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While spouting whales projected watery columns
That turned to arches, at their height, and seemed
The skeletons of crystal palaces,

Built on the blue expanse; then perishing,
Frail as the element which they were made of:
Dolphins, in gambols, lent the lucid brine
Hues richer than the canopy of eve,

That overhung the scene with gorgeous clouds,
Decaying into gloom more beautiful

Than the sun's golden liveries which they lost;—
Till light that hides, and darkness that reveals,
The stars, exchanging guard, like sentinels
Of day and night,-transformed the face of nature.
Above, was wakefulness,-silence, around,—
Beneath, repose,-repose that reached even me.
Power, will, sensation, memory, failed in turn:
My very essence seemed to pass away,
Like a thin cloud that melts across the moon,
Lost in the blue immensity of heaven.

EXERCISE III.—THE WEST.-Anonymous.

[The prevailing style of this piece, is that of animated description, and lively sentiment, as in elevated and earnest conversation. The chief fault to be avoided, is that of a dull and lifeless tone.]

It seems almost fabulous, when we think what a tide of emigration has flowed towards the west, during the present generation. Like the Roman power, which rolled over every shore, and inundated the world, this mighty current of human population, has penetrated the west, and rendered delightful many a nook and valley in that wilderness, which seems almost, like space itself, to swallow up all, as an ocean wave engulfs the melting snow-flake.

Where is the west? Hardly one fourth of a century since, and the North river divided it from those parts considered civilized. The valley of the Genesee next inherited the name. Then the weary emigrant journeyed onward, to find it on the southern banks of Lake Erie. Afterward, the wide-spread valley of the Mississippi was the scene amid which the weary wing of the eagle rested, as he retreated at the onward march of the 'pale faces,' startled by the din of engines and artillery, to find rest and silence in the mighty 'West.'

And now, the roving hunter, disturbed in his pursuits there, shoulders his rifle, or gathers up his traps, for a far

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off trail; and after his moccasins have been worn thin, and his feet pained by the distance of the way, yet, as he asks the timid inmate of the last white man's cabin, where lies the West,' he will thence be guided onward; and onward still the remote Pawnee and Mandan will beckon, whither the deer are flying and the wild horse roams, where the buffalo ranges, and the condor soars, far towards the waves where the stars plunge at midnight, and amid which bloom those ideal scenes for the persecuted savage, where white men will murder no more for gold, nor startle the game upon the sunshine hills.

Sublime, indeed, is the contemplation of a territory thus boundless, whose mighty forests bore, for many hundred leagues from the Atlantic, the uncouth blazings' of the red man's 'trail;' and in comparison with which, even on this day, our cultivated fields along the eastern sea-bord, seem merely as a golden fringe, bordering a mantle of unfading green.

But a thought more practically important here intrudes, cencerning the destiny of these dark domains. Bryant, in view of such a scene, has written:

"Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines,

That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground
Was never touched by spade, and flowers spring up,
Unsown, and die ungathered.

In these peaceful shades,

Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old,→
My thoughts go up the long, dim path of years,
Back to the earliest days of liberty."

Where crosses have been found on the remains of men, in graves over which tall oaks have waved for centuries,where splendid ruins, in the South, and mounds, in the North, alike proclaim that the New World is not new,-where even tradition is silent concerning the rise, destiny and fall of empires which have evidently risen, and perished, in ages far remote, has a republic been founded. But, unlike the colonies of Greece and Rome, which were protected and cherished by their parent land, this confederation,-to employ the sentiments of Col. Barre,--was planted by British tyranny, suffered most from her persecutions, and flourished best during her neglect. Nevertheless, she has advanced, and now ranks among the first nations of the earth.

The secret of this prosperity is revealed by the fact, that,— superadded to a physical culture similar to that of early

education in Persia and in Rome,-the Pilgrims of New England were a Christian band. Like the patriarchs of old, they wandered far from the homes of their fathers; and as with them, too, the God of Abraham still continued in the midst. His altar was erected on the rocks of Plymouth; and this land was dedicated a temple of his praise. In return, his protecting power was displayed, in the defence he furnished against Indian tribes,-extended onward through our revolutionary scenes,-enabling our nation, like Hercules in his cradle, to escape the serpentine coils of France, as well as Britain,—and evident in all our unparalleled success. And now, far removed from the intrigues of Europe, and fearless in our strength, what nation, in true greatness, can be compared with this?

Let us be united! Even the geographical features and arrangement of our country, (unlike the peninsular sequestrations of Spain, Italy and Greece, the prison cliffs of Switzerland, or the severed soil of Britain,) proclaim that it was intended for a united people, one national brotherhood, for whose enjoyment the earth teems with productions for every necessity and convenience, while facilities are presented that are unsurpassed, for safe, speedy, internal transportation. Let us, then, forever remain united, even though our settlements reflect the sunbeams from the shores of the Pacific, and our population be such that millions of soldiery could be spared to march for our defence! Above all, let us, like our fathers, be renowned for virtue; for thus, and thus only, can we realize the prediction uttered by the bard, in view of the prospective greatness of America:

"Thy reign is the last, and noblest of time."

EXERCISE IV.-RECONCILIATION BETWEEN GREAT BRITAIN AND THE UNITED STATES.- -Chatham.

[As an exercise in declamation, this piece requires an energetic and spirited tone, free from mouthing, chanting, and drawling.]

From the ancient connexion between Great Britain and her colonies, both parties derived the most important advantages. While the shield of our protection was extended over America, she was the fountain of our wealth, the nerve of our strength, the basis of our power.

It is not, my lords, a wild and lawless banditti whom we oppose the resistance of America is the struggle of free and virtuous patriots. Let us, then, seize, with eagerness,

the present moment of reconciliation. America has not yet finally given herself up to France: there yet remains a possibility of escape from the fatal effect of our delusions.

In this complicated crisis of danger, weakness, and calamity, terrified and insulted by the neighbouring powers, unable to act in America, or acting only to be destroyed, where is the man who will venture to flatter us with the hope of success from perseverance in measures productive of these dire effects? Who has the effrontery to attempt it? Where is that man? Let him, if he dare, stand forward and show his face.

You cannot conciliate America by your present measures: you cannot subdue her by your present, or any measures. What then can you do? You cannot conquer, you cannot gain; but you can practise address; you can lull the fears and anxieties of the moment into ignorance of the danger that should produce them.

I did hope, that instead of false and empty pride, engendering high conceits, and presumptuous imaginations, ministers would have humbled themselves in their errors, would have confessed and retracted them, and, by an active, though a late repentance, have endeavoured to redeem them. But, my lords, since they have neither sagacity to foresee, nor justice nor humanity to shun, those calamities;-since not even bitter experience can make them feel, nor the imminent ruin of their country awake them from their stupefaction, the guardian care of parliament must interpose.

I shall therefore, my lords, propose to you an amendment to the address to his majesty. To recominend an immediate cessation of hostilities, and the commencement of a treaty to restore peace and liberty to America, strength and happiness to England, security and permanent prosperity to both countries. This, my lords, is yet in our power; and let not the wisdom and justice of your lordships neglect the happy, and, perhaps, the only opportunity.

EXERCISE V.-BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT.-Webster.

From the address delivered at the completion of the Bunker-Hill Monument, June 17, 1843.

[The elocution of this piece is characterized by manly, energetic, and noble expression. The student must guard against a thin, high-pitched, feeble tone, as utterly inappropriate, in declaiming an extract such as this. The neglect of vocal and corporeal exercise, renders such utterance too prevalent.]

A duty has been performed. A work of gratitude and

patriotism is completed. This structure, having its foundations in soil which drank deep of early revolutionary blood, has at length reached its destined height, and now lifts its summit to the skies.

The Bunker-Hill monument is finished. Here it stands. Fortunate in the natural eminence on which it is placed,— higher, infinitely higher, in its objects and purpose, it rises. over the land, and over the sea; and visible, at their homes, to three hundred thousand citizens of Massachusetts,-it stands, a memorial of the last, and a monitor to the present, and all succeeding generations. I have spoken of the loftiness of its purpose. If it had been without any other design than the creation of a work of art, the granite, of which it is composed, would have slept in its native bed. It has a purpose; and that purpose gives it character. That purpose enrobes it with dignity and moral grandeur. That well known purpose it is, which causes us to look up to it with a feeling of awe. It is itself the orator of this occasion. It is not from my lips, it is not from any human lips, that that strain of eloquence is this day to flow, most competent to move and excite the vast multitudes around. The potent speaker stands motionless before them. It is a plain shaft. It bears no inscriptions, fronting to the rising sun, from which the future antiquarian shall wipe the dust. Nor does the rising sun cause tones of music to issue from its summit. But at the rising of the sun, and at the setting of the sun, in the blaze of noon-day, and beneath the milder effulgence of lunar light, it looks, it speaks, it acts, to the full comprehension of every American mind, and the awakening of glowing enthusiasm in every American heart. Its silent, but awful utterance; its deep pathos, as it brings to our contemplation the 17th of June, 1775, and the consequences which have resulted to us, to our country, and to the world, from the events of that day, and which we know must continue to rain influence on the destinies of mankind, to the end of time; the elevation with which it raises us high above the ordinary feelings of life; surpass all that the study of the closet, or even the inspiration of genius can produce. Today, it speaks to us. Its future auditories will be through successive generations of men, as they rise up before it, and gather round it. Its speech will be of patriotism and courage; of civil and religious liberty; of free government; of the moral improvement and elevation of mankind; and of the immortal memory of those who, with heroic devotion, have sacrificed their lives for their country.

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