Imatges de pÓgina
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So through the livelong night they held their way,
And 'twas a night might shame the fairest day;
So still, so bright, so tranquil, was its reign,
They cared not though the day ne'er came again.
The moon, high wheeled the distant hills above,
Silvered the fleecy foliage of the grove,
That, as the wooing zephyrs on it fell,
Whispered, it loved the gentle visit well.
That fair-faced orb alone to move appeared,
That zephyr was the only sound they heard.
No deep-mouthed hound the hunter's haunt betrayed,
No lights upon the shore or waters played,
No loud laugh broke upon the silent air,
To tell the wanderers, man was nestling there;
All, all was still, on gliding bark and shore,
As if the earth now slept to wake no more.

LESSON LIV.

EXERCISES IN

ARTICULATION.

Dragg'd, dragg' dst, glow, mangled, mangles, mangľst, grave, green, grown, begs, begg'st.

An Evening Reverie. W. C. BRYANT.

THE summer day has closed-the sun is set: Well have they done their office, those bright hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out In the red west. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown, And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil From bursting cells, and in their graves await

Their resurrection. Insects from the pools
Have filled the air awhile with humming wings,
That now are still forever; painted moths
Have wandered the blue sky, and died again;
The mother-bird hath broken for her brood
Their prison-shells, or shoved them from the nest,
Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves,
In woodland cottages with earthy walls,
In noisome cells of the tumultuous town,

Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe.
Graves, by the lonely forest, by the shore
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways

Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out,
And filled, and closed.

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This day hath parted friends,
That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit
New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight
Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long
Hath wooed; and it hath heard, from lips which late
Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word,
That told the wedded one her peace was flown.
Farewell to the sweet sunshine! one glad day
Is added now to childhood's merry days,
And one calm day to those of quiet age.
Still the fleet hours run on; and as I lean
Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit

By those who watch the dead, and those who twine
Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes
Of her sick infant shades the painful light,
And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath.
O thou great movement of the universe,
Or change, or flight of time, - for ye are one!
That bearest, silently, this visible scene
Into night's shadow, and the streaming rays
Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me?
I feel the mighty current sweep me on,

――

Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar
The courses of the stars; the very hour
He knows when they shall darken, or grow bright;
Yet doth the eclipse of sorrow and of death
Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love,
Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall
From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife
With friends, or shame, and general scorn of men—
Which, who can bear?—or the fierce rack of pain,
Lie they within my path? or shall the years
Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace,
Into the stilly twilight of my age?

Or do the portals of another life,

Even now, while I am glorying in my strength,
Impend around me? O, beyond that bourn,
In the vast cycle of being which begins

At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms
Shall the great law of change and progress clothe
Its workings? Gently so have good men taught –
Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide
Into the new; the eternal flow of things,
Like a bright river of the fields of heaven,
Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.

LESSON LV.

EXERCISES IN ARTICULATION.

Claim, buckl'd, buckles, buckl'dst, buckl'st, black'n, black'n'd, black'ns, black'n'dst, black'nst, cream, thinks, think'st, sixth, act, acts, act'st.

Patrick Henry. ALEXANDER H. Everett.

In his person, Henry was tall and thin, with a slight stoop of the shoulders. His complexion was dark, and his face

furrowed by deep lines of care and thought, which gave it a somewhat severe aspect. In his youth, he was rather inattentive to his dress; but in his later years, especially on public occasions, and while he occupied the executive chair, he paid, in this respect, a proper regard to the decorum required by his position in society. At the bar of the General Assembly, he always appeared in a full suit of black cloth, or velvet, with a tie-wig dressed and powdered in the highest style of forensic fashion; and in the winter season, he wore, over his other apparel, in accordance with the usage of the time, an ample scarlet cloak.

As he advanced in years, he also exchanged the rusticity of his youthful manners for a deportment distinguished by entire self-possession, and, on proper occasions, by an air of stateliness and elegance. He is represented, by those who have been present when he has entered the hall of the Assembly for the purpose of arguing some important case, as "saluting the house all round with a dignity, and even majesty, that would have done honor to the most polished courtier in Europe."

The leading traits in his intellectual and moral character are shown too clearly in his practical life to require an elaborate recapitulation. He possessed an instinctive sagacity, which supplied, to a great extent, the deficiencies of his education; a moral courage, which led him to spurn at all considerations of mere temporary expediency, when he was once satisfied where the right lay; and a naturally noble and generous heart. To these latter qualities he owed his extraordinary efficiency and success as a public speaker. Eloquence, no doubt, supposes, in general, the natural gift of an easy, copious, and flowing utterance; but this is not a rare endowment, and, when wholly or chiefly relied upon for effect, is apt to tire, rather than convince or delight an audience. It rises into eloquence only when it becomes the impression of powerful thought, and especially deep feeling. While the speaker only gratifies the ear with melodious

tones, and pleases the eye with graceful gestures, he is in some degree successful, but does not produce the highest possible effect. Nor does he reach the perfection of his art, when he merely succeeds in convincing the judgment by a train of sound or plausible reasoning. It is only when he acts upon the moral part of our nature, by stirring and successful appeals to the passions, that he kindles enthusiasm, and becomes for the moment a sort of divinity.

The power of producing such effects, of making such appeals with success, is itself, in a great measure, the result of a naturally keen sensibility, which is accordingly represented, by the greatest critic of antiquity, as the foundation of excellence in public speaking. But even this essential requisite is not sufficient; for the orator must not only move and melt, but, on proper occasions, alarm, terrify, and subjugate his hearers. In order to succeed in this, he must possess the moral courage, the undaunted self-possession, the overwhelming energy of character, which enable him to point the artillery of his eloquence at its object, under all circumstances, and without regard to personal consequences.

In the possession, in a much higher degree than others, of these transcendent moral qualifications for success in oratory, lay the secret of the supremacy of Henry over his distinguished contemporaries and rivals; some of whom, as, for instance, Richard Henry Lee, were much above him in literary accomplishments and external graces of manner. In this lay the peculiar charm, which by general acknowledgment hung upon his lips, as it does upon those of every truly eloquent speaker, and which the hearer can only feel, without being able to describe. Description, in fact, embraces only such particulars as meet the eye and ear; but the sympathy, which rouses and inflames the moral part of our nature, is a kind of magnetic impulse, that passes from the heart of the speaker to that of his audience, eluding observation, and only recognized in its overwhelming results.

The language which forms the medium for the transmis

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