Shall change beneath the summer showers To golden grain or mellow fruit, Or rainbow-tinted flowers. The granite rocks disorganize To feed the hungry rocks they bear; The forest leaves drink daily life From out the viewless air. There is no death! The leaves may fall, There is no death! An angel form He leaves our hearts all desolate, He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers, The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones Made glad these scenes of sin and strife, Sings now an everlasting song Amid the tree of life. And where he sees a smile too bright, He bears it to that world of light Born unto that undying life, They leave us but to come again; With joy we welcome them-the same Except the sin and pain. And ever near us, though unseen, Is life-there are no dead. E. BULWER LYTTON. LANGUAGE. [This piece should be carefully studied, special attention being given to the enunciation of the words, referring constantly to the dictionary for their proper pronunciation. Not only is this piece exceedingly humorous, but it will be found highly instructive.] Some words on language may be well applied, And take them kindly, though they touch your pride. See the brown peasant of the plastic South, The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk By this one mark,-he's awkward in the face;- It can't be helped, though, if we're taken young, A few brief stanzas may be well employed Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope The clownish voice that utters rôad for road; Once more; speak clearly, if you speak at all; Try over hard to roll the British R; Do put your accents in the proper spot; Don't,-let me beg you,-don't say "How?" for "What?" And when you stick on conversation's burrs Don't strew the pathway with those dreadful urs. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE SONG OF THE CAMP. "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow." They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon; Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, They sang of love, and not of fame, Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,— Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, Beyond the darkening ocean burned And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, And bellowing of the mortars! And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest BAYARD TAYLOR. |