my lord Bassanio a ring, and I am sure he would. not part with it for all the world." Gratiano, in excuse for his fault, now said, "My lord Bassanio gave his ring away to the counsellor, and then the boy, his clerk, that took some pains in writing, begged my ring."

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bassanio for giving away her ring. She said that Nerissa had taught her what to believe, and that she knew some woman had the ring. Bassanio was very unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and he said with great earnestness, "No, by my honor, no woman had it, but a civil doctor, who refused three thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring, and when I denied him, he went away displeased. What could I do, sweet Portia? I was so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I was forced to send the ring after him. Pardon me, good lady; had you been there, I think you would have begged the ring of me to give the worthy doctor."

"Ah!" said Antonio, "I am the unhappy cause of these quarrels."

Portia bid Antonio not to grieve at that, for he was welcome notwithstanding; and Antonio said, "I once did lend my body for Bassanio's sake; and but for him to whom your husband gave the ring, I should have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul upon the forfeit, your lord

will never more break his faith with you." "Then you shall be his surety," said Portia; "give him this ring, and bid him keep it better than the other."

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely surprised to find it the same that he gave away. Then Portia told him how she was the young counsellor, and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found, to his unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was by the noble courage and wisdom of his wife that Antonio's life was saved.

And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him letters which by some chance had fallen into her hands. These contained an account of Antonio's ships, that were supposed lost, but which had safely arrived in the harbor. So these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's story were all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which ensued; and there was leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the rings, and the husbands who did not know their own wives.

u'su rer, a money lender who demands | es'tim a ble, worthy of regard.

more interest than is right.

a massed', collected, heaped up. duc'at, a coin either of gold or silver, common to several countries of Europe. The gold ducat is worth about two dollars.

u'sance, interest money.

ar'du ous, difficult.

tem'po ral, belonging to this world.
res ig na'tion, quiet submission.
con'fis ca ted, seized for public use.
sa gac'i ty, keen wisdom,
ex pe'di ent, means to accomplish a
purpose.

gab er dine', a coarse, loose upper scru'ple, a weight of the twenty-fourth

garment.

part of an ounce.

doit, a trifle; any small piece of money. af front'ed, offended.

no'ta ry, a public officer.

scrub'bed, dwarfed.

THE RISING IN 1776

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ

OUT of the North the wild news came,
Far flashing on its wings of flame,
Swift as the boreal light which flies
At midnight through the startled skies.

And there was tumult in the air,

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And through the wide land everywhere The answering tread of hurrying feet; While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington; And Concord roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swelled the discord of the hour.

Within its shade of elm and oak

The church of Berkeley Manor stood; There Sunday found the rural folk,

And some esteemed of gentle blood. In vain their feet with loitering tread Passed 'mid the graves where rank is naught; All could not read the lesson taught

In that republic of the dead.

How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,

The vale with peace and sunshine full Where all the happy people walk,

Decked in their homespun flax and wool!

Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom; And every maid, with simple art,

Wears on her breast, like her own heart,

A bud whose depths are all perfume;
While every garment's gentle stir
Is breathing rose and lavender.

The pastor came; his snowy locks
Hallowed his brow of thought and care;
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,
He led into the house of prayer.

Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong;
The psalm was warrior David's song;
The text, a few short words of might, -
"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"

He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for Freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake
Compelled the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on his theme's broad wing,
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand,
In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant king.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
In eloquence of attitude,

Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;
Then swept his kindling glance of fire
From startled pew to breathless choir;

When suddenly his mantle wide
His hands impatient flung aside,
And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.

A moment there was awful pause, When Berkeley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease! God's temple is the house of peace!" The other shouted, "Nay, not so, When God is with our righteous cause; His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers, That frown upon the tyrant foe; In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, There is a time to fight and pray!"

And now before the open door ·

The warrior priest had ordered so
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er
Its long reverberating blow,

So loud and clear it seemed the ear
Of dusty death must wake and hear.
And there the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life;
While overhead, with wild increase,
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,

The great bell swung as ne'er before:
It seemed as it would never cease;

And every word its ardor flung
From off its jubilant iron tongue

Was, "WAR! WAR! WAR!"