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And down the coast, all taking up the burden,
Replied the distant forts,

As if to summons from his sleep the Warden
And Lord of the Cinque Ports.

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,
No drum-beat from the wall,

No morning gun from the black fort's embrazure,
Awaken with its call!

No more surveying with an eye impartial
The long line of the coast,

Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal
Be seen upon his post!

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,
In sombre harness mailed,

Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer,
The rampart wall had scaled.

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
The dark and silent room,

And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper,
The silence and the gloom.

He did not pause to parley or dissemble,

But smote the Warden hoar:

Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble
And groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o'erhead;

Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead.

Ex. 139.

The Cumberland.

Longfellow.

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,

On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war;
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,

Or a bugle blast

From the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the south uprose

A little feather of snow-white smoke,

And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course

To try the force

Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs,

Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,

With fiery breath,

From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail

From each iron scale

Of the monster's hide.

Strike your flag' the rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain.
'Never!' our gallant Morris replies;
'It is better to sink than to yield!'
And the whole air pealed

With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black,

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp !
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,

And the cannon's breath

For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,

Still floated our flag at the mainmast head.
Lord, how beautiful was thy day!

Every waft of the air

Was a whisper of prayer,

Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream,
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,

Thy flag, that is rent in twain,

Shall be one again

And without a seam!

Ex. 140.

Barbara Frietchie.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Longfellow.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde;
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,-
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind : the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten :
Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down :
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
'Halt!'-the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
'Fire!' out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

;

Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,
But spare your country's flag,' she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word:
'Who touches a hair of yon grey head
Dies like a dog! March on !' he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet :
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well :
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honour to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave
Flag of Freedom and Union wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

Whittier.

Ex. 141.

Slain at Sadowa.

The cannon were belching their last

O'er the fields where the routed were flying,
And shouting pursuers strode fast

Through the heaps of the dead and the dying.

War's rage was beginning to wane ;

The fierce cared no longer to strike ;
And the good stooped to soften the pain
Of victors and vanquished alike.

A yellow-haired Austrian lad

Lay at length on a shot-furrowed bank;
He was comely and daintily clad

In the glittering dress of his rank.

Not so white, though, his coat as his cheek,
Nor so red the sash, crossing his chest,
As the horrible crimson streak

Of blood that had welled from his breast?

His foes approached where he was laid,
To bear him in reach of their skill;
But he murmured, 'Give others your aid;
By our Fatherland! let me lie still.'

At dawn they came searching again,
To winnow the quick from the dead;
The boy was set free from his pain,

And his faithful young spirit had fled.

As they lifted his limbs from the ground,
To hide them away out of sight,

Lo! under his bosom they found

The flag he had borne through the fight.

He had folded the silk he loved well,
Lest a thread should be seen at his side:
To wave it in triumph he fell;

To save it from capture he died.
The head of the sternest was bared
As they gazed on the shot-riven rag,
And the hand of the hardiest spared
To make prey of that Austrian flag.
O'er the tomb of their brother they bowed,
With a prayer for a spirit as brave;
And they gave him the flag for a shroud
In his narrow and nameless grave.

Jackson.

MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS FOR RECITATION.

Ex. 142.

Suggestions to Young Speakers.

To paint the passions' force, and mark it well,
The proper action nature's self will tell :
No pleasing powers distortions e'er express,
And nicer judgment always loathes excess.
In sock or buskin, who o'erleaps the bounds,
Disgusts our reason, and the taste confounds.

The word and action should conjointly suit,
But acting words is labour too minute.
Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong;
While sober humour marks the impression strong.
But let the generous actor still forbear

To copy features with a mimic's care!
'Tis a poor skill, which every fool can reach,
A vile stage custom, honoured in the breach.
When I behold a wretch, of talents mean,
Drag private foibles on the public scene,
Forsaking nature's fair and open road,

To mark some whim, some strange peculiar mode;
Fired with disgust, I loathe his servile plan,
Despise the mimic, and abhor the man.

Go to the lame, to hospitals repair,

And hunt for humour in distortions there!
Fill up the measure of the motley whim

With shrug, wink, snuffle, and convulsive limb ;
Then shame at once, to please a trifling age,
Good sense, good manners, and the stage!

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