Amet. And so do I; good! on- Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own; That such they were, than hope to hear again. Men. You term them rightly; For they were rivals, and their mistress harmony. Whom art had never taught cleffs, moods or notes, Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method Amet. Now for the bird! Men. The bird, ordain'd to be Music's first martyr, strove to imitate These several sounds: which, when her warbling throat Fail'd in, for grief, down dropp'd she on his lute, And brake her heart! It was the quaintest sadness, To see the conqueror upon her hearse To weep a funeral elegy of tears; That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide Amet. I believe thee. Men. He look'd upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd and cried, 66 Alas, poor creature! I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the author of it; Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow, As he was pashing it against a tree, Amet. Thou hast discoursed In truth, of mirth and pity. The intended execution with intreaties, And interruption. But, my princely friend, Did overmatch birds, when his voice and beauty Amet. But is this miracle Not to be seen? Men. I won him by degrees To choose me his companion. Whence he is, So gently he would woo not to make known; SUSPIRIA. By LONGFELLOW. TAKE them, O Death, and bear away Take them, O Grave! and let them lie Take them, O great Eternity! That bends the branches of thy tree, MOUNTAIN CHILDREN. By MARY HOWITT. DWELLERS by lake and hill, No crowd impedes your way, No city wall proscribes your further bounds; Where the wild flocks can wander ye may stray, The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. The sunshine and the flowers, And the old trees that cast a solemn shade; The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd; The grey and ancient peaks, Round which the silent clouds hang day and night, These are your joys. Go forth, Give your hearts up unto their mighty power, The voice of hidden rills Its quiet way into your spirits finds, Address you in their many tonéd winds. Ye sit upon the earth Twining its flowers, and shouting full of glee, And a pure, mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirits silently. Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverences, the patriot bands, Were of the hills like you, ye little ones! Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes, Then go forth: earth and sky To you are tributary; joys are spread GUDE NICHT, AND JOY BE WI' YE A'! By Lady NAIRN. THE best o' joys maun hae an end, Oh, we hae wander'd far and wide, O'er Scotia's lands o' frith and fell! Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'! My harp, farewell! thy strains are past, Nor parting tears are shed ava, Brilliants. WHERE HE WOULD HAVE HIS VERSES READ. In sober mornings do not thou rehearse But when that men have both well drunk and fed, When the rose reigns, and locks with ointment shine, HERRICK. CHARITY. The secret that does make a flower a flower No soil so sterile, and no living lot So poor, but it hath somewhat still to spare SYDNEY DOBELL. |