T'hen he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all,
Because things seen are mightier than things heard,
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

He therefore turning softly like a thief,
Lest the harsh shingle should 'grate underfoot,
And feeling all along the garden wall,
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,
Crept to the gate, and open’d it, and closed,
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door,
Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd.

"Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence? O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness A little longer! aid me, give me strength Not to tell her, never to let her know. Help me not to break in upon her peace. . My children too! must I not speak to these? They know me not. I should betray myself. Never: no father's kiss for me—the girl So like her mother, and the boy, my son."

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced Back toward his solitary home again, All down the long and narrow street he went

Beating it in upon his weary brain,
As tho it were the burthen of a song,
“Not to tell her, never to let her know.”


(See Tone Drill No. 180.) [The tone of Ridicule indicates an “amused contempt” or mocking merriment.' It says, “Look at the absurdity in this thing and laugh at it.'']

The Evidence of Mr. O'Brien.


What is the evidence of O'Brien ? What has he stated ? How does Mr. O'Brien's tale hang together? Look to its commencement. He walks along Thomas street, in the open day (a street not the least populous in the city), and is accosted by a man, who, without any preface, tells him, he'll be murdered before he goes half the street, unless he becomes a United Irishman! Do you think this is a probable story? Suppose any of you, gentlemen, be a United Irishman, or a freemason, or a friendly brother, and that you met me walking innocently along, just like Mr. O'Brien, and meaning no harm, would you say, “Stop, sir, don't go further, you'll be murdered before you go half the street, if you do not become a United Irishman, a freemason, or a friendly brother?”

Did you ever hear so coaxing an invitation to felony as this? “Sweet Mr. James O'Brien, come in and save your precious life; come in and take an oath, or you'll be murdered before you go half the street! Do, sweetest, dearest Mr. James O'Brien, come in and do not risk your valuable existence.” What a loss had he been to his king, whom he loves so marvellously!

Well, what does poor Mr. O'Brien do? Poor, dear man, he stands petrified with the magnitude of his danger—all

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his members refuse their office—he can neither run from the danger, nor call for assistance; his tongue cleaves to his mouth! and his feet incorporate with the paving stones—it is in vain that his expressive eye silently implores protection of the passenger; he yields at length, as greater men have done, and resignedly submits to his fate: he enters the house, and being led into a room, a parcel of men make faces at him: but mark the metamorphosis—well may it be said, that "miracles will never cease,”—he who feared to resist in the open air, and in the face of the public, becomes a bravó, when pent up in a room, and environed by sixteen men; and one is obliged to bar the door while another swears him; which, after some resistance, is accordingly done, and poor Mr. O'Brien becomes a United Irishman, for no earthly purpose whatever, but merely to save his sweet life!

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(See Tone Drill No. 110.) [The tone of Grief manifests a deep personal suffering. It is more poignant than sadness, but less so than agony. Sometimes there is the note of despair.]

Ivan the Czar.


He sat in silence on the ground,

The old and haughty Czar,
Lonely, though princes girt him round,

And leaders of the war;
He had cast his jewelled sabre,

That many a field had won,
To the earth beside his youthful dead-

His fair and first-born son.

“There is no crimson on thy cheek,

And on thy lip no breath;

I call thee, and thou dost not speak:

They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering

That I the deed have done!
For the honour of thy father's name,

Look up, look up, my son! “Well might I know death's hue and mien;

But on thine aspect, boy,
What, till this moment, have I seen

Save pride and tameless joy?
Swiftest thou wert to battle,

And bravest there of all;
How could I think a warrior's frame

Thus like a flower should fall ?

"I will not bear that still cold look

Rise up, thou fierce and free! Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook

All, save this calm, from thee. Lift brightly up, and proudly,

Once more thy kindling eyes : Hath my word lost its power on earth?

I say to thee, arise ! “Didst thou not know I loved thee well?

Thou didst not! and art gone, In bitterness of soul, to dwell

Where man must dwell alone. Come back, young fiery spirit !

If but one hour, to learn The secrets of the folded heart,

That seemed to thee so stern.

“Thou wert the first, the first fair child

That in mine arms I pressed;

Thou wert the bright one that hast smiled

Like summer on my breast.
I reared thee as an eagle,

To the chase thy steps I led,
I bore thee on my battle-horse,-
I look



"Lay down my warlike banners here,

Never again to wave,
And bury my red sword and spear,

Chiefs, in my first-born's grave;
And leave me! I have conquered,

I have slain—my work is done! Whom have I slain? Ye answer not;

Thou too art mute, my son !"

And thus his wild lament was poured

Through the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword,

Nor the foaming steed his might. He heard strange voices moaning

In every wind that sighed; From the searching stars of heaven he shrank

Humbly the conqueror died.

Hamlet on His Mother's Marriage.


0, that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God ! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on ’t! o fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,

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