DESCRIPTIVE PIECES

The selections listed under this heading are rather descriptive than oratorical. Students of a certain type prefer this style and do better with them than with an excerpt from some speech or formal address.

The selections following are old prize winners, and several of them have a long string of gold medals to their credit.

Most declamation contests have no regulation regarding the style of selection to be used, and if a student prefers this type there is no reason why he should not use it.

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES

THE BENEDICTION

BY

FRANÇOIS COPPÉE

Translation of a poem by the eminent French Litterateur and Academician. It is very popular in France and this translation has been often used with success in this country.

It was in eighteen hundred-yes-and nine,
That we took Saragossa. What a day
Of untold horrors! I was sergeant then.
The city carried, we laid siege to houses,
All shut up close, and with a treacherous look,
Raining down shots upon us from the windows.
""Tis the priests' doing!" was the word passed round;
So, that, although since daybreak under arms—
Our eyes with powder smarting, and our mouths
Bitter with kissing cartridge-ends-piff! paff!
Rattled the musketry with ready aim,

If shovel hat and long black coat were seen
Flying in the distance. Up a narrow street
My company worked on. I kept an eye
On every house-top, right and left, and saw
From many a roof flames suddenly burst forth,
Coloring the sky, as from the chimney-tops

Among the forges. Low our fellows stooped,
Entering the low-pitched dens. When they came out,

With bayonets dripping red, their bloody fingers
Signed crosses on the wall; for we were bound,
In such a dangerous defile, not to leave

Foes lurking in our rear. There was no drum-beat,
No ordered march. Our officers looked grave;
The rank and file uneasy jogging elbows

As do recruits when flinching.

All at once,

Rounding a corner, we are hailed in French
With cries for help. At double-quick we join
Our hard-pressed comrades. They are grenadiers
A gallant company, but beaten back

Inglorious from the raised and flag-paved square,
Fronting a convent. Twenty stalwart monks
Defended it, black demons with shaved crowns,
The cross in white embroidered on their frocks,
Barefoot, their sleeves tucked up, their only weapons
Enormous crucifixes, so well brandished

Our men went down before them. By platoons
Firing we swept the place; in fact, we slaughtered
This terrible group of heroes, no more soul

Being in us than in executioners.

The foul deed done deliberately done-
And the thick smoke rolling away, we noted
Under the huddled masses of the dead,
Rivulets of blood run trickling down the steps;
While in the background solemnly the church
Loomed up, its doors wide open. We went in.
It was a desert. Lighted tapers starred

The inner gloom with points of gold. The incense
Gave out its perfume. At the upper end,

Turned to the altar, as though unconcerned
In the fierce battle that had raged, a priest,
White-haired and tall of stature, to a close
Was bringing tranquilly the mass. So stamped
Upon my memory is that thrilling scene,
That, as I speak, it comes before me now-
The convent built in old time by the Moors;
The huge brown corpses of the monks; the sun
Making the red blood on the pavements steam;
And there, framed in by the low porch, the priest;
And there the altar brilliant as a shrine;

And here ourselves, all halting, hesitating,

Almost afraid.

I, certes, in those days

Was a confirmed blasphemer. 'Tis on record
That once, by way of sacrilegious joke,

A chapel being sacked, I lit my pipe

At a wax candle burning on the altar.
This time, however, I was awed-so blanched
Was that old man!

"Shoot him!" our captain cried. Not a soul budged. The priest beyond all doubt Heard; but, as though he heard not, turning round, He faced us with the elevated Host,

Having that period of the service reached

When on the faithful benediction falls.

His lifted arms seemed as the spread of wings;

And as he raised the pyx, and in the air

With it described the cross, each man of us

Fell back, aware the priest no more was trembling Than if before him the devout were ranged.

But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice,