Come rest on my bosom, if there ye can sleep;

I canna speak to ye; I only can weep.

Ye have crossed the wild river, ye've risked all for me,
And I'll part from ye never, dear Charlie Machree!
WILLIAM J. HOPPIN.

JOHN MAYNARD.

[Enter into the spirit of the piece, and strive to paint the scene in strong colors. The calling voice should be used with great care.]

'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse,

One bright midsummer day,
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen
Swept proudly on her way.

Bright faces clustered on the deck,
Or, leaning o'er the side,

Watched carelessly the feathery foam
That flecked the rippling tide.

Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,
That smiling bends serene,
Could dream that danger, awful, vast,
Impended o'er the scene-

Could dream that ere an hour had sped,
That frame of sturdy oak

Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves.
Blackened with fire and smoke?

A seaman sought the captain's side,
A moment whispered low;

The captain's swarthy face grew pale,

He hurried down below.

Alas, too late! Though quick and sharp
And clear his orders came,

No human efforts could avail

To quench th' insidious flame.

The bad news quickly reached the deck,
It sped from lip to lip,

And ghastly faces everywhere

Looked from the doomèd ship.

"Is there no hope-no chance of life?"
A hundred lips implore;

"But one," the captain made reply,
"To run the ship on shore."

A sailor, whose heroic soul

That hour should yet reveal,

By name John Maynard, eastern born,—
Stood calmly at the wheel.

"Head her southeast!" the captain shouts
Above the smothered roar,-
"Head her southeast without delay!
Make for the nearest shore!".

No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,
Or clouds his dauntless eye,

As in a sailor's measured tone

His voice responds, "Ay, Ay!"

Three hundred souls,-the steamer's freight,-
Crowd forward wild with fear,

While at the stern the dreadful flames
Above the deck appear.

John Maynard watched the nearing flames,
But still, with steady hand,

He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly
He steered the ship to land.

"John Maynard," with an anxious voice
The captain cries once more,

"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,

And we will reach the shore."

Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart

Responded firmly, still

Unawed, though face to face with death,

"With God's good help I will!"

The flames approach with giant strides,

They scorch his hands and brow;

One arm disabled seeks his side,

Ah, he is conquered now!

But no, his teeth are firmly set,

He crushes down the pain,

His knee upon the stanchion pressed,
He guides the ship again.

One moment yet! one moment yet!-
Brave heart, thy task is o'er!
The pebbles grate beneath the keel,
The steamer touches shore.
Three hundred grateful voices rise
In praise to God, that He

Hath saved them from the fearful fire,
And from th' ingulfing sea.

But where is he, that helmsman bold?
The captain saw him reel-

His nerveless hands released their task,
He sunk beside the wheel.

The wave received his lifeless corpse,
Blackened with smoke and fire.
God rest him! Hero never had
A nobler funeral pyre!

BUGLE SONG.

[Play upon the words and bring out their full expression. Employ the calling voice in the last lines of each stanza, and let it die away at the close.]

I.

The splendor falls on castle walls,
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

II.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going;

O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing!
let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Blow;

III.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on field, on hill, on river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer dying, dying, dying.

TENNYSON.

SONG OF THE GREEKS (1822).

[Full force, with spirit and energy.]

Again to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land-the first garden of Liberty's tree

It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free:
For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretched in our aid? Be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;

For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we will be victorious,

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not:
The sword we have drawn we will sheathe not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.

Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us;
But they shall not to slavery doom us:
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves:
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us;
To the charge! Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day shall ye blush for its story,
Or brighten your lives with its glory?—

Our women-O, say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken

Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from and named for, the godlike of earth! Strike home! and the world shall revere us

As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion !

Her inlands, her isles of the ocean,

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring.
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,

That were cold and extinguished in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms,
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,—
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens !

CAMPBELL.

ARNOLD WINKELRIED.

[This story of the hero-martyr of the battle of Sempach, in the fourteenth century, should be told in an animated manner, strongly bringing out all the points.]

"Make way for liberty!" he cried

Made way for liberty, and died!

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood;
Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears.
Opposed to these, a hovering band
Contended for their fatherland,

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke

From manly necks the ignoble yoke;

Marshaled once more at freedom's call,

They came to conquer-or to fall.

And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burned within;
The battle trembled to begin:

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for assault was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;

That line 't were suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet.
How could they rest within their graves,
To leave their homes the haunts of slaves?
Would they not feel their children tread,
With clanking chains, above their head?