Изображения страниц

And I bend above him, weeping
Thankful tears, O, Undefiled!
For a woman's crown of glory-
For the blessing of a child.



[Speak this in an off-hand, descriptive way.]

There's a little mischief maker
That is stealing half our bliss,
Sketching pictures in a dreamland
That are never seen in this,
Dashing from our lips the pleasures
Of the present, while we sigh;
You may know this mischief maker
By the name of By and By.

He is sitting by our hearthstones,
With his sly bewitching glance,
Whispering of the coming morrow
As the social hours advance.
Loitering 'mid our calm reflections,
Hiding forms of beauty nigh;
He's a smooth deceitful fellow,
This enchanter, By and By.

You may know him by his winning,
By his careless, sprightly air;
By his sly obtrusive presence,

That is straying everywhere-
By the trophies that he gathers
Where his sombre victories lie-

For a bold, determined fellow

Is this conqueror, By and By.

When the calls of duty haunt us,

And the present seems to be
All the time that ever mortals
Snatch from dark eternity,
Then a fairy hand seems painting
Pictures on a distant sky;
Oh, a cunning little creature-

Trust him not, this By and By!



[To be recited in a solemn manner.]

It was the calm and silent night!

Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might,

And now was queen of land and seal
No sound was heard of clashing wars,
Peace brooded o'er the hush'd domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars

Held undisturb'd their ancient reign
In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!

"Twas in the calm and silent night
The senator of haughty Rome,
Impatient urged his chariot's flight,
From lordly revel rolling home.
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;

What reck'd the Roman what befell

A paltry province, far away,

In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!

Within that province, far away,

Went plodding home a weary boor;
A streak of light before him lay,

Fallen through a half shut stable door,
Across his path. He paused, for naught
Told what was going on within;

How keen the stars, his only thought;
The air, how caim, and cold, and thin,
In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!

Oh, strange indifference! low and high
Drowsed over common joys and cares;
The earth was still, but knew not why;
The world was listening-unawares.
How calm a moment may precede

One that shall thrill the world forever!
To that still moment, none would heed,
Man's doom was link'd no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!

It is the calm and silent night!

A thousand bells ring out, and throw
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite
The darkness, charmed and holy now.
The night that erst no shame had worn
To it a happy name is given,

For in that stable lay, new born,

The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven,
In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!


[In a lofty and heroic style speak this.]

O, thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers, whence are thy beams, O sun? thy everlasting light? Thou comest

forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave, but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course?

The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon herself is lost in the heavens; but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.

When the world is dark with tempests, when thunders roll and lightnings fly, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds or thou tremblest at the gates of the west.

But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou wilt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult, then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth. age is dark and unlovely: it is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills, the blast of the north is on the plains, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.



[Deliver in a bold, energetic way.]

Blessings on the hand of woman!
Angels guard its strength and grace,
In the palace, cottage, hovel-

Oh, no matter where the place!
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever round it curled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rocks the world.

Infancy's the tender fountain;
Power may with beauty flow;
Mother's first to guide the streamlets;

From them souls unresting grow

Grow on for the good or evil,

Sunshine streamed or darkness hurled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rocks the world.

Woman, how divine your mission
Here upon our natal sod!
Keep, oh keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages

Are from mother-love impearled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rocks the world.

Blessings on the hand of woman!
Fathers, sons and daughters cry;
And the sacred song is mingled

With the worship in the sky-
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rocks the world.



[Imitate the lisping and simpering manner of the youth herein.]

A district school, not far away,

'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day,
Was humming with its wonted noise
Of three score mingled girls and boys,
Some few upon their tasks intent,
But more on furtive mischief bent,
The while the master's downward look
Was fastened on a copy book,

When suddenly, behind his back,

Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack!

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »