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the mist is on the hills; the blast of the north is on the plain; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.

Ossian, whose beautiful and sublime address to the sun is here inserted, was a Caledonian, and is supposed to have been the son of Fingal. It is presumed that he flourished in the fourth century, from which period to the present time, his writings have commanded the admiration of the world. His effusions have been the delight of men highly distinguished for their talents, among whom may be mentioned Napoleon Bonaparte. At the time Ossian made this magnificent apostrophe to the sun, he was blind, to which circumstance he alludes, when he says: "For he beholds thy beams no more.” Homer and Milton were also blind when they wrote some of their best pieces. It seems, that in proportion as physical light was excluded from the three great poets, eyes of genius were planted in their minds. The sun is the first material object to which man ever bowed in worship. It both discovers and conceals the glory of its great Creator, who alone is entitled to our adoration. Ossian's cotemporaries doubtless worshipped the sun; but it appears that he, at least, doubted the propriety of doing it, as he calls in question its eternity. It is, however, believed that Ossian paid more homage to the sun, than to any other object; and, therefore, his address to it may be regarded as a prayer, emanating from the heart of a blind and aged man. Its elocution requires slow time, somewhat of a low key, and long quantity. It is one of the most exquisite productions in our language; and, when properly read or recited, appeals powerfully to the sympathetic feelings of our nature. The author is aware the question is not settled with certainty, that Ossian really existed, or if he did, that he actually wrote the poems attributed to him.

16. RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.—Miss Mitford. 1. I come not here to talk. You know too well

The story of our thraldom. We are slaves !
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave; not such as swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror led
To crimson glory and undying fame;
But base, ignoble slaves—slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords,
Rich in some dozen paltry villages
Strong in some hundred spearmen-only great

In that strange spell—a name. 2.

Each hour, dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder,

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Cry out against them. But this very day,
An honest man, my neighbor, there he stands,
Was struck, struck like a dog, by one who wore
The badge of Ursin; because, forsooth,
He toss'd not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor-men, and wash not
The stain

away

in blood ? Such shames are common.
I have known deeper wrongs—I, that speak to ye,
I had a brother once, a gracious boy,
Full of gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy—there was the look
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give

To the beloved disciple ! 3.

How I lov'd
That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once, and son ! He left my side,
A summer bloom on his fair cheek,-a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour
That pretty harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse ye,

Romans !-ROUSE

YE, SLAVES! Have

ye

brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die. Have ye fair daughters ? Look To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, Dishonored; and if ye dare call for justice,

Be answered by the lash. 4.

Yet this is Rome,
That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne
Of beauty, ruled the world 1 Yet we are Romans !
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman,
Was greater than a king!

And once again, Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread Of either Brutus! Once again I swear, The eternal city shall be free. The above address was written by Miss Mary Russel Mitford, and it is a must admirable piece for an elocutionary exercise. It requires sudden transitions of voice; in other words, the high, low, and middle keys of the voice are all heard in it. The talent displayed in the composition of the address, exhibits evidence of the high intellectual endowments of the writer. It shows, moreover, that ladies may wield as powerful a pen as men.

17. ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.—Byron. 1. Oh! that the desert were my dwelling place,

With one fair spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her!
Ye elements! in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted—can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ?
Though, with them to converse, can rarely be our lot.
2. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
3. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin—his control
Stops with the shore;-upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 4. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole; or in the torrid clime

my

Dark heaving ;-boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of eternity—the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 5. And I have lov'd thee, Ocean! and my joy

Of youthful sports, was, on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers ;—they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear;
For I was, as it were, a child of thee,

And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid hand

upon thy mane—as 1 do here.
6. My task is done—my song hath ceased—my theme

Hath died into an echo; 'tis fit
The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit
My midnight lamp—and what is writ, is writ,-
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been-and my visions flit

Less palpably before me—and the glow
Which in my spirit dwelt, is fluttering, faint, and low.

George Gordon Byron, a nobleman of England, was born at London, January 788, and died at Missilonghi, in Greece, April 20, 1824. His poetry relates to a great variety of subjects, and is of the highest lite.ary order. At the early age of thirty-six, Lord Byron fell a martyr in the cause of freedom, while assisting the Greeks, in their virtuous struggle to throw off the shackles of despotism. It is a matter of regret, that his moral habits were not, in all respects, correct, and that some of his writings are apparently hostile to the pure principles of christianity. His address to the ocean is from "Childe Harold.” It should be given on a middle key, with slow time, and long quantity. Elocution requires that it be so read or recited as to call up all the internal feelings which animated the author at the time he wrote it, in the minds of both reader and hearer.

18. SPEECH OF HENRY V. TO HIS TROỌPS, BEFORE THE GATE

OF HARFLEUR.-Shakspeare. 1. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more ;

Or close the wall up with our English dead!

In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man,
As modest stillness and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of a tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled with the wide and wasteful ocean.

2. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostrils wide;

Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full height !-On, on, ye noble English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of

argument
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war! 3.

And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot;
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge,
Cry-God for Harry! England ! and Saint George !

In the third line of the second verse of King Henry's speech, a rhetorical pause should be made, after uttering the word, "full,” thus:

“To its full height.” Rhetorical pauses should generally be short,—the quaver rest in music, is about their duration of time. They should however be longer or shorter, according to their sense.

The object of the king was to stimulate his subjects to fight in his behalf; and his speech, excepting the third and fourth lines, requires a quick rate of utterance, and a very high key.

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