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to weight of character, to intellectual ability rooted in principle.
1 CÒN'COURSE (kõng'kõrs). The com- | . pline, or to a regular course of edu
ing together of many persons or cation.
things; a flocking together. | 4 FẠC-TI"TIOys. Unnatural ; made by • BĘ-NÉF'I-CĚNCE. Active goodness. art; artificial.
• DÍS'CI-PLI-NA-RY. Relating to disci. Ó GRĂV'I-TĀTES. Is attracted,
LXXXVII.— THE BATTLE FIELD.
[William Cullen Bryant was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. He has resided for many years in or near the city of New York. His poetry is distinguished for its high finish, its lofty moral tone, and its admira. ble descriptions of American scenery.]
1. ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
Encountered in the battle-cloud.
2. Ah, never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave,
Upon the soil they fought to save.
3. Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And bell of wandering kine', are heard.
4. No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain?; Men start not at the battle-cry;
O, be it never heard again!
5. Soon rested those who fought; but thou,
Who minglest in the harder strife
Thy warfare only ends with life.
6. A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year;
7. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot!
The sage may frown — yet faint thou not!
8. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
• The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn,
The victory of endurance born.
9. Truthi, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
And dies among his worshippers.
10. Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When those who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.
11. Another hand thy sword shall wield?,
Another hand the standard wave,
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave!
1 KÎNE. Cows.
13 WIĒLD. Use with the hand; handle
LXXXVIII. – THE DEATH SCENE IN ION.
TALFOURD. [Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd, an English writer, lawyer, and judge, was born in 1795, and died in 1854. He was made a judge of the Court of Common Pleas in 1849. He was the author of several dramatic poems, and of a biography of Charles Lamb. His plays are characterized by smooth versification, hightoned sentiment, and abundant imagery. The following is the closing scene of “ Ion,” the most popular of his dramas, the plot of which is taken from the mythology of ancient Greece. Ion is introduced in the beginning of the play, as a youth in attendance upon a temple of Apollo in Argos, of which Medon is high priest. Argos is wasted by a pestilence, which the oracle has declared will not cease till the line of the reigning king, Adrastus, shall have become extinct. Ion proves to be the son of Adrastus; and having assumed the crown upon the death of the latter, devotes himself to self-destruction for his coun. try's sake. Clemanthe is the daughter of Medon, and Phocion is his son. The other characters are sages and soldiers of Argos.]
The Procession. Enter MEDON, AGENOR, PHOCION, TIMOCLES, CLEON, Sages, and PEOPLE — Ion, last, in royal robes. He advances amidst shouts.
Ion. I thank you for your greeting. - Shout no more,
Medon. Permit thy earliest friend,
Ion. Thou art still most kind
Medon. Nay, do not think of me. — My son! my son!
Ion. Am I indeed so pale ?
[Sits on the throne' Stand forth, Agenor ! |
* PHEBUS. Another name for Apollo, one of the ancient neathen deities. + Pronounced A-gelnor,
Agenor. I await thy will.
Ion. To thee I look as to the wisest friend
Agen. Pardon me —
Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request : Thou never couldst deny me what I sought In boyish wantonness', and shall not grudge Thy wisdom to me, till our state revive From its long anguish. It will not be long If Heaven approve me here. Thou hast all power, Whether I live or die.
Agen. Die! I am old
Ion. Death is not jealous of thy mild decay,
Crythes. I kneel to crave
Ion. I cannot thank thee,
May glorious laurels wreath it! In our realm,
Cry. Dost intend
Ion. No, Crythes! In ourselves,
Cry. My lord —
Ion. No more - my word hath passed.
Medion. Think of thee, my lord ?
Ion. Prithee 3 no more. Argives,* I have a boon
* ÄR'giveș. Inhabitants of Argos.