And thy dark sin! O! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My erring Absalom!"

PATHOS.

28.

[From "The Dying Boy.” — Mrs. Sigourney.]
It must be sweet in childhood, to give back
The spirit to its Maker; ere the heart
Has grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And sown, to garner up its bitter fruits.

I knew a boy whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,

And when the eighth came round, and called him out
To revel in its light, he turned away,

And sought his chamber, to lie down and die.

'Twas night; he summoned his accustomed friends,

And on this wise bestowed his last bequest:

"Mother, I'm dying now!

There's a deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed:
And on my brow,

I feel the cold sweat stand;

My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly on. O! tell me, is this death?"

SERIOUSNESS, SOLEMNITY, TRANQUILLITY.

29.

[From "The Mountains of Life." -J. G. Clark.]

There's a land far away, 'mid the stars, we are told,
Where they know not the sorrows of time,

Where the pure waters wander through valleys of gold,
And life is a treasure sublime;

'Tis the land of our God, 'tis the home of the soul,
Where the ages of splendor eternally roll,—
Where the way-weary traveler reaches his goal,
On the evergreen Mountains of Life.

Our gaze cannot soar to that beautiful land,
But our visions have told of its bliss;

And our souls by the gale from its gardens are fanned,
When we faint in the desert of this;

And we sometimes have longed for its holy repose,
When our spirits were torn with temptations and woes,
And we've drank from the tide of the river that flows,
From the evergreen Mountains of Life.

Oh! the stars never tread the blue heavens at night,
But we think where the ransomed have trod;
And the day never smiles from his palace of light,

But we feel the bright smile of our God.

We are traveling homeward, through changes and gloom, To a kingdom where pleasures unceasingly bloom,

And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb, From the evergreen Mountains of Life.

REVERENCE AND AWE.

30.

[From "God's First Temples.” — Bryant.]
My heart is awed within me when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round me - the perpetual work
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
Forever. Written on thy works I read

The lesson of thy own eternity.

Lo! all grow old and die—but see again
How on the faltering footsteps of decay

Youth presses

ever gay and beautiful youth, In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Molder beneath them.

Oh, there is not lost

One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
After the flight of untold centuries,

The freshness of her far beginning lies,

And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch enemy Death - yea, seats himself
Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe

Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

MELANCHOLY.

[From "Hamlet's Soliloquy."

Shakespeare.]

Subdued and Moderate Force.

31.

To be, or not to be? That is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them? To die; to sleep;
No more: and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to; 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die; to sleep;

To sleep! perchance to dream!-ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'ed love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,-
That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns, ―puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

97. MODERATE FORCE. LAW OF USE.

Moderate Force is employed in the expression of narrative, descriptive and didactic thought, and may be used to express the milder forms of sublimity, solemnity, grandeur and devotion.

98. Examples: NARRATION.

32.

[From "Cromwell's Expulsion of the Parliament." - Lingard.]

At this eventful moment, big with the most important consequences to himself and his country, whatever were the workings of Cromwell's mind, he had the art to conceal them from the eyes of the beholders. Leaving the military in the lobby, he entered the Parliament House and composedly seated himself on one of the outer benches. His dress was a plain suit of black cloth, with gray worsted stockings. For a while he seemed to listen with interest to the debate, but when the Speaker was going to put the question, he whispered to Harrison, "This is the time; I must do it ;" and rising, put off his hat to address the House.

At first his language was decorous, and even laudatory. Gradually he became more warm and animated. At last he assumed all the vehemence of passion, and indulged in personal vituperation. He charged the members with selfseeking and profaneness, with the frequent denial of justice and numerous acts of oppression; with idolizing the lawyers, the constant advocates of tyranny; with neglecting the men who had bled for them in the field, that they might gain the Presbyterians, who had apostatized from the cause; and with doing all this in order to perpetuate their own power, and to replenish their own purses. But their time was come; the Lord had disowned them; he had chosen more worthy instruments to perform his work.

Here the orator was interrupted by Sir Peter Wentworth, who declared that he had never heard language so unparliamentary language, too, the more offensive because it