6. FLOWERS.

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As astrologers and seers of èld;

Yet not so wrapped about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and mánifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us |
Stands the revelation of His love.

Bright and glorious | is that revelation
Writ all over this great world of ours;
Making evident our own creation |

In these stars of éarth-these golden flowers.

And the Poet, faithful and far-séeing,

Sees, alike in stárs and flowers, a part |

Of the self-same, universal being,

Which is throbbing | in his bráin and hèart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining;
Blossoms | flaunting in the eye of dày;
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining;
Buds that open | only to decày!

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gayly in the golden light;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues;
Tender wishes | blossoming at night!

These in flowers and men | are more than séeming; Workings are they | of the self-same powers,

Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself, and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us | are they glòwing—
Some like stárs, to tell us Spring is born;
Óthers, their blue eyes | with tèars o'erflówing,
Stand like Ruth | amid the golden còrn;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,

And in Summer's | green emblazoned field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the center of his brazen shield;

Not alone in meadows | and green álleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink |
Of sequestered pools | in woodland válleys,
Where the slaves of nature | stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glóry,

Not on graves of bird and beast alone,
But on old cathedrals | high and hòary,
On the tomb of hèroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past | unto the Présent,

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all sèasons,

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings
Teaching us, by most persuasive réasons,
How akin they are | to human things.

And with child-like, credulous affection,
We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurréction,
Emblems of the bright and better land.
|

LONGFELLOW

7.

THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN.

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:
They have their éxits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His ácts being seven àges. At first, the Infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

And then, the whining School-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning fáce, creeping like snàil
Unwillingly to school. And then, the Lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a Soldier,
Full of strange daths, and bearded like the pàrd,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the Justice,
With eyes sevère, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered Pantaldon,
With spectacles on nóse, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sáved, a world too wide.
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish tréble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of áll,
That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans táste, sans èverything.

SHAKESPEARE

8. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral nòte,
As his corse to the rampart | we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shòt
O'er the grave | where our hero | we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling mòonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern | dimly burning.

No useless coffin | inclosed his breast,

Not in sheet | nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay | like a warrior taking his rèst |

With his martial cloak around him.

Féw and short | were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the mòrrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow béd,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger | would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes | upbráid him,—

But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on |
In the grave where a Brìton | has laid him.

But half of our heavy task | was done |

When the clock | struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gún | That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly | we laid him down,

From the field of his fame | fresh and góry; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But left him alone with his giory.

CHAPTER II.

FORCE AND STRESS.

SECTION I.

FORCE OF VOICE.

1. Force of utterance relates to the degree of loudness or intensity of voice.

2. The three main divisions of force are soft, moderate, and loud. These, for convenience, may be subdivided as follows: (1) Very soft (corresponding to pianissimo in music). (2) Soft (piano). (3) Moderate (mezzo-forte). (4) Loud (forte). (5) Very loud (fortissimo).

3. The general rule of force is, to read with an intensity appropriate to the thoughts or emotion to be expressed, and with a power or strength of voice sufficient to fill the room, so that every person in it may hear distinctly every word that is uttered.

4. Force of voice must be stronger in the schoolroom than in the parlor, and louder in the lecture-hall than in the school-room. If read to an assemblage of a thousand people, the most didactic and unimpassioned document must be read with considerable force.

5. Pupils should be cautioned against attempting any degree of force beyond the compass of their voices, and also against the conventional school-tone of loudness, which consists in raising the voice to so high a pitch that it grates on the ear like the filing of a saw.

6. "The command of all degrees of force of voice," says Prof. Russell, "must evidently be essential to true