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And with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head,

There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat dead.

LESSON CLI.

THE DIRGE OF THE CONQUEROR.

A Dirge is a Lamentation, usually sung over the dead. The following lines are a fine specimen of Irony, for, while they pretend to sing the glorious deeds of the departed warrior, they most effectually condemn war and all its works, as shown in famine and bloodshed, in the corruption of morals, the blasting of the fields, and the death of children, the hope and stay of their parents. The lines that are repeated, are called the Burden of a Song, and in the following case they must be spoken seriously, and yet in such a tone of voice as will show that they are Ironical. The author is William KenneDY, of England.

The flag of battle on its staff hangs drooping-
The thundering artillery is still—

The war-horse pines; and, o'er his sabre stooping,
His rider grieves for his neglected skill:

The chief who swept the ruddy tide of glory,

The conqueror! now only lives in story.

Mourn, nations! mourn! The godlike man's no

more,

Who fired your roofs, and quenched your hearths
with gore!

Skies, baleful blue-harvests of hateful yellow-
Bring sad assurance that he is not here;

Where waved his plume, the grape forgot to mellow,
He changed the pruning-hook into the spear.
peace and her dull train are fast returning,
And so, farewell to famine, blood and burning!

But

Mourn, nations! mourn! The godlike man's no

more,

Who fired your roofs, and quenched your hearths with gore!

But of our country's virtue! thou art blighted,
Since war's hot breath abroad hath ceased to blow;
Instead of clashing swords, soft hearts are plighted,
Hands joined, and household goblets made to flow;
And for the ocean-roar of hostile meeting,

Land wafts to land concord's ignoble greeting.

Mourn, nations! mourn! The godlike man's no more,

Who fired your roofs, and quenched your hearths with gore!

The apple-tree is on the rampart growing;

On the stern battlement the wall-flower blooms; The stream that rolled blood-red, is faintly glowing With summer's rose, which its green banks perfumes;

The holm that girt the brow of the undaunted,
By peasant hands, with garden shrubs is planted.
Mourn, nations! mourn! The godlike man's no

more,

Who fired your roofs, and quenched your hearths with gore!

Hopes of the young and strong! ye're all departed—
Dishonored manhood tills the ungrateful farm;
Parents! life's balm hath fled—ye, broken-hearted,
Deplore the fate that bids your sons disarm.
O heavenly times! when your own gold was paying
Your gallant sons, for being slain, or slaying!

Mourn, nations! mourn! The godlike man's no
more,

Who fired your roofs, and quenched your hearths with gore!

LESSON CLII.

THE JEWISH BATTLE SONG.

The following lines are by GEORGE LUNT, of Newburyport. The scripture allusions are a good study for the pupil, but need not, it is hoped, be explained here. The Romans are the enemy, and they destroyed the city and scattered the Jews among the Gentiles.

Ho! Princes of Jacob! the strength and the stay
Of the daughter of Zion,-now up, and array;
Lo, the hunters have struck her, and bleeding, alone,
Like a pard in the desert she maketh her moan:
Up, with war-horse and banner, with spear and with
sword,

On the spoiler go down in the might of the Lord!

She lay sleeping in beauty, more fair than the moon,
With her children about her, like stars in night's noon,
When they came to her covert, these spoilers of Rome,
And are trampling her children and rifling her home:
O, up, noble chiefs! would you leave her forlorn,
To be crushed by the Gentile, a mock and a scorn?

Their legions and cohorts are fair to behold,
With their iron-clad bosoms, and helmets of gold;
But, gorgeous and glorious in pride though they be,
Their avarice is broad as the grasp of the sea;
They talk not of pity; the mercies they feel
Are cruel and fierce as their death-doing steel.

Will they laugh at the hind they have struck to the earth,

When the bold stag of Naphtali bursts on their mirth? Will they dare to deride and insult, when in wrath The lion of Judah glares wild in their path?

O, say, will they mock us, when down on the plain The hoofs of our steeds thunder over their slain?

They come with their plumes tossing haughty and free, And white as the crest of the old hoary sea;

Yet they float not so fierce as the wild lion's mane, To whose lair ye have tracked him, whose whelps ye have slain;

But, dark mountain-archer! your sinews to-day
Must be strong as the spear-shaft to drive in the prey.

And the tribes are all gathering; the valleys ring out
To the peal of the trumpet-the timbrel-the shout:
Lo, Zebulon comes; he remembers the day

When they perilled their lives to the death in the fray;
And the riders of Naphtali burst from the hills
Like a mountain-swollen stream in the pride of its rills.

Like Sisera's, rolls the foe's chariot-wheel,
And he comes, like the Philistine, girded in steel;
Like both shall he perish, if ye are but men,
If your javelins and hearts are as mighty as then ;
He trusts in his buckler, his spear, and his sword;
His strength is but weakness;—we trust in the LORD!

LESSON CLIII.

THERMOPYLÆ.

The following spirited sketch of the battle between Leonidas with his three hundred Spartans, and the countless host of Xerxes, in the narrow strait or pass of Thermopyla, was written by BISHOP GEORGE W. DOANE, of New Jersey.

'Twas an hour of fearful issues,

When the bold three hundred stood,

For their love of holy freedom,

By that old Thessalian flood;

When lifting high each sword of flame,
They called on every sacred name,

And swore, beside those dashing waves,
They never, never would be slaves!

And, O! that oath was nobly kept:
From morn to setting sun
Did desperation urge the fight
Which valor had begun;

Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood
Ran down and mingled with the flood,
And all, from mountain-cliff to wave,
Was Freedom's, Valor's, Glory's grave.

O, yes, that oath was nobly kept,
Which nobly had been sworn,
And proudly did each gallant heart
The foeman's fetters spurn;
And firmly was the fight maintained,
And amply was the triumph gained;
They fought, fair Liberty, for thee;
They fell-TO DIE IS TO BE FREE.

LESSON CLIV.

AMBITION.

The following vivid picture of the workings and reward of ambition, is drawn by our countryman, N. P. WILLIS. Poetry without rhyme is generally called Blank-verse, but the pupil will see that the poetry consists not in the rhyme but in the selection of words, the most harmonious location of them, and the proper measurement. It may be well to inform the pupil, also, that a verse is properly a line of poetry and not a stanza. The line is called a verse or a turning, because when the end is reached we turn to begin again. The following verses, then, contain five Iambics, or feet of two syllables, the first short and the second long. A verse of five feet is called a Pentameter; one of six feet is called a Hexameter.

What is Ambition? "Tis a glorious cheat!
It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy,
And lifts his humble window, and comes in.

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