Breathe low, thou gentle wind,(pl) Breathe soft and low;The beautiful lies dead!The joy of life is fled!And my lone heart is wedHenceforth to woe!2. That thou should'st droop and dieAt early morn!While yet thy graceful dewA joyous fragrance drewFrom every flower that grewLife's path along!3. The green earth mourns for thee,Thou dearest one;A plaintive tone is heard,And flower and leaflet stirred,And every fav'rite birdSings sad and lone.4. Pale is thy brow, and dimmedThy sparkling eye!Affection's sweetest tokenIs lost fore'er and broken!The last kind word is spoken,—Why did'st thou die?5. Breathe low, thou gentle wind,Breathe soft and low;The beautiful lies dead!The joy of life is fled!And my lone heart is wedHenceforth to woe!
QUESTIONS.—1. What rule for changingyintoiin the wordbeautiful?See ANALYSIS, page 13, Rule XI. 2. Why arerandmdoubled in the wordsstirred, dimmed?See Rule IX. 3. What is the meaning of the suffixlet, in the wordleaflet?See page 240, Ex. 185.
LUX U' RI ANT, rich; plentiful.UN OS TEN TA' TIOUS, plain; not showy.RE VER EN' TIAL, deeply respectful.RE CEP' TA CLE, place of reception.SEM' I CIR CLE, half-circle.REC OG NI' TION, act of knowing.AG RI CUL' TUR AL, relating to farming.BEN E DIC' TION, blessing.DI' A RY, note-book; journal.SO JOURN' ED, resided for a while.AC CLA MA' TIONS, shouts.TRI UMPH' AL, relating to victory.GRAT U LA' TION, rejoicing.IN AUG U RA' TION, act of investing with office.EN FRAN' CHIS ED, freed; liberated.
[Headnote 1: SAR COPH' A GUS, (SARCO,flesh; and PHAGUS,that which eats or devours,) is made up of two Greek words, signifying togetherflesh-eating, and was applied by the ancients to a species of stone, used for making coffins. Hence, sarcophagus came to signify astone-coffin. The form of the plural in Latin, issarcophagi.]
[Headnote 2: BAS' TILE, (bas' teel,) an old state prison in Paris, built in 1369, and destroyed by a mob in 1789.]
A.C. RITCHIE.
1. At this moment, we drew near the rude wharf at Mount Vernon; the boat stopped, and the crowd of passengers landed. By a narrow pathway we ascended a majestic hill thickly draped with trees. The sun scarcely found its way through the luxuriant foliage. We mounted slowly, but had only spent a few minutes in ascending, when we came suddenly upon a picturesque nook, where a cluster of unostentatious, white marble shafts, shot from the greenly sodded earth, inclosed by iron railings. Those unpretending monuments mark the localities where repose the mortal remains of Washington's kindred.
2. Just beyond stands a square brick building. In the center you see an iron gate. Here the crowd pauses in reverential silence. Men lift their hats and women bow their heads. You behold within, two sarcophagi.[Headnote 1] In those moldering tombs lie the ashes of the great Washington and his wife. Not a word is uttered as the crowd stand gazing on this lowly receptacle of the dust of America's mighty dead.
3. Are there any in that group who can say, "this wasourcountry's father'?" If there be, can they stand pilgrims at that grave without Washington's examples, his counsels, his words, heretofore, it may be, half-forgotten, stealing back into their minds, until the sense of reverence and gratitude is deepened almost to awe? Do they not feel that Washington's spirit is abroad in the world, filling the souls of a heaven-favored people with the love of freedom and of country, though his ashes are gathered here'?
4. Some one moves to pass on; and, with that first step, the spell is broken; others follow. Herman and Jessie linger last. After a period of mute and moving reflection, they turn away and slowly approach the mansion that, in simple, rural stateliness, stands upon a noble promontory, belted with woods, and half-girdled by the sparkling waters of the Potomac, which flow in a semicircle around a portion of the mount.
5. The water and woodland view from the portico is highly imposing. But it was not the mere recognition of the picturesque and beautiful in nature, that moved Herman and Jessie. They would have felt that they were on holy ground, had the landscape been devoid of natural charm. Here the feet of the first of heroes had trod, and here, in boyhood, he had sported with his beloved brother Lawrence.
6. In those forests, those deep-wooded glens, he had hunted, when a stripling, by the side of old Lord Fairfax; here he took his first lessons in the art of war; to this home he brought his bride; by this old-fashioned, hospitable-looking fireside, he sat with that dear and faithful wife; beneath yonder alley of lofty trees he has often wandered by her side; here he indulged the agricultural tastes in which he delighted; here resigned his Cincinnatus vocation, and bade adieu to his cherished home at the summons of his country.
7. Here his wife received the letter which told her that he had been appointed Commander-in-chief of the army; here, when the glorious struggle closed at the trumpet notes of victory—when the British had retired—when, with tears coursing down his benignant, manly countenance, he had uttered a touching farewell—bestowed a paternal benediction on the American army, and resigned all public service—herehe returned, thinking to resume the rural pursuits that charmed him, and to end his days in peace!
8. Here are the trees, the shrubbery he planted with his own hands, and noted in his diary; here are the columns of the portico round which he twined the coral honeysuckle; the ivy he transplanted still clings to yonder garden wall; these vistas he opened through yon pine groves to command far-off views! Here the valiant Lafayette sojourned with him; there hangs the key of the Bastile[Headnote 2] which he presented.
9. Here flocked the illustrious men of all climes, and were received with warm, unpretending, almost rustic hospitality. Here the French Houdon modeled his statue, and the English Pine painted his portrait, and caused that jocose remark, "I am so hackneyed to the touches of the painters' pencil, that I am altogether at their beck, and sit like 'Patience on a monument!'"
10. Then came another summons from the land he had saved, and he was chosen by unanimous voice its chief ruler. Thousands of men, women, and children, sent up acclamations, and called down blessings on his head, as he made his triumphal progress from Mount Vernon to New York, to take the presidential oath. The roar of cannon rent the air. The streets through which he passed, were illuminated and decked with flags and wreaths. Bonfires blazed on the hills. From ships and boats floated festive decorations. At Gray's Ferry, he passed under triumphal arches.
11. On the bridge across the Assumpink, at Trenton, (the very bridge over which he had retreated in such blank despair, before the army of Cornwallis, on the eve of the battle of Princeton,) thirteen pillars, twined with laurel and evergreens, were reared by woman's hands. The foremost of the arches those columns supported, bore the inscription,"The Defender of the Mothers will he the Protector of the Daughters."Mothers, with their white-robed daughters, were assembled beneath the vernal arcade. Thirteen maidens scattered flowers beneath his feet, as they sang an ode of gratulation. The people's hero ever after spoke of this tribute, as the one that touched him most deeply.
13. When his first presidential term expired, and his heart yearned for the peace of his domestic hearth, the entreaties of Jefferson, Randolph, and Hamilton, forced him to forget that home for the one he held in the hearts of patriots, and to allow his name to be used a second time. A second time he was unanimously elected to preside over his country's welfare. But, the period happily expired, he thankfully laid aside the mantle of state, the scepter of power, and, five days after the inauguration of Adams, returned here to his Mount Vernon home. And here the good servant, whom his Lord, when He came, found watching and ready, calmly yielded up his breath, exclaiming, "It is well!" and his spirit was wafted to Heaven by the blessings of his enfranchised countrymen.
QUESTIONS.—1. Where is Mount Vernon? 2. What is said of Washington's tomb? 3. Mention some of the things which he did here? 4. What demonstrations were made by the people, as he went to New York to take the oath of office? 5. Did he serve more than one term as President?