WAR WITH ENGLAND.

[Patrick Henry was a man of marked and peculiar power as an orator. He could with equal case sway the minds of the cultured and the ignorant. He could rouse to action or quiet the raging passions. He was a born actor, and understood how to use his powers with the best effect, and was decidedly the greatest orator of the Revolution. The following speech, on the question of war with England, was delivered in 1775 before the Virginia Convention of Delegates; it is an excel lent piece for practice as an exercise in elocution. It should be recited in a rather high key, rapid utterance, long quantity and frequent emphasis.]

Mr. President:--It is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those, who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst and to provide for it

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future, but by the past. And, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House. Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be be. trayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters, and darken our land.

Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation— the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submis. sion? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us: they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging.

And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, deceive ourselves longer.

Sir, we have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which is coming on. We have petitioned, -we have remonstrated,-we have supplicated,-we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition, to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parliament. Our petitions have been slighted, our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult, our supplications have been disregarded,—and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne.

In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of pace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free-if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending-if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon, until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained-we must fight! I repeat it, sir-we must fight!! An appeal to arms and to the God of hosts, is all that is left us!

They tell us, sir, that we are weak-unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of Nature has placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God, who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were

base enca to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest There is no retreat, but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable—and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come!!

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry peace, peace, but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!

PATRICK HENRY.

YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S

GRAVE.

With sable-draped banners, and slow-measured tread,
The flower-laden ranks pass the gates of the dead;
And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests,
Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom on his breast.

Ended at last is the labor of love;

Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move-
A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief,

Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief;
Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child
Besought him in accents which grief rendered wild:

"Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave-
Why! why! did you pass by my dear papa's grave?
I know he was poor, but as kind and as true
As ever marched into the battle with you-

His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot,

You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not!
For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there,
And thought him too lowly your offerings to share.
He didn't die lowly-he poured his heart's blood,
In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod

Of the breast works which stood in front of the fight-
And died shouting, Onward, for God and the right!'
O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave,
But you haven't put one on my dear papa's grave.
If mamma were here--but she lies by his side,
Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died.”

"Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief,
"This young orphan'd maid hath full cause for her grief."
Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street,

He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate
The long line repasses, and many an eye

Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh.

"This way, it is,-here sir-right under this tree; They lie close together, with just room for me."

"Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound,— A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground.”

"Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, 'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give.

"I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma, too—
I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true;
And they will both bless you, I know, when I say
How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day-
How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed it to rest,
And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast;
And when the kind angels shall call you to come,
We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home,
Where death never comes, his black banners to wave,
And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave."

C. E. L. HOLMES.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

[Fought 1590, between Henry of Navarre and the Duke of Mayenne, who commanded the League forces. Henry won a magnificent victory over the allied army. As Henry IV. he ascended the French throne as the first of the Bourbon kings. This piece should be delivered in a high key. Where the description of the action is given, the utterance should be clear, distinct, rapid, high, and ringing as a silver clarion.]

Now Glory to the Lord of Hosts from whom all glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!
Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance,
Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of
France!

And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters;
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joys,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy wall's

annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war.
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre!

Oh, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn outin long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers.
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears!
There rode the brood of false Loraine, the curses of our land!
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand!
And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled
flood,

And good Coligni's hoary head all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for his own holy Name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,
Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our lord, the

King!"