There is many a brave heart, here, mother,
Dying of want and cold,

While only across the channel, mother,
Are many that roll in gold;

There are rich and proud men there, mother,

With wondrous wealth to view,

And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night,
Would give life to me and you.

Come nearer to my side, mother,
Come nearer to my side,
And hold me fondly, as you held
My father when he died;
Quick, for I cannot see you, mother;
My breath is almost gone ;
Mother! dear mother! ere I die,
Give me three grains of corn.

VII.-REBUKE TO THE NEAPOLITANS.

THOMAS MOORE.

In 1820, the people of Naples revolted against King Ferdinand, who had been imposed upon them by the Austrians. But in 1821, an Austrian army marched into Naples with little opposition. In the following stanzas, Thomas Moore, the poet, expresses his indignation at this want of courage. They should be read with much force, with the vanishing stress, and with impure quality of voice:

Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are !
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk from the first touch of Liberty's war,
Be sucked out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains!

On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny !—blasting them o'er :
Fill, fill up their wide, sunny waters, ye sails,

From each slave-mart in Europe, and poison their shore.

May their fate be a mockword-may men of all lands Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls!

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,

Base slaves! may the whet of their agony be, To think-as the damned haply think of the heaven They had once in their reach—that they might have been free.

Shame! shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat
Ever rose o'er the zero of Castlereagh's heart,
That did not, like Echo, your war-hymn repeat,

And send back its prayers with your Liberty's start!

Shame! shame! that in such a proud moment of life,
Worth ages of history-when, had you but hurled
One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the
world!

That then-O, disgrace upon manhood! e'en then

You should falter,-should cling to your pitiful breath, Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer a slave's life to a glorious death!

It is strange-it is dreadful! Shout, Tyranny, shout Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er "

If there lingers one spark of her fire, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than sully e'en chains by a struggle like this.

VIII. THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

T. B. MACAULAY.

During the latter part of the sixteenth century, France was rent by civil troubles. The king, Henry IV., called Henry of Navarre, was opposed by the Catholic nobles and many of the people. The king of Spain, and other foreign princes, united with the malcontents, and Henry found himself opposed by armies larger than his own. Among

the battles fought was that at Ivy, a village not far from Paris. It was fought in 1590. The king was victorious; and the following poem, by Lord Macaulay, is the supposed song of triumph spoken by a soldier of the royal army. It should be read with clear ringing tones, and a rate of speed varying according to the sentiment. The pitch should be higher than medium:

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France !

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daugh

ters.

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls

annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of

war;

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre !

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,

And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our

land!

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his

hand;

And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled

flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of

war,

To fight for His own holy name and Henry of Navarre !

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant

crest:

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his

eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,

Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our lord, the King!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he mayFor never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray—

Press where you see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks

of war,

And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre !"

Hurrah the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din
Of fife and steed and trump and drum and roaring culverin!
The fiery duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies now! upon them with the lance!—
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in

rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white

crest ;

And in they burst, and on they rushed ;—while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre !

Now God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein,

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter, the Flemish Count is slain,

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay

gale;

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and

cloven mail.

And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to

man;

But out spake gentle Henry then, "No Frenchman is my foe; Down, down with every foreigner; but let your brethren go."

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre !

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne !
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall

return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls!

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright!

Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to night!

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised

the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; And glory to our sovereign lord, king Henry of Navarre !

IX.-APPEAL FOR PARLIAMENTARY REFORM.

LORD BROUGHAM.

During the years 1830, 1831, and 1832, the English nation, and both houses of Parliament, were intensely agitated, in reference to parliamentary reform. Under the system that had previously prevailed, there were such inequalities, that in some instances a member of the House of Commons represented hundreds of thousands of persons, and in some instances only one or two dwellings. Old Sarum had two members, and not a single inhabitant. The members were appointed by the owner of the land on which the town had formerly stood. In 1831, Lord Brougham made a powerful speech in the House of Lords, in favor of a better system. The following is an extract from it. It requires great force, high pitch, and marked falling inflections. It is an expression of the most earnest supplication :

But, among the awful considerations that now bow down my mind, there is one that stands preeminent above the rest. You are the highest judicature in the realm; you sit here as judges, and decide all causes, civil and criminal, without appeal. It is a judge's first duty never to pronounce a