THE DYING HEBREW.

KIMBIE.

The following poem, a favourite with the late Mr. Edwin Forrest, was composed by a young law student, and first published in Boston in 1858.

AHEBREWknelt in the dying light,His eye was dim and cold;The hairs on his brow were silver white,And his blood was thin and old!He lifted his look to his latest sun,For he knew that his pilgrimage was done;And as he saw God's shadow there,His spirit poured itself in prayer!"I come unto death's second birthBeneath a stranger air,A pilgrim on a dull, cold earth,As all my fathers were!And men have stamped me with a curse,I feel it is not Thine;Thy mercy, like yon sun, was madeOn me, as them, to shine;And therefore dare I lift mine eyeThrough that to Thee before I die!In this great temple, built by Thee,Whose pillars are divine,Beneath yon lamp, that ceaselesslyLights up Thine own true shrine,Oh take my latest sacrifice—Look down and make this sodHoly as that where, long ago,The Hebrew met his God.I have not caused the widow's tears,Nor dimmed the orphan's eye;I have not stained the virgin's years,Nor mocked the mourner's cry.The songs of Zion in mine earHave ever been most sweet,And always, when I felt Thee near,My shoes were off my feet.I have known Thee in the whirlwind,I have known Thee on the hill,I have loved Thee in the voice of birds,Or the music of the rill;I dreamt Thee in the shadow,I saw Thee in the light;I blessed Thee in the radiant day,And worshiped Thee at night.All beauty, while it spoke of Thee,Still made my soul rejoice,And my spirit bowed within itselfTo hear Thy still, small voice!I have not felt myself a thing,Far from Thy presence driven,By flaming sword or waving wingShut off from Thee and heaven.Must I the whirlwind reap becauseMy fathers sowed the storm?Or shrink, because another sinned,Beneath Thy red, right arm?Oh much of this we dimly scan,And much is all unknown;But I will not take my curse from man—I turn to Thee alone!Oh bid my fainting spirit live,And what is dark reveal,And what is evil, oh forgive,And what is broken heal.And cleanse my nature from above,In the dark Jordan of Thy love!I know not if the Christian's heavenShall be the same as mine;I only ask to be forgiven,And taken home to Thine.I weary on a far, dim strand,Whose mansions are as tombs,And long to find the Fatherland,Where there are many homes.Oh grant of all yon starry thrones,Some dim and distant star,Where Judah's lost and scattered sonsMay love Thee from afar.Where all earth's myriad harps shall meetIn choral praise and prayer,Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet,Alone be wanting there?Yet place me in Thy lowest seat,Though I, as now, be there,The Christian's scorn, the Christian's jest;But let me see and hear,From some dim mansion in the sky,Thy bright ones and their melody."The sun goes down with sudden gleam,And—beautiful as a lovely dreamAnd silently as air—The vision of a dark-eyed girl,With long and raven hair,Glides in—as guardian spirits glide—And lo! is kneeling by his side,As if her sudden presence thereWere sent in answer to his prayer.(Oh say they not that angels treadAround the good man's dying bed?)His child—his sweet and sinless child—And as he gazed on herHe knew his God was reconciled,And this the messenger,As sure as God had hung on highThe promise bow before his eye—Earth's purest hopes thus o'er him flung,To point his heavenward faith,And life's most holy feeling strungTo sing him into death;And on his daughter's stainless breastThe dying Hebrew found his rest!

HEBREWknelt in the dying light,

His eye was dim and cold;

The hairs on his brow were silver white,

And his blood was thin and old!

He lifted his look to his latest sun,

For he knew that his pilgrimage was done;

And as he saw God's shadow there,

His spirit poured itself in prayer!

"I come unto death's second birth

Beneath a stranger air,

A pilgrim on a dull, cold earth,

As all my fathers were!

And men have stamped me with a curse,

I feel it is not Thine;

Thy mercy, like yon sun, was made

On me, as them, to shine;

And therefore dare I lift mine eye

Through that to Thee before I die!

In this great temple, built by Thee,

Whose pillars are divine,

Beneath yon lamp, that ceaselessly

Lights up Thine own true shrine,

Oh take my latest sacrifice—

Look down and make this sod

Holy as that where, long ago,

The Hebrew met his God.

I have not caused the widow's tears,

Nor dimmed the orphan's eye;

I have not stained the virgin's years,

Nor mocked the mourner's cry.

The songs of Zion in mine ear

Have ever been most sweet,

And always, when I felt Thee near,

My shoes were off my feet.

I have known Thee in the whirlwind,

I have known Thee on the hill,

I have loved Thee in the voice of birds,

Or the music of the rill;

I dreamt Thee in the shadow,

I saw Thee in the light;

I blessed Thee in the radiant day,

And worshiped Thee at night.

All beauty, while it spoke of Thee,

Still made my soul rejoice,

And my spirit bowed within itself

To hear Thy still, small voice!

I have not felt myself a thing,

Far from Thy presence driven,

By flaming sword or waving wing

Shut off from Thee and heaven.

Must I the whirlwind reap because

My fathers sowed the storm?

Or shrink, because another sinned,

Beneath Thy red, right arm?

Oh much of this we dimly scan,

And much is all unknown;

But I will not take my curse from man—

I turn to Thee alone!

Oh bid my fainting spirit live,

And what is dark reveal,

And what is evil, oh forgive,

And what is broken heal.

And cleanse my nature from above,

In the dark Jordan of Thy love!

I know not if the Christian's heaven

Shall be the same as mine;

I only ask to be forgiven,

And taken home to Thine.

I weary on a far, dim strand,

Whose mansions are as tombs,

And long to find the Fatherland,

Where there are many homes.

Oh grant of all yon starry thrones,

Some dim and distant star,

Where Judah's lost and scattered sons

May love Thee from afar.

Where all earth's myriad harps shall meet

In choral praise and prayer,

Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet,

Alone be wanting there?

Yet place me in Thy lowest seat,

Though I, as now, be there,

The Christian's scorn, the Christian's jest;

But let me see and hear,

From some dim mansion in the sky,

Thy bright ones and their melody."

The sun goes down with sudden gleam,

And—beautiful as a lovely dream

And silently as air—

The vision of a dark-eyed girl,

With long and raven hair,

Glides in—as guardian spirits glide—

And lo! is kneeling by his side,

As if her sudden presence there

Were sent in answer to his prayer.

(Oh say they not that angels tread

Around the good man's dying bed?)

His child—his sweet and sinless child—

And as he gazed on her

He knew his God was reconciled,

And this the messenger,

As sure as God had hung on high

The promise bow before his eye—

Earth's purest hopes thus o'er him flung,

To point his heavenward faith,

And life's most holy feeling strung

To sing him into death;

And on his daughter's stainless breast

The dying Hebrew found his rest!

NOTmany years since, a young married couple from the far "fast-anchored isle" sought our shores with the most sanguine anticipations of happiness and prosperity. They had begun to realize more than they had seen in the visions of hope, when, in an evil hour, the husband was tempted "to look upon the wine when it is red," and to taste of it, "when it giveth its colour in the cup." The charmer fastened round its victim all the serpent-spells of its sorcery, and he fell; and at every step of his degradation from the man to the brute, and downward, a heartstring broke in the bosom of his companion.

Finally, with the last spark of hope flickering on the altar of her heart, she threaded her way intoone of those shambles where man is made such a thing as the beasts of the field would bellow at. She pressed her way through the bacchanalian crowd who were revelling there in their own ruin. With her bosom full of "that perilous stuff that preys upon the heart," she stood before the plunderer of her husband's destiny, and exclaimed in tones of startling anguish, "Give me back my husband!"

"There's your husband," said the man, as he pointed toward the prostrate wretch.

"That my husband?What have you done to him?That my husband?What have you done to that noble form that once, like the great oak, held its protecting shade over the fragile vine that clung to it for support and shelter?That my husband?With what torpedo chill have you touched the sinews of that manly arm? What have you done to that once noble brow, which he wore high among his fellows, as if it bore the superscription of the Godhead?That my husband?What have you done to that eye, with which he was wont to look erect on heaven, and see in his mirror the image of his God? What Egyptian drug have you poured into his veins, and turned the ambling fountains of the heart into black and burning pitch? Give me back my husband! Undo your basilisk spells, and give me back themanthat stood with me by the altar!"

The ears of the rumseller, ever since the first demijohn of that burning liquid was opened upon our shores, have been saluted, at every stage of the traffic, with just such appeals as this. Such wives, such widows, and mothers, such fatherless children, as never mourned in Israel at the massacre of Bethlehem or at the burning of the temple, have cried in his ears, morning, night, and evening, "Give me back my husband! Give me back my boy!Give me back my brother! Give me back my sister! Give me back my wife!"

But has the rumseller been confounded or speechless at these appeals? No! not he. He could show his credentials at a moment's notice with proud defiance. He always carried in his pocket a written absolution for all he had done and could do in his work of destruction.He had bought a letter of indulgence—I mean alicense!—a precious instrument, signed and sealed by an authority stronger and more respectable than the pope's.Heconfounded? Why, the whole artillery of civil power was ready to open in his defence and support. Thus shielded by the law, he had nothing to fear from the enemies of his traffic. He had the image and superscription of Cæsar on his credentials, and unto Cæsar he appealed; and unto Cæsar, too, hisvictimsappealed, andappealed in vain.

A LOGICAL STORY.O. W. HOLMES.

HAVEyou heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,That was built in such a logical wayIt ran a hundred years to a day,And then of a sudden, it—ah, but stay,I'll tell you what happened without delay,Scaring the parson into fits,Frightening people out of their wits,—Have you ever heard of that, I say?Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.Georgius Secunduswas then alive,—Snuffy old drone from the German hive.That was the year when Lisbon townSaw the earth open and gulp her down,And Braddock's army was done so brown,And left without a scalp to its crown.It was on the terrible Earthquake-dayThat the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,There is alwayssomewherea weakest spot,—In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,—lurking still,Find it somewhere you must and will,—Above or below, or within or without,—And that's the reason beyond a doubt,A chaisebreaks down, but doesn'twear out.But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do,With an "I dew vum," or an "I tellyeou,")He would build one shay to beat the taown'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';—"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plainThut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,Is only jestT' make that place uz strong uz the rest."So the Deacon inquired of the village folkWhere he could find the strongest oak,That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,—That was for spokes and floor and sills;He sent for lancewood to make the thills;The crossbars were ash, from the straightesttrees;The panels of whitewood, that cut like cheese,But lasts like iron for things like these;The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"—Last of its timber,—they couldn't sell 'em,Never an axe had seen their chips,And the wedges flew from between their lips,Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,Spring, tire, axle and linchpin too,Steel of the finest, bright and blue;Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hideFound in the pit when the tanner died.That was the way he "put her through."—"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"Do! I tell you, I rather guessShe was a wonder, and nothing less!Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,Deacon and deaconess dropped away,Children and grandchildren,—where were they?But there stood the stout old one-hoss shayAs fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!Eighteen hundred;—it came and foundThe Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.Eighteen hundred increased by ten;—"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.Eighteen hundred and twenty came;—Running as usual; much the same.Thirty and forty at last arrive,And then come fifty, andfifty-five.Little of all we value hereWakes on the morn of its hundredth yearWithout both feeling and looking queer.In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,So far as I know, but a tree and truth.(This is a moral that runs at large;Take it.—You're welcome.—No extra charge.)First of November,—the Earthquake-day,—There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,A general flavor of mild decay,But nothing local as one may say.There couldn't be,—for the Deacon's artHad made it so like in every partThat there wasn't a chance for one to start.For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,And the floor was just as strong as the sills,And the panels just as strong as the floor,And the whippletree neither less nor more,And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,And spring and axle and hubencore.And yet,as a whole, it is past a doubtIn another hour it will beworn out!First of November, 'Fifty-five!This morning the parson takes a drive.Now, small boys, get out of the way!Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay."Huddup!" said the parson.—Off went they.The parson was working his Sunday's text,—Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexedAt what the—Moses—was coming next.All at once the horse stood still,Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.—First a shiver, and then a thrill,Then something decidedly like a spill,—And the parson was sitting upon a rock,At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,—Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!—What do you think the parson found,When he got up and stared around?The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,As if it had been to the mill and ground!You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,How it went to pieces all at once,—All at once, and nothing first,—Just as bubbles do when they burst.End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.Logic is logic. That's all I say.

AVEyou heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,

That was built in such a logical way

It ran a hundred years to a day,

And then of a sudden, it—ah, but stay,

I'll tell you what happened without delay,

Scaring the parson into fits,

Frightening people out of their wits,—

Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.Georgius Secunduswas then alive,—Snuffy old drone from the German hive.That was the year when Lisbon townSaw the earth open and gulp her down,And Braddock's army was done so brown,And left without a scalp to its crown.It was on the terrible Earthquake-dayThat the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.

Georgius Secunduswas then alive,—

Snuffy old drone from the German hive.

That was the year when Lisbon town

Saw the earth open and gulp her down,

And Braddock's army was done so brown,

And left without a scalp to its crown.

It was on the terrible Earthquake-day

That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,There is alwayssomewherea weakest spot,—In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,—lurking still,Find it somewhere you must and will,—Above or below, or within or without,—And that's the reason beyond a doubt,A chaisebreaks down, but doesn'twear out.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,

There is alwayssomewherea weakest spot,—

In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,

In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,—lurking still,

Find it somewhere you must and will,—

Above or below, or within or without,—

And that's the reason beyond a doubt,

A chaisebreaks down, but doesn'twear out.

But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do,With an "I dew vum," or an "I tellyeou,")He would build one shay to beat the taown'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';—"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plainThut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,Is only jestT' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do,

With an "I dew vum," or an "I tellyeou,")

He would build one shay to beat the taown

'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';

—"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain

Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;

'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,

Is only jest

T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folkWhere he could find the strongest oak,That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,—That was for spokes and floor and sills;He sent for lancewood to make the thills;The crossbars were ash, from the straightesttrees;The panels of whitewood, that cut like cheese,But lasts like iron for things like these;The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"—Last of its timber,—they couldn't sell 'em,Never an axe had seen their chips,And the wedges flew from between their lips,Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,Spring, tire, axle and linchpin too,Steel of the finest, bright and blue;Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hideFound in the pit when the tanner died.That was the way he "put her through."—"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk

Where he could find the strongest oak,

That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,—

That was for spokes and floor and sills;

He sent for lancewood to make the thills;

The crossbars were ash, from the straightesttrees;

The panels of whitewood, that cut like cheese,

But lasts like iron for things like these;

The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"—

Last of its timber,—they couldn't sell 'em,

Never an axe had seen their chips,

And the wedges flew from between their lips,

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,

Spring, tire, axle and linchpin too,

Steel of the finest, bright and blue;

Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;

Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide

Found in the pit when the tanner died.

That was the way he "put her through."—

"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

Do! I tell you, I rather guessShe was a wonder, and nothing less!Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,Deacon and deaconess dropped away,Children and grandchildren,—where were they?But there stood the stout old one-hoss shayAs fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!

Do! I tell you, I rather guess

She was a wonder, and nothing less!

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,

Deacon and deaconess dropped away,

Children and grandchildren,—where were they?

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay

As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!

Eighteen hundred;—it came and foundThe Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.Eighteen hundred increased by ten;—"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.Eighteen hundred and twenty came;—Running as usual; much the same.Thirty and forty at last arrive,And then come fifty, andfifty-five.

Eighteen hundred;—it came and found

The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.

Eighteen hundred increased by ten;—

"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.

Eighteen hundred and twenty came;—

Running as usual; much the same.

Thirty and forty at last arrive,

And then come fifty, andfifty-five.

Little of all we value hereWakes on the morn of its hundredth yearWithout both feeling and looking queer.In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,So far as I know, but a tree and truth.(This is a moral that runs at large;Take it.—You're welcome.—No extra charge.)

Little of all we value here

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year

Without both feeling and looking queer.

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,

So far as I know, but a tree and truth.

(This is a moral that runs at large;

Take it.—You're welcome.—No extra charge.)

First of November,—the Earthquake-day,—There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,A general flavor of mild decay,But nothing local as one may say.There couldn't be,—for the Deacon's artHad made it so like in every partThat there wasn't a chance for one to start.For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,And the floor was just as strong as the sills,And the panels just as strong as the floor,And the whippletree neither less nor more,And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,And spring and axle and hubencore.And yet,as a whole, it is past a doubtIn another hour it will beworn out!

First of November,—the Earthquake-day,—

There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,

A general flavor of mild decay,

But nothing local as one may say.

There couldn't be,—for the Deacon's art

Had made it so like in every part

That there wasn't a chance for one to start.

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,

And the floor was just as strong as the sills,

And the panels just as strong as the floor,

And the whippletree neither less nor more,

And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,

And spring and axle and hubencore.

And yet,as a whole, it is past a doubt

In another hour it will beworn out!

First of November, 'Fifty-five!This morning the parson takes a drive.Now, small boys, get out of the way!Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay."Huddup!" said the parson.—Off went they.The parson was working his Sunday's text,—Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexedAt what the—Moses—was coming next.All at once the horse stood still,Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.—First a shiver, and then a thrill,Then something decidedly like a spill,—And the parson was sitting upon a rock,At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,—Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!—What do you think the parson found,When he got up and stared around?The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,As if it had been to the mill and ground!You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,How it went to pieces all at once,—All at once, and nothing first,—Just as bubbles do when they burst.

First of November, 'Fifty-five!

This morning the parson takes a drive.

Now, small boys, get out of the way!

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,

Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.

"Huddup!" said the parson.—Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday's text,—

Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed

At what the—Moses—was coming next.

All at once the horse stood still,

Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.

—First a shiver, and then a thrill,

Then something decidedly like a spill,—

And the parson was sitting upon a rock,

At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,—

Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!

—What do you think the parson found,

When he got up and stared around?

The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,

As if it had been to the mill and ground!

You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,

How it went to pieces all at once,—

All at once, and nothing first,—

Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.Logic is logic. That's all I say.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.

Logic is logic. That's all I say.

Barbarossa,an Usurper,Othman,an officer,Zaphira,the Widowed Queen.

Barbarossa,an Usurper,

Othman,an officer,

Zaphira,the Widowed Queen.

[This play has many passages of splendid diction, well calculated for bold declamation. The plot of the piece runs thus:Barbarossahaving killed, and then usurped the throne of his friend and master, tries to obtain the hand of Zaphira, the late monarch's widow—having previously destroyed, (as is supposed) her son,Selim. The following scene represents the interviews between the unhappy queen and her faithful Othman, and of the queen with Barbarossa.Costumes.—Barbarossagreen velvet robe, scarlet satin shirt, white trousers, russet boots, and turban.Othman, scarlet fly, yellow satin shirt, white slippers, turban white, scarlet cashmere vest.Zaphira, white dress, embroidered with silver, turban, and Turkish shoes.Note.—A little taste will enable any smart young lady to make up these dresses. They are mostly loose, and the embroidery may be of tinsel—while cheap velveteen looks as well as the best velvet on the stage.]

Costumes.—Barbarossagreen velvet robe, scarlet satin shirt, white trousers, russet boots, and turban.Othman, scarlet fly, yellow satin shirt, white slippers, turban white, scarlet cashmere vest.Zaphira, white dress, embroidered with silver, turban, and Turkish shoes.

Note.—A little taste will enable any smart young lady to make up these dresses. They are mostly loose, and the embroidery may be of tinsel—while cheap velveteen looks as well as the best velvet on the stage.]

Scene i.—An apartment, with sofa.

EnterZaphira, r.

Zap.(C.) When shall I be at peace? O, righteous heavenStrengthen my fainting soul, which fain would riseTo confidence in thee! But woes on woesO'erwhelm me. First my husband, now my son—Both dead—both slaughter'd by the bloody handOf Barbarossa! What infernal powerUnchain'd thee from thy native depth of hell,To stalk the earth with thy destructive train,Murder and lust! To wake domestic peace,And every heart-felt joy!

Zap.(C.) When shall I be at peace? O, righteous heaven

Strengthen my fainting soul, which fain would rise

To confidence in thee! But woes on woes

O'erwhelm me. First my husband, now my son—

Both dead—both slaughter'd by the bloody hand

Of Barbarossa! What infernal power

Unchain'd thee from thy native depth of hell,

To stalk the earth with thy destructive train,

Murder and lust! To wake domestic peace,

And every heart-felt joy!

EnterOthman, l.

O, faithful Othman!Our fears were true; my Selim is no more!Oth.Has, then, the fatal secret reach'd thine ear? Inhuman tyrant!Zap.Strike him, heav'n with thunder,Nor let Zaphira doubt thy providence!Oth.'Twas what we fear'd. Oppose not heav'n's high will,Nor struggle with the ten-fold chain of fate,That links thee to thy woes. O, rather yield,And wait the happier hour, when innocenceShall weep no more. Rest in that pleasing hope,And yield thyself to heaven, my honor'd queen.The king——Zap.Whom stylest thou king?Oth.'Tis Barbarossa.Zap.Does he assume the name of king?Oth.He does.Zap.O, title vilely purchas'd!—by the bloodOf innocence—by treachery and murder!May heav'n, incens'd, pour down its vengeance on him,Blast all his joys, and turn them into horrorTill phrensy rise, and bid him curse the hourThat gave his crimes their birth!—My faithful Othman,My sole surviving prop, canst thou deviseNo secret means, by which I may escapeThis hated palace?Oth.That hope is vain. The tyrant knows thy hate;Hence, day and night, his guards environ thee.Rouse not, then, his anger:Let soft persuasion and mild eloquenceRedeem that liberty, which stern rebukeWould rob thee of for ever.Zap.An injur'd queenTo kneel for liberty!—And, oh! to whom!E'en to the murd'rer of her lord and son!O, perish first, Zaphira! Yes, I'll die!For what is life to me? My dear, dear lord—My hapless child—yes, I will follow you!Oth.Wilt thou not see him, then?Zap.I will not, Othman;Or, if I do, with bitter imprecationMore keen than poison shot from serpents' tongues,I'll pour my curses on him.Oth.Will ZaphiraThus meanly sink in woman's fruitless rage,When she should wake revenge?Zap.Revenge!—O, tell me—Tell, me but how?—What can a helpless woman?Oth.(c.). Gain but the tyrant's leave, and seek thy father;Pour thy complaints before him; let thy wrongsKindle his indignation to pursueThis vile usurper, till unceasing warBlast his ill-gotten pow'r.Zap.(l.c.). Ah! say'st thou, Othman?Thy words have shot like lightning through my frame,And all my soul's on fire!—thou faithful friend!Yes, with more gentle speech I'll soothe his pride;Regain my freedom; reach my father's tents;There paint my countless woes. His kindling rageShall wake the valleys into honest vengeance;The sudden storm shall pour on Barbarossa,And ev'ry glowing warrior steep his shaftIn deadlier poison, to revenge my wrongs! (crosses tor.)Oth.(c.). There spoke the queen.—But, as thou lov'st thy freedom,Touch not on Selim's death. Thy soul will kindle,And passion mount in flames that will consume thee.Zap.(r.). My murder'd son!—Yes, to revenge thy death,I'll speak a language which my heart disdains.Oth.Peace, peace,!—the tyrant comes. Now, injur'd Queen,Plead for thy freedom, hope for just revenge,And check each rising passion. [ExitOthman,r.

O, faithful Othman!Our fears were true; my Selim is no more!

O, faithful Othman!

Our fears were true; my Selim is no more!

Oth.Has, then, the fatal secret reach'd thine ear? Inhuman tyrant!

Zap.Strike him, heav'n with thunder,Nor let Zaphira doubt thy providence!

Zap.Strike him, heav'n with thunder,

Nor let Zaphira doubt thy providence!

Oth.'Twas what we fear'd. Oppose not heav'n's high will,Nor struggle with the ten-fold chain of fate,That links thee to thy woes. O, rather yield,And wait the happier hour, when innocenceShall weep no more. Rest in that pleasing hope,And yield thyself to heaven, my honor'd queen.The king——

Oth.'Twas what we fear'd. Oppose not heav'n's high will,

Nor struggle with the ten-fold chain of fate,

That links thee to thy woes. O, rather yield,

And wait the happier hour, when innocence

Shall weep no more. Rest in that pleasing hope,

And yield thyself to heaven, my honor'd queen.

The king——

Zap.Whom stylest thou king?

Oth.'Tis Barbarossa.

Zap.Does he assume the name of king?

Oth.He does.

Zap.O, title vilely purchas'd!—by the bloodOf innocence—by treachery and murder!May heav'n, incens'd, pour down its vengeance on him,Blast all his joys, and turn them into horrorTill phrensy rise, and bid him curse the hourThat gave his crimes their birth!—My faithful Othman,My sole surviving prop, canst thou deviseNo secret means, by which I may escapeThis hated palace?

Zap.O, title vilely purchas'd!—by the blood

Of innocence—by treachery and murder!

May heav'n, incens'd, pour down its vengeance on him,

Blast all his joys, and turn them into horror

Till phrensy rise, and bid him curse the hour

That gave his crimes their birth!—My faithful Othman,

My sole surviving prop, canst thou devise

No secret means, by which I may escape

This hated palace?

Oth.That hope is vain. The tyrant knows thy hate;Hence, day and night, his guards environ thee.Rouse not, then, his anger:Let soft persuasion and mild eloquenceRedeem that liberty, which stern rebukeWould rob thee of for ever.

Oth.That hope is vain. The tyrant knows thy hate;

Hence, day and night, his guards environ thee.

Rouse not, then, his anger:

Let soft persuasion and mild eloquence

Redeem that liberty, which stern rebuke

Would rob thee of for ever.

Zap.An injur'd queenTo kneel for liberty!—And, oh! to whom!E'en to the murd'rer of her lord and son!O, perish first, Zaphira! Yes, I'll die!For what is life to me? My dear, dear lord—My hapless child—yes, I will follow you!

Zap.An injur'd queen

To kneel for liberty!—And, oh! to whom!

E'en to the murd'rer of her lord and son!

O, perish first, Zaphira! Yes, I'll die!

For what is life to me? My dear, dear lord—

My hapless child—yes, I will follow you!

Oth.Wilt thou not see him, then?

Zap.I will not, Othman;Or, if I do, with bitter imprecationMore keen than poison shot from serpents' tongues,I'll pour my curses on him.

Zap.I will not, Othman;

Or, if I do, with bitter imprecation

More keen than poison shot from serpents' tongues,

I'll pour my curses on him.

Oth.Will ZaphiraThus meanly sink in woman's fruitless rage,When she should wake revenge?

Oth.Will Zaphira

Thus meanly sink in woman's fruitless rage,

When she should wake revenge?

Zap.Revenge!—O, tell me—Tell, me but how?—What can a helpless woman?

Zap.Revenge!—O, tell me—

Tell, me but how?—What can a helpless woman?

Oth.(c.). Gain but the tyrant's leave, and seek thy father;Pour thy complaints before him; let thy wrongsKindle his indignation to pursueThis vile usurper, till unceasing warBlast his ill-gotten pow'r.

Oth.(c.). Gain but the tyrant's leave, and seek thy father;

Pour thy complaints before him; let thy wrongs

Kindle his indignation to pursue

This vile usurper, till unceasing war

Blast his ill-gotten pow'r.

Zap.(l.c.). Ah! say'st thou, Othman?Thy words have shot like lightning through my frame,And all my soul's on fire!—thou faithful friend!Yes, with more gentle speech I'll soothe his pride;Regain my freedom; reach my father's tents;There paint my countless woes. His kindling rageShall wake the valleys into honest vengeance;The sudden storm shall pour on Barbarossa,And ev'ry glowing warrior steep his shaftIn deadlier poison, to revenge my wrongs! (crosses tor.)

Zap.(l.c.). Ah! say'st thou, Othman?

Thy words have shot like lightning through my frame,

And all my soul's on fire!—thou faithful friend!

Yes, with more gentle speech I'll soothe his pride;

Regain my freedom; reach my father's tents;

There paint my countless woes. His kindling rage

Shall wake the valleys into honest vengeance;

The sudden storm shall pour on Barbarossa,

And ev'ry glowing warrior steep his shaft

In deadlier poison, to revenge my wrongs! (crosses tor.)

Oth.(c.). There spoke the queen.—But, as thou lov'st thy freedom,Touch not on Selim's death. Thy soul will kindle,And passion mount in flames that will consume thee.

Oth.(c.). There spoke the queen.—But, as thou lov'st thy freedom,

Touch not on Selim's death. Thy soul will kindle,

And passion mount in flames that will consume thee.

Zap.(r.). My murder'd son!—Yes, to revenge thy death,I'll speak a language which my heart disdains.

Zap.(r.). My murder'd son!—Yes, to revenge thy death,

I'll speak a language which my heart disdains.

Oth.Peace, peace,!—the tyrant comes. Now, injur'd Queen,Plead for thy freedom, hope for just revenge,And check each rising passion. [ExitOthman,r.

Oth.Peace, peace,!—the tyrant comes. Now, injur'd Queen,

Plead for thy freedom, hope for just revenge,

And check each rising passion. [ExitOthman,r.

EnterBarbarossa,l.

Bar.(l.). Hail sovereign fair! in whomBeauty and majesty conspire to charm:Behold the conqu'ror.Zap. (r.c.)O, Barbarossa,No more the pride of conquest e'er can charmMy widow'd heart. With my departed lordMy love lies buried!Then turn thee to some happier fair, whose heartMay crown thy growing love with love sincere;For I have none to give.Bar.Love ne'er should die:'Tis the soul's cordial—'tis the font of life;Therefore should spring eternal in the breast.One object lost, another should succeed,And all our life be love.Zap.Urge me no more.—Thou mightst with equal hopeWoo the cold marble, weeping o'er a tomb,To meet thy wishes. But, if generous love (approaches him.)Dwell in thy breast, vouchsafe me proof sincere:Give me safe convoy to the native valesOf dear Mutija, where my father reigns.Bar.O, blind to proffer'd bliss!—What! fondly quitThis pompOf empire for an Arab's wand'ring tent,Where the mock chieftain leads his vagrant tribesFrom plain to plain, and faintly shadows outThe majesty of kings!—Far other joysHere shall attend thy call:Submissive realmsShall bow the neck; and swarthy kings and Queens,From the far-distant Niger and the Nile,Drawn captive at my conqu'ring chariot wheels,Shall kneel before thee.Zap.Pomp and pow'r are toys,Which e'en the mind at ease may well disdain:But oh! what mockery is the tinsel prideOf splendour, when the mindLies desolate within!—Such, such is mine!O'erwhelm'd with ills, and dead to ev'ry joy;Envy me not this last request, to dieIn my dear father's tents.Bar.Thy suit is vain.Zap.Thus, kneeling at thy feet—(kneels.)Bar.Thou thankless fair! (raisesZaphira.)Thus to repay the labours of my love!Had I not seiz'd the throne when Selim died,Ere this thy foes had laid Algiers in ruin.I check'd the warring pow'rs, and gave you peace,Make thee but mine,I will descend the throne, and call thy sonFrom banishment to empire.Zap.O, my heart!Can I bear this?Inhuman tyrant!—curses on thy head!May dire remorse and anguish haunt thy throne,And gender in thy bosom fell despair,—Despair as deep as mine! (crosses toL.)Bar. (r.c.).What means Zaphira?What means this burst of grief?Zap. (l.).Thou fell destroyer!Had not guilt steel'd thy heart, awak'ning conscienceWould flash conviction on thee, and each look,Shot from these eyes, be arm'd with serpent horrors,To turn thee into stone!—Relentless man!Who did the bloody deeds—O, tremble, guilt,Where'er thou art!—Look on me; tell me, tyrant,Who slew my blameless son?Bar.What envious tongueHath dar'd to taint my name with slander?Thy Selim lives; nay, more, he soon shall reign,If thou consent to bless me.Zap.Never, O, never!—Sooner would I roamAn unknown exile through the torrid climesOf Afric—sooner dwell with wolves and tigers,Than mount with thee my murder'd Selim's throne!Bar.Rash queen, forbear; think on thy captive state,Remember, that within these palace wallsI am omnipotent. Yield thee, then;Avert the gath'ring horrors that surround thee,And dread my pow'r incens'd.Zap.Dares thy licentious tongue pollute mine earWith that foul menace? Tyrant! dread'st thou notTh' all-seeing eye of heav'n, its lifted thunder,And all the red'ning vengeance which it storesFor crimes like thine?—Yet know, Zaphira scorns thee.[crosses toR.Though robb'd by thee of ev'ry dear support,No tyrant's threat can awe the free-born soul,That greatly dares to die. [ExitZaphira, r.Bar. (c.).Where should she learn the tale of Selim's death?Could Othman dare to tell it?—If he did,My rage shall sweep him swifter than the whirlwind,To instant death! [Exit.

Bar.(l.). Hail sovereign fair! in whomBeauty and majesty conspire to charm:Behold the conqu'ror.

Bar.(l.). Hail sovereign fair! in whom

Beauty and majesty conspire to charm:

Behold the conqu'ror.

Zap. (r.c.)O, Barbarossa,No more the pride of conquest e'er can charmMy widow'd heart. With my departed lordMy love lies buried!Then turn thee to some happier fair, whose heartMay crown thy growing love with love sincere;For I have none to give.

Zap. (r.c.)O, Barbarossa,

No more the pride of conquest e'er can charm

My widow'd heart. With my departed lord

My love lies buried!

Then turn thee to some happier fair, whose heart

May crown thy growing love with love sincere;

For I have none to give.

Bar.Love ne'er should die:'Tis the soul's cordial—'tis the font of life;Therefore should spring eternal in the breast.One object lost, another should succeed,And all our life be love.

Bar.Love ne'er should die:

'Tis the soul's cordial—'tis the font of life;

Therefore should spring eternal in the breast.

One object lost, another should succeed,

And all our life be love.

Zap.Urge me no more.—Thou mightst with equal hopeWoo the cold marble, weeping o'er a tomb,To meet thy wishes. But, if generous love (approaches him.)Dwell in thy breast, vouchsafe me proof sincere:Give me safe convoy to the native valesOf dear Mutija, where my father reigns.

Zap.Urge me no more.—Thou mightst with equal hope

Woo the cold marble, weeping o'er a tomb,

To meet thy wishes. But, if generous love (approaches him.)

Dwell in thy breast, vouchsafe me proof sincere:

Give me safe convoy to the native vales

Of dear Mutija, where my father reigns.

Bar.O, blind to proffer'd bliss!—What! fondly quitThis pompOf empire for an Arab's wand'ring tent,Where the mock chieftain leads his vagrant tribesFrom plain to plain, and faintly shadows outThe majesty of kings!—Far other joysHere shall attend thy call:Submissive realmsShall bow the neck; and swarthy kings and Queens,From the far-distant Niger and the Nile,Drawn captive at my conqu'ring chariot wheels,Shall kneel before thee.

Bar.O, blind to proffer'd bliss!—What! fondly quit

This pomp

Of empire for an Arab's wand'ring tent,

Where the mock chieftain leads his vagrant tribes

From plain to plain, and faintly shadows out

The majesty of kings!—Far other joys

Here shall attend thy call:

Submissive realms

Shall bow the neck; and swarthy kings and Queens,

From the far-distant Niger and the Nile,

Drawn captive at my conqu'ring chariot wheels,

Shall kneel before thee.

Zap.Pomp and pow'r are toys,Which e'en the mind at ease may well disdain:But oh! what mockery is the tinsel prideOf splendour, when the mindLies desolate within!—Such, such is mine!O'erwhelm'd with ills, and dead to ev'ry joy;Envy me not this last request, to dieIn my dear father's tents.

Zap.Pomp and pow'r are toys,

Which e'en the mind at ease may well disdain:

But oh! what mockery is the tinsel pride

Of splendour, when the mind

Lies desolate within!—Such, such is mine!

O'erwhelm'd with ills, and dead to ev'ry joy;

Envy me not this last request, to die

In my dear father's tents.

Bar.Thy suit is vain.

Zap.Thus, kneeling at thy feet—(kneels.)

Bar.Thou thankless fair! (raisesZaphira.)Thus to repay the labours of my love!Had I not seiz'd the throne when Selim died,Ere this thy foes had laid Algiers in ruin.I check'd the warring pow'rs, and gave you peace,Make thee but mine,I will descend the throne, and call thy sonFrom banishment to empire.

Bar.Thou thankless fair! (raisesZaphira.)

Thus to repay the labours of my love!

Had I not seiz'd the throne when Selim died,

Ere this thy foes had laid Algiers in ruin.

I check'd the warring pow'rs, and gave you peace,

Make thee but mine,

I will descend the throne, and call thy son

From banishment to empire.

Zap.O, my heart!Can I bear this?Inhuman tyrant!—curses on thy head!May dire remorse and anguish haunt thy throne,And gender in thy bosom fell despair,—Despair as deep as mine! (crosses toL.)

Zap.O, my heart!

Can I bear this?

Inhuman tyrant!—curses on thy head!

May dire remorse and anguish haunt thy throne,

And gender in thy bosom fell despair,—

Despair as deep as mine! (crosses toL.)

Bar. (r.c.).What means Zaphira?What means this burst of grief?

Bar. (r.c.).What means Zaphira?

What means this burst of grief?

Zap. (l.).Thou fell destroyer!Had not guilt steel'd thy heart, awak'ning conscienceWould flash conviction on thee, and each look,Shot from these eyes, be arm'd with serpent horrors,To turn thee into stone!—Relentless man!Who did the bloody deeds—O, tremble, guilt,Where'er thou art!—Look on me; tell me, tyrant,Who slew my blameless son?

Zap. (l.).Thou fell destroyer!

Had not guilt steel'd thy heart, awak'ning conscience

Would flash conviction on thee, and each look,

Shot from these eyes, be arm'd with serpent horrors,

To turn thee into stone!—Relentless man!

Who did the bloody deeds—O, tremble, guilt,

Where'er thou art!—Look on me; tell me, tyrant,

Who slew my blameless son?

Bar.What envious tongueHath dar'd to taint my name with slander?Thy Selim lives; nay, more, he soon shall reign,If thou consent to bless me.

Bar.What envious tongue

Hath dar'd to taint my name with slander?

Thy Selim lives; nay, more, he soon shall reign,

If thou consent to bless me.

Zap.Never, O, never!—Sooner would I roamAn unknown exile through the torrid climesOf Afric—sooner dwell with wolves and tigers,Than mount with thee my murder'd Selim's throne!

Zap.Never, O, never!—Sooner would I roam

An unknown exile through the torrid climes

Of Afric—sooner dwell with wolves and tigers,

Than mount with thee my murder'd Selim's throne!

Bar.Rash queen, forbear; think on thy captive state,Remember, that within these palace wallsI am omnipotent. Yield thee, then;Avert the gath'ring horrors that surround thee,And dread my pow'r incens'd.

Bar.Rash queen, forbear; think on thy captive state,

Remember, that within these palace walls

I am omnipotent. Yield thee, then;

Avert the gath'ring horrors that surround thee,

And dread my pow'r incens'd.

Zap.Dares thy licentious tongue pollute mine earWith that foul menace? Tyrant! dread'st thou notTh' all-seeing eye of heav'n, its lifted thunder,And all the red'ning vengeance which it storesFor crimes like thine?—Yet know, Zaphira scorns thee.[crosses toR.Though robb'd by thee of ev'ry dear support,No tyrant's threat can awe the free-born soul,That greatly dares to die. [ExitZaphira, r.

Zap.Dares thy licentious tongue pollute mine ear

With that foul menace? Tyrant! dread'st thou not

Th' all-seeing eye of heav'n, its lifted thunder,

And all the red'ning vengeance which it stores

For crimes like thine?—Yet know, Zaphira scorns thee.

[crosses toR.

Though robb'd by thee of ev'ry dear support,

No tyrant's threat can awe the free-born soul,

That greatly dares to die. [ExitZaphira, r.

Bar. (c.).Where should she learn the tale of Selim's death?Could Othman dare to tell it?—If he did,My rage shall sweep him swifter than the whirlwind,To instant death! [Exit.

Bar. (c.).Where should she learn the tale of Selim's death?

Could Othman dare to tell it?—If he did,

My rage shall sweep him swifter than the whirlwind,

To instant death! [Exit.

(R.) Right. (L.) Left. (C.) Centre. (R.C.) Right Centre. (L.C.) Left Centre.

DUGANNE.

Apart from the noble sentiments of these verses, and their exquisite diction—in which every word is the best that could possibly be used—as in a piece of faultless mosaic every minute stone is so placed as to impart strength, brilliancy, and harmony—they afford an excellent example of lofty, dignified recitation:

THOSEmills of God! those tireless mills!I hear their ceaseless throbs and thrills:I see their dreadful stones go round,And all the realms beneath them ground;And lives of men and souls of states,Flung out, like chaff, beyond their gates.And we, O God! with impious will,Have made these Negroes turn Thy mill!Their human limbs with chains we bound,And bade them whirl Thy mill-stones round;With branded brow and fettered wrist,We bade them grind this Nation's grist!And so, like Samson—blind and bound—Our Nation's grist this Negro ground;And all the strength of Freedom's toil,And all the fruits of Freedom's soil,And all her hopes and all her trust,From Slavery's gates were flung, like dust.With servile souls this mill we fed,That ground the grain for Slavery's bread;With cringing men, and grovelling deeds,We dwarfed our land to Slavery's needs;Till all the scornful nations hissed,To see us ground with Slavery's grist.The mill grinds on! From Slavery's plain,We reap great crops of blood-red grain;And still the Negro's strength we urge,With Slavery's gyve and Slavery's scourge;And still we crave—on Freedom's sod—That Slaves shall turn the mills of God!The Mill grinds on! God lets it grind!We sow the seed—the sheaves we bind:The mill-stones whirl as we ordain;Our children's bread shall test the grain!While Samson still in chains we bind,The mill grinds on! God lets it grind!

HOSEmills of God! those tireless mills!

I hear their ceaseless throbs and thrills:

I see their dreadful stones go round,

And all the realms beneath them ground;

And lives of men and souls of states,

Flung out, like chaff, beyond their gates.

And we, O God! with impious will,Have made these Negroes turn Thy mill!Their human limbs with chains we bound,And bade them whirl Thy mill-stones round;With branded brow and fettered wrist,We bade them grind this Nation's grist!

And we, O God! with impious will,

Have made these Negroes turn Thy mill!

Their human limbs with chains we bound,

And bade them whirl Thy mill-stones round;

With branded brow and fettered wrist,

We bade them grind this Nation's grist!

And so, like Samson—blind and bound—Our Nation's grist this Negro ground;And all the strength of Freedom's toil,And all the fruits of Freedom's soil,And all her hopes and all her trust,From Slavery's gates were flung, like dust.

And so, like Samson—blind and bound—

Our Nation's grist this Negro ground;

And all the strength of Freedom's toil,

And all the fruits of Freedom's soil,

And all her hopes and all her trust,

From Slavery's gates were flung, like dust.

With servile souls this mill we fed,That ground the grain for Slavery's bread;With cringing men, and grovelling deeds,We dwarfed our land to Slavery's needs;Till all the scornful nations hissed,To see us ground with Slavery's grist.

With servile souls this mill we fed,

That ground the grain for Slavery's bread;

With cringing men, and grovelling deeds,

We dwarfed our land to Slavery's needs;

Till all the scornful nations hissed,

To see us ground with Slavery's grist.

The mill grinds on! From Slavery's plain,We reap great crops of blood-red grain;And still the Negro's strength we urge,With Slavery's gyve and Slavery's scourge;And still we crave—on Freedom's sod—That Slaves shall turn the mills of God!

The mill grinds on! From Slavery's plain,

We reap great crops of blood-red grain;

And still the Negro's strength we urge,

With Slavery's gyve and Slavery's scourge;

And still we crave—on Freedom's sod—

That Slaves shall turn the mills of God!

The Mill grinds on! God lets it grind!We sow the seed—the sheaves we bind:The mill-stones whirl as we ordain;Our children's bread shall test the grain!While Samson still in chains we bind,The mill grinds on! God lets it grind!

The Mill grinds on! God lets it grind!

We sow the seed—the sheaves we bind:

The mill-stones whirl as we ordain;

Our children's bread shall test the grain!

While Samson still in chains we bind,

The mill grinds on! God lets it grind!

J. HONEYWELL.

DIDyou ever! No, I never!Mercy on us, what a smell!Don't be frightened, Johnny, dear!Gracious! how the jackals yell!Mother, tell me, what's the manDoing with that pole of his?Bless your little precious heart,He's stirring up the beastesses!Children! don't you go so near!Hevings! there's the Afric cowses!What's the matter with the child?Why, the monkey's tore his trowses!Here's the monstrous elephant,—I'm all a tremble at the sight;See his monstrous tooth-pick, boys!Wonder if he's fastened tight?There's the lion!—see his tail!How he drags it on the floor!'Sakes alive! I'm awful scaredTo hear the horrid creatures roar!Here's the monkeys in their cage,Wide awake you are to see 'em;Funny, ain't it? How would youLike to have a tail and be 'em?Johnny, darling, that's the bearThat tore the naughty boys to pieces;Horned cattle!—only hearHow the dreadful camel wheezes!That's the tall giraffe, my boy,Who stoops to hear the morning lark;'Twas him who waded Noah's flood,And scorned the refuge of the ark.Here's the crane,—the awkward bird!Strong his neck is as a whaler's,And his bill is full as longAs ever met one from the tailor's.Look!—just see the zebra there,Standing safe behind the bars;Goodness me! how like a flag,All except the corner stars!There's the bell! the birds and beastsNow are going to be fed;So my little darlings, come,It 's time for you to be abed."Mother, 't is n't nine o'clock!You said we need n't go before;Let us stay a little while,—Want to see the monkeys more!"Cries the showman, "Turn 'em out!Dim the lights!—there, that will do;Come again to-morrow, boys;Bring your little sisters, too."Exit mother, half distraught,Exit father, muttering "bore?"Exit children, blubbering still,"Want to see the monkeys more!"

IDyou ever! No, I never!

Mercy on us, what a smell!

Don't be frightened, Johnny, dear!

Gracious! how the jackals yell!

Mother, tell me, what's the man

Doing with that pole of his?

Bless your little precious heart,

He's stirring up the beastesses!

Children! don't you go so near!Hevings! there's the Afric cowses!What's the matter with the child?Why, the monkey's tore his trowses!Here's the monstrous elephant,—I'm all a tremble at the sight;See his monstrous tooth-pick, boys!Wonder if he's fastened tight?

Children! don't you go so near!

Hevings! there's the Afric cowses!

What's the matter with the child?

Why, the monkey's tore his trowses!

Here's the monstrous elephant,—

I'm all a tremble at the sight;

See his monstrous tooth-pick, boys!

Wonder if he's fastened tight?

There's the lion!—see his tail!How he drags it on the floor!'Sakes alive! I'm awful scaredTo hear the horrid creatures roar!Here's the monkeys in their cage,Wide awake you are to see 'em;Funny, ain't it? How would youLike to have a tail and be 'em?

There's the lion!—see his tail!

How he drags it on the floor!

'Sakes alive! I'm awful scared

To hear the horrid creatures roar!

Here's the monkeys in their cage,

Wide awake you are to see 'em;

Funny, ain't it? How would you

Like to have a tail and be 'em?

Johnny, darling, that's the bearThat tore the naughty boys to pieces;Horned cattle!—only hearHow the dreadful camel wheezes!That's the tall giraffe, my boy,Who stoops to hear the morning lark;'Twas him who waded Noah's flood,And scorned the refuge of the ark.

Johnny, darling, that's the bear

That tore the naughty boys to pieces;

Horned cattle!—only hear

How the dreadful camel wheezes!

That's the tall giraffe, my boy,

Who stoops to hear the morning lark;

'Twas him who waded Noah's flood,

And scorned the refuge of the ark.

Here's the crane,—the awkward bird!Strong his neck is as a whaler's,And his bill is full as longAs ever met one from the tailor's.Look!—just see the zebra there,Standing safe behind the bars;Goodness me! how like a flag,All except the corner stars!

Here's the crane,—the awkward bird!

Strong his neck is as a whaler's,

And his bill is full as long

As ever met one from the tailor's.

Look!—just see the zebra there,

Standing safe behind the bars;

Goodness me! how like a flag,

All except the corner stars!

There's the bell! the birds and beastsNow are going to be fed;So my little darlings, come,It 's time for you to be abed."Mother, 't is n't nine o'clock!You said we need n't go before;Let us stay a little while,—Want to see the monkeys more!"

There's the bell! the birds and beasts

Now are going to be fed;

So my little darlings, come,

It 's time for you to be abed.

"Mother, 't is n't nine o'clock!

You said we need n't go before;

Let us stay a little while,—

Want to see the monkeys more!"

Cries the showman, "Turn 'em out!Dim the lights!—there, that will do;Come again to-morrow, boys;Bring your little sisters, too."Exit mother, half distraught,Exit father, muttering "bore?"Exit children, blubbering still,"Want to see the monkeys more!"

Cries the showman, "Turn 'em out!

Dim the lights!—there, that will do;

Come again to-morrow, boys;

Bring your little sisters, too."

Exit mother, half distraught,

Exit father, muttering "bore?"

Exit children, blubbering still,

"Want to see the monkeys more!"

Fred Brown.Johnny Gray.Ned White.

Fred Brown.

Johnny Gray.

Ned White.

Scene.—Recitation-Room at a Public School.

EnterFred.

Fred.A pretty task Master Green has given me this time! He calls me to his desk, and says, "Brown, those boys, Gray and White, have been very inattentive during the music lesson: take them into the recitation-room, and keep them there until they can sing four stanzas of 'The Battle-cry of Freedom.'" A nice music-master I am! I can't read, sing, or growl a note, and I don't know a single line of "The Battle-cry of Freedom." But I must not let them know that. Here they are. (EnterGrayandWhite;they get in a corner of the stage, and whisper together.) Now, what conspiracy is hatching? Hem! Here, you fellows, do you know what you came here for?

Gray.To take a music lesson, I suppose.

Fred.Well, you had better commence.

White.Certainly, after you.

Fred.After me! What do you mean?

White.I believe it's the custom of all music-masters to first sing the song they wish to teach. (Aside toGray.) He can't sing a note.

Gray.(Aside toWhite.) He can't? good! Let's plague him. (Aloud.) Come, singing-master, proceed.

Fred.No matter about me. You two can sing, and when you make a mistake I will correct it.

Gray.You'll correct it! That's good. With what, pray?

Fred.With this. (Producing a ratten from under his jacket.)

White.O, dear, I don't like that sort of tuning-fork.

Fred.You'll get it if you don't hurry. Come, boys, "The Battle-cry of Freedom."

Gray.(Aside toWhite.) Ned, do you know the song?

White.(Aside.) I know just one line.

Gray.(Aside.) O, dear, we're in a scrape. (Aloud.) Master Fred, will you please give me the first line? I've forgotten it.

Fred.Certainly. Let me see. "Rock me to sleep, mother." No, that isn't it.

White.(Aside.) He's split on that rock.

Fred.Hem! ah! "Dear father, dear father, come home." O, bother!

Gray.(Aside.) It'll bother him to "come home" with that line.

Fred."Give me a cot."—O, pshaw! I tell you what, boys, I didn't come here to talk, but to listen: now you two sing away at once, or down comes the ratten.

Gray.(Aside.) I say, Ned, Brown doesn't know it? here's fun. Now you just keep quiet, and ring in your line when I snap my fingers.

White.(Aside.) All right. I understand. When you snap, I sing.

Fred.Come, come! Strike up, or I shall strike down.

Gray.(Sings to the tune of the Battle-cry of Freedom,)—

"Mary had a little lamb;Its fleece was white as snow."(Snaps his fingers.)

"Mary had a little lamb;Its fleece was white as snow."

"Mary had a little lamb;

Its fleece was white as snow."

(Snaps his fingers.)

White.(Very loud.)

"Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

Gray.(Sings.)

"And everywhere that Mary wentThe lamb was sure to go." (Snaps.)

"And everywhere that Mary went

The lamb was sure to go." (Snaps.)

White."Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

Fred.Capital! Perfectly correct, perfectly correct. Sing again.

Gray.(Sings.)

"It followed her to school one day;It was against the rule." (Snaps.)

"It followed her to school one day;

It was against the rule." (Snaps.)

White."Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

Gray.(Sings.)

"It made the children laugh and playTo see a lamb at school." (Snaps.)

"It made the children laugh and play

To see a lamb at school." (Snaps.)

White."Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

Fred.Beautiful! beautiful! I couldn't do it better myself.

Gray.(Aside.) I should think not.

White.Come, Mr. Singing-master, you try a stanza.

Fred.What, sir! do you want to shirk your task? Sing away.

Gray.(Sings.)

"And so the teacher turned him out;Yet still he lingered near." (Snaps.)

"And so the teacher turned him out;

Yet still he lingered near." (Snaps.)

White."Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

Gray.

"And waited patiently about,Till Mary did appear." (Snaps.)

"And waited patiently about,

Till Mary did appear." (Snaps.)

White."Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

Fred.Glorious! Why, boys, it's a perfect uproar.

White.There's enough, isn't there?

Fred.No, sir, four stanzas. Come, be quick.

Gray.I don't know any more.

White.I'm sure I don't.

Fred.Yes you do, you're trying to shirk; but I won't have it. You want a taste of the rattan. Come, be lively.

Gray.(Sings.)

"'What makes the lamb love Mary so?'The eager children cry." (Snaps.)

"'What makes the lamb love Mary so?'

The eager children cry." (Snaps.)

White."Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

Gray.

"'Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,'The teacher did reply." (Snaps.)

"'Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,'

The teacher did reply." (Snaps.)

White."Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

Fred.There, boys, I knew you could sing. Now come in, and I will tell Master Green how capitally you have done—that I couldn't do better myself.

[Exit.

White.Well, Johnny, we got out of that scrape pretty well.

Gray.Yes, Ned; but it's a poor way. I must pay a little more attention to my singing.

White.And so must I, for we may not always have a teacher on whom the old saying fits so well.

Gray.Old saying? What's that?

White."Where ignorance is bliss—"

Gray.O, yes, "'Twere folly to be wise."

[Exeunt.

ANONYMOUS.

[The following stirring poem is highly dramatic. The reader should, as far as possible, realize the feelings of the shepherd-parent as he sees "the youngest of his babes" borne in the iron-claws of the vulture high in mid air towards his golgotha of a nest. Much force of attitude and gesture is not only admissable, but called for, as the agonized father leans forward following the flight of the vulture.]

I'VEbeen among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales,And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales,As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'erThey spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more.And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear:The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous.But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:—"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells;But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock,He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock."One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain,A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again."I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright,The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sightI missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care,But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air."Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye!His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry!And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave,That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me,And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free,At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed:Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed."The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew,A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view:But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight;'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite."All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot,When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot,From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached,He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!"I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away;I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay;A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred,The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head."That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers passing by,Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

'VEbeen among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales,

And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales,

As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er

They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more.

And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear:The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous.But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:—

And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,

A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear:

The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous.

But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:—

"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells;But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock,He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,

Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells;

But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock,

He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

"One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain,A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.

"One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,

When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,

As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain,

A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.

"I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright,The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sightI missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care,But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air.

"I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright,

The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight

I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care,

But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air.

"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye!His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry!And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave,That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!

"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye!

His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry!

And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave,

That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!

"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me,And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free,At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed:Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.

"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me,

And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free,

At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed:

Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.

"The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew,A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view:But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight;'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.

"The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew,

A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view:

But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight;

'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.

"All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot,When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot,From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached,He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!

"All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot,

When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot,

From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached,

He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!

"I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away;I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay;A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred,The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head."

"I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away;

I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay;

A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred,

The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head."

That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers passing by,Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers passing by,

Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.

And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,

The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

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