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Lost! LOST! I know-forever lost!
To me-no ray of hope-can come:
My fate-is sealed; my doom is

But give me-rum; I will have rum.
But, (Doctor,) don't you see him—there?
In that dark corner-low he sits;
See! how he sports-his fiery tongue,—

And at me-burning brimstone spits!

Say, don't you see-this demon face?

Does no one-hear? will no one-come?
Oh! save me! SAVE me! I will give-
But rum!-I must have,-will have―rum.
Ah! now-he's gone! once more-I'm free!
He-(the boasting knave-and liar)—
He said-th't he would take me off-

Down-to

But there my head 's on fire!
FIRE! water! HELP! come,-haste! I'll die!
COME-take me from this burning bed!
The SMOKE! I'm choking! can not cry!

There! now it's catching—at my head!
But see! again—that demon's come!

Look! there-he peeps through yonder crack!
Mark-how his burning eyeballs flash!

How fierce he grins! what-brought him back?
There, stands his burning coach of fire!
He smiles, and beckons me-to come!
What are those words-he's written there?
"In hell we never want-for rum!"
One loud—one piercing shriek—was heard;
One yell-rang out-upon the air;
One sound, and one-alone-came forth,—
The victim's cry-of wild despair.
Why longer wait? I'm ripe for hell!
A spirit's sent—to bear me down;
There, in the regions-of the lost,
I sure-will wear-a fiery crown!
Damn'd—(I know,) without a hope!

One moment-more-and then-I'll come!
And there—I'll quench—my awful thirst—
With boiling! burning! fiery RUM!

SOLILOQUY OF THE DYING ALCHEMIST. N. P. WILL18.

The night wind-(with a desolate moan)-swept by;
And the old shutters-of the turret swung
Creaking-upon their hinges; and the moon,
(As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,)
Struggled aslant—the stained and broken panes
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death
Scarcely was conscious-when it went-and came.

The fire-beneath his crucible-was low:
Yet still-it burned; and ever, (as his thoughts
Grew insupportable,) he raised himself—
Upon his wasted arm and stirred the coals-
With difficult energy, and when the rod
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye-
Felt-faint within its socket, he shrunk back
Upon his pallet, and—(with unclosed lips)
Muttered a curse-on death!

The silent room,

(From its dim corners) mockingly gave back
His rattling breath; the humming—in the fire—
Had the distinctness—of a knell; and when-
Duly-the antique horologe-beat one

He drew a vial-(from beneath his head)
And drank. And instantly-his lips compressed,
And (with a shudder-in his skeleton frame)
He rose-with supernatural strength, and sat
Upright, and communed—with himself :—
I did not think to die-

Till I had finished-what I had to do;

I thought-to pierce th' eternal secret through—
With this-my mortal eye;

I felt O God! it seemeth-even now

This can not be the death-dew-on my brow!

And yet it is; I feel

(Of this dull sickness-at my heart) afraid;
And in my eyes—the death-sparks-flash-and fade;
And something-seems to steal

Over my bosom-like a frozen hand,-
Binding its pulses-with an icy band.

And this-is death! But why-
Feel I this recoil? It can not be

The immortal spirit—shuddereth-to be free!
Would it not leap-to fly

Like a chain'd eaglet-at its parent's call?
I fear, I fear-that this poor life—is all!

Yet thus-to pass away!

To live-but for a hope-that mocks—at last,—
To agonize,-to strive,―to watch,--to fast,

To waste-the light of day,

Night's better beauty,—feeling,-fancy,—thought, All that we have-and are,-for this,-for naught!

Grant me another year,

God of my spirit!—but a day,—to win
Something to satisfy this thirst—within!

I would know something-here!

Break for me-but one seal-that is unbroken!

Speak for me-but one word—that is unspoken !

Vain,-vain!—my brain-is turning

With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, And these hot temple-throbs-come fast-and thick, And I am freezing,—burning,—

Dying! O God! if I might only live!

My vial

-Ha! it thrills me,-I revive.

Aye, were not man to die,—

He were too mighty-for this narrow sphere!
Had he but time-to brood on knowledge-here,—
Could he but train' his eye,-

Might he but wait—the mystic word--and hour,—
Only his Maker-would transcend—his power!

Earth-has no mineral strange,—
Th' illimitable air-no hidden wings,—
Water-no quality—in covert springs,
And fire-no power—to change,—
Seasons-no mystery,—and stars-no spell,
Which the unwasting soul-might not compel.
Oh! but for time-to track

The upper stars-into the pathless sky,-
To see th' invisible spirits, eye—to eye,—
To hurl the lightning back,—

To tread-unhurt—the sea's dim-lighted halls,—
To chase Day's chariot-to the horizon-walls,—

And more,-much more,—for now---
The life-sealed fountains-of my nature move,—
To nurse-and purify-this human love,—
To clear the godlike brow

Of weakness-and mistrust, and bow it down,-
Worthy-and beautiful,—to the much-loved one,-
This-were-indeed-to feel

The soul-thirst-slaken-at the living stream,—
To live,-O God! that life-is but a dream!
And death- -Aha! I reel ;-

Dim,-dim,-I faint,-darkness comes o'er my eye;-
Cover me! save me!God of heaven! I die!

'Twas morning,—and the old man-lay alone.
No friend-had closed his eyelids,—and his lips,
(Open-and ashy pale,) th' expression wore
Of his death-struggle. His long silvery hair
Lay on his hollow temples-thin—and wild;
His frame was wasted,—and his features—wan
And haggard-as with want;-and in his palm
His nails were driven-deep, as if the throe
Of the last agony-had wrung him sore.

The storm-was raging still. The shutter-swung
Creaking as harshly-in the fitful wind,
And all without-went on,-as aye it will,
Sunshine-or tempest,-reckless-that a heart
Is breaking,-or has broken, in its change.
The fire-beneath the crucible—was out:
The vessels of his mystic art-lay around,
Useless-and cold as the ambitious hand
That fashioned them, and the small rod,
(Familiar to his touch-for three-score years,)
Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still
Might vex the elements-at its master's will.
And thus-had passed-from its unequal frame-
A soul of fire,-a sun-bent eagle-stricken
From his high soaring down,—an instrument—
Broken-with its own compass. Oh, how poor-
Seems the rich gift of genius when it lies,
(Like the adventurous bird-that hath outflown
His strength-upon the sea,)—ambition-wrecked,—
A thing—the thrush might pity—as she sits—
Brooding in quiet-on her lowly nest!

CHAPTER XVII.

EXERCISE IN RAPID AND PARENTHETICAL MOVEMENTS OF VOICE-ECHOHOW TO GIVE IMITATIONS-EXAMPLES.

Critical attention must be observed in articulating the words. After we have thoroughly conquered our indistinctness of articulation, we must acquire the facility of rapid and clearly enunciated utterances. There are many passages that require a spirited, brilliant, and rapid rendering, else their intention is not expressed.

"Let Stanley charge-(with spur of fire

With Chester charge, and Lancashire),—

Full upon Scotland's central host,—

Or victory and England's lost!"

"Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek-like fire,-
And shook his very frame for ire;

And This to me!'-he said;

'An' 't were not-for thy hoary beard,-
Such hand-as Marmion's-had not spared

To cleave the Douglas' head!

And, first,-I tell thee,-haughty peer,
He who does England's-message here,
(Although the meanest in her state,)
May well,-proud Angus,-be thy mate;
And, Douglas,-more-I tell thee here,
(Even in thy pitch of pride,-
Here, in thy hold,-thy vassals near,)—
Parenthesis within paren. (Nay, never look upon your lord,

High, rapid.

thesis; more rapid.

Returning to pitch of first parenthesis.

And lay your hand upon your sword,)—

I tell thee,-thou 'rt defied!

And if thou said'st I am not peer

And now to continuation of To any lord in Scotland here,

pitch before the first parenthesis.

Lowland-or highland,—far—or near,—
Lord Angus,-thou hast lied!'—

Slow and descriptive. On the Earl's cheek-the flush of rage—
O'ercame the ashen hue of age.

Fierce-he broke forth: 'And dar'st thou then

Rapid anger. T' beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?—
No, by Saint Bryde of Bothwell, no!—

Lend calling. Up drawbridge, grooms!-what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall.'

Lord Marmion turned,-well was his need,—

And dashed-the rowels-in his steed,

Like arrow-through the archway-sprung,

The ponderous grate behind him rung:

To pass-there was such scanty room,

The bars,-descending,-razed his plume."-[SCOTT.

EXAMPLE OF RAPID ENUNCIATION.

"By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade;
And furious every charger neigh'd

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery."

"Ah! what is that flame which now bursts on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound which now 'larums his ear?
'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky!
'Tis the crushing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!
He springs from his hammock;-he flies to the deck;-
Amazement confronts him with images dire;
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck;

The masts fly in splinters, the shrouds are on fire!

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