4. And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,

Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,

I tell thee, thou'rt defied!

And, if thou said'st I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!

"Marmion and Douglas."

COMPOUND

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

1. Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!
It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard;
Be well advised, tell o'er thy tale again.
It cannot be; thou dost but say 't is so.

2. "Arm, warriors, arm for fight; the foe at hand, Whom fled we thought, will save us long pursuit this day."

THOROUGH

1. Ho! sound the tocsin from the tower,

And fire the culverin!

Bid each retainer arm with speed,-
Call every vassal in!

"The Baron's Last Banquet."

A. G. GREENE.

2. I conjure you, by that which you profess
(Howe'er you come to know it), answer me.
Tho you untie the winds, and let them fight
Against the churches; tho the yeasty waves
Confound and swallow navigation up;

Tho bladed corn be lodged, and trees blown down;
Tho castles topple on their warders' heads;

Tho palaces, and pyramids, do slope

Their heads to their foundations; tho the treasure
Of nature's germins tumble all together,

Even till destruction sicken,-answer me
To what I ask you.

"Macbeth."

SHAKESPEARE.

3. And now the martyr is moving in triumphal march, mightier than when alive.

INTERMITTENT

BEECHER.

1. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store. "The Beggar." THOMAS Moss.

2. I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness.
I never gave you kingdom, called you children.
You owe me no subscription. Why, then, let fall
Your horrible pleasure? Here I stand, your slave,—
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.

To many

3. We buried the old year in silence and sadness. it brought misfortune and affliction. The wife hath given her husband and the husband his wife at its stern behest; the father hath consigned to its cold arms the son in whom his life centered, and the mother hath torn from her bosom her tender babe and buried it in her heart in the cold, cold ground.

EDWARD BROOKS.

4. Save me, O God, for the waters are come in unto my soul. I sink in deep mire where there is no standing: I am come into deep water where the floods overflow me. I am weary of my crying; my throat is dried; mine eyes fail while I wait for my God.

RHYTHM

In the reading of both prose and poetry, there is a rhythmic movement that is physiological in its basis. The succession of heavy and light sounds, or accented and unaccented syllables, is in keeping with the action and reaction found in the larynx itself, where an alternate tension and relaxation of the vocal chords takes place. This marking of time is as natural as the beating of the pulse and is essential to musical utterance. Professor Raymond, in "Poetry as a Representative Art," says: "With exceptions, the fewness of which confirms the rule, all of our English words of more than one syllable must necessarily be accented in one way; and all of our articles, prepositions, and conjunctions of one syllable are unaccented, unless the sense very plainly demands a different treatment. These two facts enable us to arrange any number of our words so that accents shall fall on syllables separated by like intervals. The tendency to compare things, and to put like with like, which is in constant operation where there are artistic possibilities, leads men to take satisfaction in this kind of an arrangement; and when they have made it, they have produced rhythm."

1. In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay,
His hammock swung loose to the sport of the wind:
But watch-worn and weary his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

"The Sailor Boy's Dream."

DIMOND.

2. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And so all the night-tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulcher there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

"Annabel Lee."

3. A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,

POE.

And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

"Paul Revere's Ride."

LONGFELLOW.

4. When the mists have rolled in splendor
From the beauty of the hills,

And the sunshine, warm and tender,
Falls in kisses on the rills,
We may read Love's shining letter
In the rainbow of the spray;

We shall know each other better

When the mists have rolled away.
We shall know as we are known,
Never more to walk alone,
In the dawning of the morning,

When the mists have rolled away.

5. Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the wicked, Nor standeth in the way of sinners,

Nor sitteth in the seat of scoffers:

But his delight is in the law of Jehovah;

And on his law doth he meditate day and night.

And he shall be like a tree planted by the streams of water,
That bringeth forth its fruit in its season,

Whose leaf also doth not wither;

And whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

The wicked are not so,

But are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.
Therefore the wicked shall not stand in the judgment,
Nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.
For Jehovah knoweth the way of the righteous;
But the way of the wicked shall perish.
"First Psalm."

6. When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

THE BIBLE.

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girdled up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;
Then of thy beauty do I question make,

That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,
And die as fast as they see others grow;

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defense
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.