Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, 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! And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. A MODEST WIT. The reciter should quietly read the beginning of this piece in an ordinary conversational tone. The flippant taunts of the nabob should be spoken with a supercilious drawl-the replies of Modestus with a calm, slightly veiled, but yet perceptible, irony: A supercilious nabob of the East Haughty, being great-purse-proud, being rich A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England, in his patron's suite, An unassuming boy, and in truth A lad of decent parts and good repute. This youth had sense and spirit; But yet, with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit. One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary. "Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade Did your good father gain a livelihood? "— "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, "And in his time was reckoned good." THE LABORER. "A saddler, eh? and taught you Greek, Each parasite then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), Your father's trade?" 'My father's trade! Come, come, sir! that's too bad! He was a gentleman, I'd have you know." "Excuse the liberty I take," Modestus said, with archness on his brow,- 87 THE LABORER. WM. D. GALLAGHER. This piece, full of noble sentiment, expressed in nervous, manly language, should be declaimed with a rather loud, and somewhat appealing tone, as if the speaker was reasoning with his auditor: Stand up, erect! Thou hast the form What then?-Thou art as true a man Who is thine enemy? the high If true unto thyself thou wast, The light leaf from the tree. No:-uncurbed passions, low desires, Death, in the breast's consuming fires, These are thine enemies-thy worst; O, stand erect! and from them burst! Thou art thyself thine enemy! The great!-what better they than thou? True, wealth thou hast not-'tis but dust! But that thou hast, which, with thy crust Of both-a noble mind! With this, and passions under ban, DRAFTED. MRS. H. L. BOSTWICK. The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted-in the end the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of resignation fills the mother's heart: My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books; No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie-as delicate, too, in his looks. |