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This female dog-star of her little sky,
Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought,
(Few subjects have had such strong attractions for Painters, Scnlptors and Poets as the fate of this heroic embodiment of the undaunted spirit, rising above corporeal pangs, and asserting its divinity. Byron has seized the noble idea with all his wonderful quickness of conception, and has produced a poem worthy of bis theme.
This piece should be declaimed with strength, of voice and dignity of manper.)
TITAN! to whose immortal eyes
Were not as things that gods despise,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
Until its voice is echoless.
Titan! to thee the strife was given
And the inexorable Heaven,
The wretched gift eternity
And that the Thun ierer wrung from thee
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
And strengthen man with his own mind:
In the endurance, and repulse
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
His own funereal destiny ;
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Its own concenter'd recompense,
(A fitting tribute to our greatest statesman, from our greatest post. Should be delivered with a full, sonorous tone.)
GREAT were the hearts, and strong the minds,
Of those who framed, in high debate,
Our fair broad empire, state with state.
And deep the gladness of the hour,
When, as the auspicious task was done,
Was given to GLORY'S UNSPOILED SON.
That noble race is gone; the suns
Of fifty years have risen and set;
So strongly forged, are brighter yet.
Wide-as our own free race increase
Wide shall extend the elastic chain,
State after state, a mighty train.
A PSALM OF LIFE.
(This brief poom should be given in a slow, solemn manner. But the reader should carefully avoid falling into a sing-song recitation, which the swinging rhythm of the construction will be apt to lead to.)
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
“ Life is but an empty dream !" For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Art is long and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stont and brave,
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be a hero in the strife !
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
Lives of great men all remind us,
We can make our lives sublime,
Footprints on the sands of time;
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing
With a heart for any fate ;
Learn to labour and to wait.
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.
(This spirited poem gives opportunity for many different styles of delivery. First-the calm, but determined, utterance of the brave man's resolve. Second-the whispering description of the churchyard and belfry. Last-in bold, rapid accents should pour out the sharp, ringing description of the impetuous ride.]
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Who remembers that famous day and year.
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light-
Then he said Good night, and with muffled oar