Eddying and whisking,

Spouting and frisking,

Twining and twisting

Around and around,—

Collecting, disjecting,

With endless rebound;

Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in,
Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,

And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And heaving and cleaving.

And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,

And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling.

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar ;-
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

RAIN ON THE ROOF.

[A vigorous action of the imagination will do much toward suggest, ing the proper form of expression.]

When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears,
'Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed,
And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.

Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart,
And a thousand dreary fancies into busy being start;
And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof,
As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.

There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone,
To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn.
I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair,
And her bright-eyed, cherub brother-a serene, angelic pair-
Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof,
As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue,
I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue:
I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again,
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.

There is naught 'n art's bravuras that can work with such a spell
In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell,
As that melody of nature-that subdued, subduing strain
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain!
COATES KINNEY.

ORATOR PUFF.

[The "two tones" should be clearly brought out.]

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice,

The one squeaking thus, and the other down so; In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, For one half was B alt, and the rest G below.

O, Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough!

But he still talked away, 'spite of coughs and of frowns,
So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs,

That a wag once, on hearing the orator say,

"My voice is for war," asked him," Which of them, pray?" O, Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough!

Reeling homeward one evening, top-heavy with gin,
And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown,
He tripped near a sawpit, and tumbled right in,

"Sinking fund," the last words as his noddle came down.
O, Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough!

"Oh! save!" he exclaimed, in his he-and-she tones,

66

Help me out! help me out! I have broken my bones!"

"Help you out!" said a Paddy, who passed-"what a bother! Why, there's two of you there; can't you help one another ?" O, Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough!

THOMAS MOORE.

THE QUIET STREET.

[Affording opportunity for many varieties of the calling voice.]

There is enjoyment in the pathless woods,
The silent valleys yield a tranquil treat.
Thus thought I as I moved with all my goods
To an apartment in a quiet street.

No thoroughfare allured the busy throng;
One end was finished off with railings neat;
No public vehicles would pass along;

It formed a cul-de-sac-this quiet street.

I took possession of the second floor,

A two-pair front-not elegant, but neat;
What could a peaceful poet wish for more,
Than humble lodgings in a quiet street?

I wooed the Muse one sunny afternoon,
I'd pen and ink and everything complete,
Prepared to write a sonnet to the moon,-
Fancy grows vigorous in a quiet street.

Hail, Luna!"-But what is that? A distant sound
Appears my auditory sense to greet;

It cannot be "Hail, Luna!"—I'll be bound,
An organ's got into this quiet street.

No matter,-'twill be over very soon;

There's a policeman somewhere on the beat. Hark! there's a trumpet, sadly out of tune, Waking the echoes of this quiet street.

"Partant pour la Syril," the organ plays;

And now a voice more powerful than sweet Hoarsely invokes the "Light of Other Days"— A ballad-singer's got into the street.

The bands begin a Polka-sounds increase"Sekund edishun-Rooshians in retreat." "Hail, Luna!"-no, not that.-Hi, there, police, Is this permitted in a quiet street?

Silence your brazen throats, you green-baize band;
Avaunt, you trafficker in feline meat;
You organ-grinder, hold your impious hand,
Nor dare to desecrate this quiet street.

"Where the bright fountain, sparkling, never ceases Its gush of limpid music," "Wa-ter-cree-ses !'' "There let me linger, stretched beneath the trees, Tracing in air fantastic"-"Imagees !"

"What varied dreams the vagrant fancy hatches,

A playful Leda with her Jove-born"-"Matcher "° "She opens her treasure-cells, like Portia's caskets, And bids me choose her"-"Baskets, any baskets !"

"In thoughts so bright the aching sense they blind,

In their own lustrous languor"—"Knives to grind " "Visions like those the Interpreter, of Bunyan's,

Displayed to Mercy and young Matthew"-"Onions !"

"There is a spell that none can chase away,

6.

From scenes once visited by" [Sing.] Old Dog Tray "There is a charm whose power must ever blend

The past and present in its'—" Chairs to mend!"

"Still Pan and Syrinx wander thro' the groves,

Still Zephyr moves"—" Shavings for your stoves !” "And still unbanished falters on the ear,"

"Any beer! A-n-y_ B-e-e-r!”

"Aye, and forever, while this planet rolls,

To its sphere-music"-"Mackerel or Soles !" "While crushed Enceladus in torment groans

Beneath his Etna shrieking"-" Stones, hearthstones!"

"While laves the tideless sea the glittering strand

Of Grecia"-[Sing.] "'Tis hard to give the hand!" "The spot they visited is holy ground,

And echo answers"-[Sing.] "Bobbing all around!"

“Hail, Luna!”—“Muffins !”—"Goddess of the Night!"
"Charcoal!"- "Thou silver orb!"-Let me retreat;
Another line I'll not attempt to write:

This very day I'll leave this quiet street.

LITTLE JIM.

[Picture the scene-use care in the descriptive parts—impersonate.]

The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean
But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean,
The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild,
As a patient mother sat beside the deathbed of her child:
A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim:
It was a collier's wife and child, they called him Little Jim.

And oh! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek,
As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to speak
Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her life;
For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's wife.
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed,
And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself instead.

She gets her answer from the child: soft fall the words from him,
"Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim,
I have no pain, dear mother, now, but O! I am so dry;
Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you cry."
With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip;
He smiled to thank her, as he took each little, tiny sip.

"Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-night to him,
And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor little Jim!
She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved so dear,
Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear:
The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard,
The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word.