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Read Ebook: The Universal Reciter 81 Choice Pieces of Rare Poetical Gems by Various
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Ebook has 459 lines and 32346 words, and 10 pages
were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of whitewood, that cut like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"-- Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through."-- "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"
Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren,--where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-- "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. "Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text,-- Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the--Moses--was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. --First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,-- And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,-- Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! --What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,-- All at once, and nothing first,-- Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say.
THE INJURED MOTHER.
From the Rev. JOHN BROWN'S tragedy of BARBAROSSA.
CHARACTERS:
ZAP. When shall I be at peace? O, righteous heaven Strengthen my fainting soul, which fain would rise To confidence in thee! But woes on woes O'erwhelm me. First my husband, now my son-- Both dead--both slaughter'd by the bloody hand Of Barbarossa! What infernal power Unchain'd thee from thy native depth of hell, To stalk the earth with thy destructive train, Murder and lust! To wake domestic peace, And every heart-felt joy!
O, faithful Othman! Our fears were true; my Selim is no more!
OTH. Has, then, the fatal secret reach'd thine ear? Inhuman tyrant!
ZAP. Strike him, heav'n with thunder, Nor let Zaphira doubt thy providence!
ZAP. Whom stylest thou king?
OTH. 'Tis Barbarossa.
ZAP. Does he assume the name of king?
OTH. He does.
ZAP. O, title vilely purchas'd!--by the blood Of innocence--by treachery and murder! May heav'n, incens'd, pour down its vengeance on him, Blast all his joys, and turn them into horror Till phrensy rise, and bid him curse the hour That gave his crimes their birth!--My faithful Othman, My sole surviving prop, canst thou devise No secret means, by which I may escape This hated palace?
OTH. That hope is vain. The tyrant knows thy hate; Hence, day and night, his guards environ thee. Rouse not, then, his anger: Let soft persuasion and mild eloquence Redeem that liberty, which stern rebuke Would rob thee of for ever.
ZAP. An injur'd queen To kneel for liberty!--And, oh! to whom! E'en to the murd'rer of her lord and son! O, perish first, Zaphira! Yes, I'll die! For what is life to me? My dear, dear lord-- My hapless child--yes, I will follow you!
OTH. Wilt thou not see him, then?
ZAP. I will not, Othman; Or, if I do, with bitter imprecation More keen than poison shot from serpents' tongues, I'll pour my curses on him.
OTH. Will Zaphira Thus meanly sink in woman's fruitless rage, When she should wake revenge?
ZAP. Revenge!--O, tell me-- Tell, me but how?--What can a helpless woman?
OTH. . Gain but the tyrant's leave, and seek thy father; Pour thy complaints before him; let thy wrongs Kindle his indignation to pursue This vile usurper, till unceasing war Blast his ill-gotten pow'r.
ZAP. . Ah! say'st thou, Othman? Thy words have shot like lightning through my frame, And all my soul's on fire!--thou faithful friend! Yes, with more gentle speech I'll soothe his pride; Regain my freedom; reach my father's tents; There paint my countless woes. His kindling rage Shall wake the valleys into honest vengeance; The sudden storm shall pour on Barbarossa, And ev'ry glowing warrior steep his shaft In deadlier poison, to revenge my wrongs!
OTH. . There spoke the queen.--But, as thou lov'st thy freedom, Touch not on Selim's death. Thy soul will kindle, And passion mount in flames that will consume thee.
ZAP. . My murder'd son!--Yes, to revenge thy death, I'll speak a language which my heart disdains.
OTH. Peace, peace,!--the tyrant comes. Now, injur'd Queen, Plead for thy freedom, hope for just revenge, And check each rising passion.
I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more.
And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear, A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear: The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous. But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:--
"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells; But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.
"One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.
"I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care, But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air.
"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye! His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry! And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave, That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!
"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free, At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed: Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.
"The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew, A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view: But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight; 'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.
"All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot, When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached, He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!
"I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away; I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred, The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head."
That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers passing by, Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh. And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.
FALSTAFF'S BOASTING
SHAKESPEARE.
ON TO FREEDOM.
DUGANNE.
This poem should be delivered with bold energy, with flashing eye, swelling breast, and free action--as though the speaker's heart was full of the nobility of the theme:
"There has been the cry--'On to Richmond!' And still another cry--On to England!' Better than either is the cry--'On to Freedom!'"
CHARLES SUMNER.
On to Freedom! On to Freedom! 'Tis the everlasting cry Of the floods that strive with ocean-- Of the storms that smite the sky; Of the atoms in the whirlwind, Of the seed beneath the ground-- Of each living thing in Nature That is bound! 'Twas the cry that led from Egypt, Through the desert wilds of Edom: Out of darkness--out of bondage-- On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
O! thou stony-hearted Pharaoh! Vainly warrest thou with God! Moveless, at thy palace portals, Moses waits, with lifted rod! O! thou poor barbarian, Xerxes! Vainly o'er the Pontic main Flingest thou, to curb its utterance, Scourge or chain! For, the cry that led from Egypt, Over desert wilds of Edom, Speaks alike through Greek and Hebrew; On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
In the Roman streets, with Gracchus, Hark! I hear that cry outswell; In the German woods with Hermann, And on Switzer hills, with Tell; Up from Spartacus, the Bondman, When his tyrants yoke he clave, And from Stalwart Wat the Tyler-- Saxon slave! Still the old, old cry of Egypt, Struggling up from wilds of Edom-- Sounding still through all the ages: On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
On to Freedom! On to Freedom! Gospel cry of laboring Time: Uttering still, through seers and sages, Words of hope and faith sublime! From our Sidneys, and our Hampdens, And our Washingtons they come: And we cannot, and we dare not Make them dumb! Out of all the shames of Egypt-- Out of all the snares of Edom; Out of darkness--out of bondage-- On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
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