In this and some following Lessons, the principles applicable to the reading of poetry are illustrated. 1. IN slumbers of midnight || the Sailor-boy lay, His hammock | swung loose || at the sport of the wind; 2. He dream'd of his home, || of his dear native bowers, 3. Then Fancy her magical pinions || spread wide, And bade the young dreamer || in ecstasy rise; 4. The jessamine clambers || in flower o'er the thatch, 5. A father bends o'er him || with looks of delight; With the lips of the maid || whom his bosom holds dear. 6. The heart of the sleeper || beats high in his breast, Joy quickens his pulse, || all his hardships seem o'er; 7. Ah! whence is that flame || which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound || that now larums his ear? 'Tis the lightening's red glare || painting hell on the sky! 'Tis the crashing of thunders, || the groan of the sphere! 8. He springs from his hammock, || he flies to the deck; The masts fly in splinters, || the shrouds are on fire! 9. Like mountains the billows || tumultuously swell, In darkness || dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss; 11. Oh, Sailor-boy! Sailor-boy"! || never again Shall home, love, or kindred, || thy wishes repay; 13. On beds of green sea-flower || thy limbs shall be laid; 14. Days, months, years ́, and ages`, || shall circle away, Oh Sailor-boy! Sailor-boy! || peace to thy soul. XXXVI. — THE SOLDIER'S REST. FROM WALTER SCOTT. SIR WALTER SCOTT was born at Edinburgh, in 1771. After his admission to the Scottish bar, he determined to devote himself to literary pursuits, and his path to fame was opened by the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. After the publication of some other poems, he chose a new department of literature, and, concealing his name, commenced the series called the Waverly Novels. He also produced several historical works. He died at Abbotsford, in 1832. Pibroch; an instrument of music used in Scotland. Reveille, (pro. re-vel-ya); signal for mustering. 1. SOLDIER, rest^! || thy warfare o’er ́, Sleep the sleep || that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields || no more, Days of danger, nights of waking, In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen || thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music || fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! || thy warfare o'er ́, Sleep the sleep || that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields || no more, Morn of toil, || nor night of waking`. 2. No rude sound shall reach thine ear", Booming from the sedgy shallow. 3. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done`; Sleep! the deer is in his den; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; How thy gallant steed lay dying. XXXVII. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. BY CHARLES WOLFE. REV. CHARLES WOLFE was a clergyman of the Church of England, who died in early life, leaving but few specimens of his poetic talent. Byron said of this ballad, that he would rather be the author of it than of any one ever written. 1. Nor a drum | was heard, | not a funeral note, 2. We buried him | darkly, || at dead of night, 3. No useless coffin || enclos'd | his breast, Not in sheet | nor in shroud || we wound him; 4. Few and short || were the prayers we said, And we steadfastly gaz'd || on the face of the dead, 5. We thought, || as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smooth'd down || his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger || would tread || o'er his head, far away || on the billow. 6. Lightly they'll talk || of the spirit | that's gone, But little he'll reck, || if they'll let him sleep on 7. But half | of our heavy task || was done, When the clock || struck the hour for retiring; 8. Slowly and sadly || we laid him down, From the field of his fame || fresh and gory; XXXVIII. MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. FROM SOUTHEY. 1. WHERE is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharg'd to express ? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; 2. No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek; Cold and hunger awake not her care; Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare; and her cheek Has the deadly pale hue of despair. 3. Yet cheerful and happy`, nor distant the day, The traveler remembers, who journey'd this way, 4. Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight, Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, When the wind whistl'd down the dark aisle. 5. She lov'd; and young Richard had settl'd the day`; But Richard was idle and worthless; and they, 6. 'Twas in Autumn`, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burn'd bright; 7. "Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fireside, To hear the wind whistle without." "A fine night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied: "Methinks a man's courage would now well be tried, Who would wander the ruins about. |