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arm, down, stand,

slaves, forward, liberty.
1. Come over, come over the river to me.
2. Hang out our banners on the outer walls.


Combining Form, Quality, Subdued, and Impassioned Force. Repeat each of the above sounds, words, and sentences with

1. Effusive Form, Pure Tone, Subdued Force. 2. Expulsive Form, Orotund, Impassioned Force. 3. Effusive Form, Aspirate, Subdued Force. 4. Explosive Form, Pure Tone, Impassioned Force. 5. Effusive Form, Oral Quality, Subdued Force. 6. Expulsive Form, Falsetto, Impassioned Force.

IMPASSIONED FORCE_WHEN USED. Impassioned, when combined with Pure Tone or Orotund, Effusive or Expulsive Form, is the degree of force appropriate for calling and commanding; with the Orotund, Expulsive and Explosive Forms, it is employed in the utterance of rousing and exciting appeals ; with the Aspirate, Pectoral, and Guttural, Expulsive and Explosive Forms, in the expression of fear, anger, threatening, scorn, defiance, revenge, etc.

Impassioned Force, Pure Tone or Orotund, Expulsive Form.

Tell's Address to the Alps.


Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,

And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again. O sacred forms, how proud you look!
How high you lift your heads into the sky!
How huge you are! how mighty, and how free!
Ye are things that tower, that shine, whose smile
Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty,
I'm with you once again! I call to you
With all my voice! I hold my hands to you,
To show they still are free. I rush to you
As though I could embrace you.


Impassioned Force, Pure Tone, Orotund, Aspirate and Pectoral Qualities, Expulsive and Explosive Forms.

The Polish Boy.


1. Whence came those shrieks, so wild and shrill,
That like an arrow cleave the air,
Causing the blood to creep and thrill
With such sharp cadence of despair?
Once more they come! as if a heart

Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,
And every string had voice apart

To utter its peculiar woe!

2. Whence came they? From yon temple, where
An altar raised for private prayer,

Now forms the warrior's marble bed,
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.
The dim funereal tapers threw
A holy luster o'er his brow,

And burnish with their rays of light
The mass of curls that gather bright
Above the haughty brow and eye
Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

3. What hand is that whose icy press

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,
But meets no answering caress-

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp?
It is the hand of her whose cry

Rang wildly late upon the air,
When the dead warrior met her eye,

Outstretched upon the altar there.

4. Now with white lips and broken moan

She sinks beside the altar stone;
But hark! the heavy tramp of feet
Is heard along the gloomy street.
Nearer and nearer yet they come,
With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
They leave the pavement. Flowers that spread
Their beauties by the path they tread,
Are crushed and broken. Crimson hands
Rend brutally their blooming bands.
Now whispered curses, low and deep,
Around the holy temple creep.
The gate is burst. A ruffian band
Rush in and savagely demand,
With brutal voice and oath profane,
The startled boy for exile's chain.

5. The mother sprang with gesture wild,

And to her bosom snatched the child;
Then with pale cheek and flashing eye,
Shouted with fearful energy-
“Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread
Too near the body of my

Nor touch the living boy-I stand
Between him and your lawless band !
No traitor he. But listen! I
Have cursed your master's tyranny.
I cheered my lord to join the band
Of those who swore to free our land,
Or fighting die; and when he pressed
Me for the last time to his breast,

I knew that soon his form would be
Low as it is, or Poland free.

He went and grappled with the foe,
Laid many a haughty Russian low;
But he is dead-the good-the brave--
And I, his wife, am worse-a slave!
Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,
With Russia's heaviest iron bands,

And drag me to Siberia's wild

To perish, if 'twill save my child!"

6. "Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,
Tearing the pale boy from her side;
And in his ruffian grasp he bore
His victim to the temple door.

7. "One moment!" shrieked the mother, Can land or gold redeem my son?


If so, I bend my Polish knee,
And, Russia, ask a boon of thee.

Take palaces, take lands, take all,


But leave him free from Russian thrall.
Take these," and her white arms and hands
She stripped of rings and diamond bands,
And tore from braids of long black hair
The gems that gleamed like star-light there;
Unclasped the brilliant coronal

And carcanet of Orient pearl;
Her cross of blazing rubies last

Down to the Russian's feet she cast.

8. He stooped to seize the glittering store;
Upspringing from the marble floor,
The mother with a cry of joy

Snatched to her leaping heart the boy!
But no- -the Russian's iron


Again undid the mother's clasp.

Forward she fell, with one long cry

Of more than mother's agony.

9. But the brave child is roused at length,

And breaking from the Russian's hold,
He stands, a giant in the strength

Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.

10. Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,

So blue and fiercely bright,
Seems lighted from the eternal sky,

So brilliant is its light.
His curling lips and crimson cheeks
Foretell the thought before he speaks.
With a full voice of proud command
He turns upon the wondering band.


11. “ Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can;

This hour has made the boy a man.
The world shall witness that one soul
Fears not to prove itself a Pole.


12. “I knelt beside my slaughtered sire,

Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire;
I wept upon his marble brow-
Yes, wept-I was a child; but now
My noble mother on her knee,
Has done the work of years for me.
Although in this small tenement
My soul is cramped-unbowed, unbent,
I've still within me ample power
To free myself this very hour.
This dagger in my heart! and then,
Where is your boasted power, base men?”
He drew aside his broidered vest,
And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,
The jeweled haft of a poniard bright,
Glittered a moment on the sight.
“Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward ! knave!
Think ye my noble father's glave
Could drink the life-blood of a slave?
The pearls that on the handle flame
Would blush to rubies in their shame;

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