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MODULATION IN SPEAKING.
But thou art perhaps like me-for a season: thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in the clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult, then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark, and unlovely: it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds; and the mist is on the hills, the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.
MODULATION IN SPEAKING.-LLOYD.
IS not enough the voice be sound and clear;
Some o'er the tongue the labored measures roll,
And e'en in speaking we may seem too just.
In vain for them the pleasing measure flows,
Some placid natures fill the allotted scene
SALATHIEL TO TITUS.
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixed amaze
He who in earnest studies o'er his part,
In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
SALATHIEL TO TITUS.-CROLY.
ON of Vespasian, I am at this hour a poor man, as I may in the next be an exile or a slave: I have ties to life as strong as ever were bound round the heart of man: I stand here a suppliant for the life of one whose loss would embitter mine! Yet, not for wealth unlimited, for the safety of my family, for the life of the noble victim that is now standing at the place of torture, dare I abandon, dare I think the impious thought of abandoning the cause of the City of Holiness.
Titus! in the name of that Being to whom the wisdom of the earth is folly, I adjure you to beware. Jerusalem is sacred. Her crimes have often wrought her misery-often has she been trampled by the armies of the stranger. But she is still the City of the Omnipotent; and never was blow inflicted on her by man that was not terribly repaid.
The Assyrian came, the mightiest power of the world: he plundered her temple, and led her people into captivity. How long was it before his empire was a dream, his dynasty extinguished in blood, and an enemy on his throne?-The Persian came: from her protector, he turned into her oppressor; and his empire was swept away like the dust of the desert!-The Syrian smote her:
ST. PIERRE TO FERRARDO.
the smiter died in agonies of remorse; and where is his kingdom now?-The Egyptian smote her: and who now sits on the throne of the Ptolemies?
Pompey came: the invincible, the conqueror of a thousand cities, the light of Rome, the lord of Asia, riding on the very wings of victory. But he profaned her temple; and from that hour he went down-down, like a millstone plunged into the ocean! Blind counsel, rash ambition, womanish fears, were upon the great statesman and warrior of Rome. Where does he sleep? What sands were colored with his blood? The universal conqueror died a slave, by the hand of a slave! Crassus came at the head of the legions: he plundered the sacred vessels of the sanctuary. Vengeance followed him, and he was cursed by the curse. of God. Where are the bones of the robber and his host? Go, tear them from the jaws of the lion and the wolf of Parthia,their fitting tomb!
You, too, son of Vespasian, may be commissioned for the punishment of a stiff-necked and rebellious people. You may scourge our naked vice by force of arms; and then you may return to your own land exulting in the conquest of the fiercest enemy of Rome. But shall you escape the common fate of the instrument of evil? Shall you see a peaceful old age? Shall a son of yours ever sit upon the throne? Shall not rather some monster of your blood efface the memory of your virtues, and make Rome, in bitterness of soul, curse the Flavian name?
ST. PIERRE TO FERRARDO.-JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
NOW you me, Duke? Know you the peasant boy,
You chanced to cross upon his native hills,-
Without his father's knowledge, his old father,
Man could not rob him of, and Heaven would spare,
ST. PIERRE TO FERRARDO.
Blessed him one night, ere he lay down to sleep,
[Ferrardo tries to rise.
Move not, or I shall move! You know me.
As they did lay them down! I got the start
Of my contemporaries!-not a youth
Of whom could read, write, speak, command a weapon,
Or rule a horse, with me! You gave me all,-
But you did find a use for me, and made
A slave, a profligate, a pander of me!
Ten thousand ducats?
What, Duke! Is such your offer? Give me, Duke,
The eyes that looked upon my father's face,
The hands that helped my father to his wish,
The feet that flew to do my father's will,
I would not give them for it! Mark me, Duke!
And on the headstone read my father's name !---
And died here, ere he found me.
Heaven can tell how far he wandered else!
Upon that grave I knelt, an altered man,
And, rising thence, I fled from Mantua;-nor had returned,
But tyrant hunger drove me back again
To thee to thee!-my body to relieve,
At cost of my dear soul! I have done thy work,-
Do mine! and sign me that confession straight.
I'm in thy power, and I'll have thee in mine!
There is the dial, and the sun shines on it,—
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
My case is desperate! Your signature
Of vital moment is unto my peace!
My eye is on the dial! Pass the shadow
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.-LORd Byron.
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And there lay the steed, with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,