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MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS

FOR

RECITATION.

I.-SAUL'S ADDRESS.-:
-Byron.

WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword
Pierce me when leading the hosts of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path,
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me that moment, in blood, at thy feet;
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet!
Farewell to others; but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death that awaits us to-day.

II. THE DYING CHIEF.-Mrs. Maclean.
THE stars looked down on the battle-plain,
Where night-winds were deeply sighing:
And with shattered lance near his war-steed slain,
Lay a youthful Chieftain-dying!

He had folded round his gallant breast
The banner once o'er him streaming,
For a noble shroud, as he sunk to rest

On the couch that knows no dreaming.
Proudly he lay on his broken shield,
By the rushing Guadalquiver;

While, dark with the blood of his last red field,
Swept on the majestic river.

There were hands which came to bind his wound,
There were eyes o'er the warrior weeping;
But he raised his head from the dewy ground,
Where the land's high hearts were sleeping!

And "Away!" he cried ;-"your aid is vain,
My soul may not brook recalling,—
I have seen the stately flower of Spain
Like the autumn vine-leaves falling!

"I have seen the Moorish banners wave

O'er the halls where my youth was cherished; I have drawn a sword that could not save;

I have stood where my king hath perished!
"Leave me to die with the free and brave,
On the banks of my own bright river!
Ye can give me nought but a warrior's grave,
By the chainless Guadalquiver!"

III.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.-Wolfe. Nor a drum was heard-not a funeral note, As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, O'er the grave where our hero was buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moon-beam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast;

Not in sheet, nor in shroud, we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow!

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head.
And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the bell tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line-we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!

IV.-DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.-Byron. THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners, at sunset, was seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he past;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.
And there lay the steed, with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal:
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted, like snow, in the glance of the Lord!

V. THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.- Campbell.
ON Linden when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden showed another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery!

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade;
And, furious, every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.

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

But redder still these fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of purpled snow;
And bloodier still shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout 'mid their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens:-On, ye brave!
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, ell thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Oh! few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall mark the soldier's sepulchre !

VI.-LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.-Campbell.
A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."-
"Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle,
This dark and stormy water ?"

"Oh! I'm chief of Ulva's Isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together;
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
"His horsemen hard behind us ride,
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?"
Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :-
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:

"And, by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;

"

So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer !

Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries;

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Though tempests round us gather,

I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her!

And still they rowed, amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore-
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade
His child he did discover:

One lovely arm she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief-
My daughter! oh, my daughter!"

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child,—

And he was left lamenting.

VII. THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.—L. E. L. (Mrs. Maclean.)
THE muffled drum rolled on the air,
Warriors with stately step were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turned to the ground:
Solemn the sound of their measured tread,
As silent and slow they followed the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear,
There were white plumes waving over the bier,
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,
For it was a soldier's funeral.

That soldier had stood on the battle-plain,
Where every step was over the slain:

But the brand and the ball had passed him by,
And he came to his native land--to die!
'Twas hard to come to that native land,
And not clasp one familiar hand!
'Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead,
Or ere he could hear his welcome said!

But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own loved shore;
To think that the friends of his youth might weep
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep.
The bugles ceased their wailing sound

As the coffin was lowered into the ground;
A volley was fired, a blessing said,

One moment's pause-and they left the dead!—
I saw a poor and an aged man,

His step was feeble, his lip was wan;

He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,
His face was bowed on the cold damp ground:
He raised his head, his tears were done,-
The FATHER had prayed o'er his only son.

VIII.-CASABIANCA.-Mrs. Hemans.

THE boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had filed:
The flames, that lit the battle's wreck, shone round him-o'er the dend
Yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood, a proud though childlike form!

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