A SHIP DRIVEN OUT OF ITS COURSE.
And, night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play.
O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand
Whose be the white bones by thy side, once leagued in patriot
band!
O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round
Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the sea!
Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand,
To shed their blood so freely for love of father-land-
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave-
O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,
Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!
A SHIP DRIVEN OUT OF ITS COURSE.
In the outset this piece should be delivered without any extraordinary action, or much elevation of voice, but as the ship's peril becomes more apparent, the action and gestures should become more impassioned and rapid:
As yet amid this elemental war,
That scatters desolation from afar,
Nor toil, nor hazard, nor distress, appear
To sink the seamen with unmanly fear.
Though their firm hearts no pageant honor boast
They scorn the wretch that trembles in his post;
Who from the face of danger strives to turn,
Indignant from the social hour they spurn.
Though now full oft they felt the raging tide
In proud rebellion climb the vessel's side,
No future ills unknown their souls appall;
They know no danger, or they scorn it all!
But even the generous spirits of the brave,
Subdued by toil, a friendly respite crave;
A short repose alone their thoughts implore,
Their harassed powers by slumber to restore.,
Far other cares the master's mind employ,
Approaching perils all his hopes destroy.
In vain he spreads the graduated chart,
And bounds the distance by the rules of art;
In vain athwart the mimic seas expands
The compasses to circumjacent lands,
Ungrateful task! for no asylum traced,
A passage opened from the watery waste.
Fate seemed to guard with adamantine mound
The path to every friendly port around.
While Albert thus, with secret doubts dismayed,
The geometric distances surveyed;
On deck the watchful Rodmond cries aloud,
Secure your lives-grasp every man a shroud.
Roused from his trance, he mounts with eyes aghast,
When o'er the ship, in indulation vast,
A giant surge down-rushes from on high,
And fore and aft dissevered ruins lie.
Commence in a firm, but not loud voice, giving a full swing to the beautiful rhythm of the lines. As the dying soldier recalls his mother, his sister, and "another, not a sister," the voice should grow tremulous, and there should be a perceptible quiver in it:
A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers;
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent with pitying glances to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said: "I never more shall see my own native land;
Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine.
For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the Rhine.
Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,
Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun;
And 'midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars,
The death-wound on their gallant breasts the last of many scars;
But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline.
And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine.
Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age;
And I was, aye, a truant bird that thought his home a cage;
For my father was a soldier and even as a child,
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild. And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate'er they would-but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,
On the cottage wall at Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine.
Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread;
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die;
And if a comrade seek her love, ask her, in my name,
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine),
For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine.
There's another, not a sister, in the happy days gone by,
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;
Too innocent for coquetry-too fond for idle scorning-
Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest
mourning!
Tell her that the last night of my life,-for ere this moon be risen,
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison-
I dreamt I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine.
I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, I heard, or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
That echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk
Down many a path beloved of yore and well-remembered walk;
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,
But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine!"
His voice grew faint and hoarser, his grasp was childish weak-
His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed, and ceased to speak-
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life was fled,
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strewn;
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine
As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!
PICTURE OF DOMESTIC LOVE.
PICTURE OF DOMESTIC LOVE.
This piece calls for no loud declamation-no straining of the voice, but should be recited with a quiet gracefulness— in harmony with the theme:
Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought
Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote,
Where love and lore may claim alternate hours.
With peace embosomed in Idalian bowers!
Remote from busy life's bewildered way,
O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway,
Free on the sunny slope or winding shore
With hermit-steps to wander and adore!
There shall he love, when genial morn appears,
Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears,
To watch the brightening roses of the sky,
And muse on Nature with a poet's eye!
And when the sun's last splendor lights the deep,
The woods and waves and murmuring winds asleep,
When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail,
And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale,
His path shall be where streamy mountains swell
Their'shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell;
Where mouldering piles and forests intervene,
Mingling with darker tints the living green;
No circling hills his ravished eye to bound,
Heaven, earth, and ocean, blazing all around.
The moon is up-the watch-tower dimly burns-
And down the vale his sober step returns,
But pauses oft as winding rocks convey
The still sweet fall of music far away;
And oft he lingers from his home awhile,
To watch the dying notes, and start, and smile!
Let winter come! let polar spirits sweep
The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep;
Though boundless snows the withered heath deform,
And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm,
Yet shall the smile of social love repay,
With mental light, the melancholy day!
And when it's short and sullen noon is o'er,
The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore,
How bright the faggots in his little hall
Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!
How blest he names, in love's familiar tone,
The kind fair friend by nature marked his own;
And, in the waveless mirror of his mind,
Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind,
Since when her empire o'er his heart began,
Since first he called her his before the holy man!
Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome,
And light the wintry paradise of home;
And let the half-uncurtained window hail
Some way-worn man benighted in the vale!
Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high,
As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky;
While fiery hosts in heaven's wide circle play,
And bathe in lurid light the milky way;
Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower,
Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour;
With pathos shall command, with wit beguile
A generous tear of anguish, or a smile!
Should be spoken in a natural, medium tone. Any display of forced or high utterance would be out of place in this simple and beautiful ballad:
No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew ;
She dwelt on a wide moor;
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a cottage door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night,
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
"That, father, I will gladly do;
"Tis scarcely afternoon-
The minster clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the mocn."
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