tion over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

FUNERAL HYMN.

How still and peaceful is the grave,
Where,-life's vain tumults past,—

The appointed house, by Heaven's decree,
Receives us all at last!

The wicked there from troubling cease,—
Their passions rage no more;
And there the weary pilgrim rests
From all the toils he bore.

All, leveled by the hand of death,
Lie sleeping in the tomb,

Till God in judgment call them forth
To meet their final doom.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

III. SERENITY, BEAUTY, LOVE.

The requirements are,

First--Natural voice.

Second-Effusive utterance.
Third-High pitch.

The pleasant effect produced by this combination was called by the Ancients, the "Silvery tone." The quietude and delicacy of this class of selections demand especial care in securing a pure, musical and effusive quality of voice. The more pure, gentle and continuous the tones can be made, the more effective and pleasant will be the results of the read ing.

To secure high pitch let the voice ascend the musical scale four notes, beginning with the pitch of ordinary conversation.

SELECTIONS OF SERENITY, BEAUTY, LOVE.

ENDYMION.

THE rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes, the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,-
In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep,
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes

Of him, who slumbering lies.

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

Responds, as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;
And whispers, in its song,

"Where hast thou stayed so long!"

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE VALE OF CASHMERE.

WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,
Its temples and grottos, and fountains as clear

As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

O, to see it at sunset,—when warm o'er the lake
Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws,
Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!-

When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown,

And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells,

Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.
Or to see it by moonlight,-when mellowly shines
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines;
When the waterfails gleam like a quick fall of stars,
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet

From the cool shining walks where the young people meet.
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one
Out of darkness, as they were just born of the sun.
When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day,
From his harem of night-flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover
The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over.
When the east is as warm as the light of first hopes,

And day, with its banner of radiance unfurled,
Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes,
Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world!

THOMAS MOORE.

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

WITH deep affection

And recollection

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would,

In the days of childhood,

Fling round my cradle

Their magic spells.

On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,
Sweet Cork, of thee,-
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in
Cathedral shrine,
While at a glibe rate
Brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music

Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling
Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,-
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets
Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter

Than the dome of Peter

Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly.

Oh! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.