EXERCISE XXVI.-DEATH OF THE LAST CONSTANTINE.-Mrs. Hemans.

[The following extract is an exercise in varied modulation. The opening scene is one of deep repose, requiring low, soft and slow utterance, and slight gesture. The approach of the assailants and the joining of the combat, change the whole manner to increasing and intense excitement of voice and action. The intermingled reflections of awe, and pathos, and admiration, vary the utterance and action to grave and chastened expression, or to glowing warmth of feeling. The piece closes with the deepest tones of pathos and solemnity; and the action is subdued and repressed accordingly.} The streets grow still and lonely ;—and the star, The last, bright lingerer in the path of morn, Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war,

As if young Hope with Twilight's ray were born,
Awhile the city sleeps:-her throngs, o'erworn
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire ;
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn

With battle sounds; the winds in sighs expire;

And Quiet broods in mists, that veil the sunbeam's fire.

The city sleeps!-ay! on the combat's eve,
And by the scaffold's brink, and midst the swell
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve

Thus from her cares. The brave have slumbered well,
And even the fearful, in their dungeon cell,

Chained between Life and Death!-Such rest be thine,
For conflicts wait thee still!—Yet, who can tell,
In that brief hour, how much of Heaven may shine
Full on thy spirit's dream?-Sleep, weary Constantine!

Doth the blast rise?-The clouded east is red,
As if a storm were gathering; and I hear
What seems like heavy raindrops, or the tread,
The soft and smothered step, of those that fear
Surprise from ambushed foes.-Hark! yet more near
It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound,-
A rustling, as of winds where boughs are sere,-
A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground

From far,-
-a heavy rush like seas that break their bound!

Wake! wake! They come, from sea and shore ascending,
In hosts, your ramparts! Arm ye for the day!
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders, rending,
Through tower and wall, a path for their array?

Hark! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey,
With its wild voice, to which the seas reply!
And the earth rocks beneath their engines' sway,
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry,

Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky!

They fail not now, the generous band, that long
Have ranged their swords around a falling throne.
Still, in those fearless men the walls are strong,
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own!
-Shall those high energies be vainly shown?
No! from their towers the invading tide is driven
Back, like the Red sea waves, when God had blown
With his strong winds!—the dark-browed ranks are riven :—
Shout! warriors of the cross;-for victory is of Heaven.

Stand firm!-Again the crescent host is rushing,
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep,
With all their fires and darts, though blood is gushing
Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep.-

Stand firm!-there yet is hope; the ascent is steep;
And from on high no shaft descends in vain ;-
But those that fall, swell up the mangled heap,
In the red moat, the dying and the slain;

And o'er that fearful bridge the assailants mount again.

Oh! the dread mingling, in that awful hour,
Of all terrific sounds !—the savage tone

Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shower
Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o'erthrown,
The deep, dull tambour's beat!-Man's voice alone
Is there unheard: ye may not catch the cry

Of trampled thousands ;-prayer, and shriek, and moan,—
All drowned, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by,-
But swell the unheeded sum that pays for victory!

Where art thou Constantine?-where Death is reaping
His sevenfold harvest; where the stormy light,
Fast as the artillery's thunderbolts are sweeping,
Throws meteor-bursts o'er battle's noonday night;
Where the towers rock and crumble from their height,
As the earthquake and the engines ply

Like red Vesuvio; and where human might
Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high,
While cimeters ring loud on shivering panoply.

Where art thou, Constantine ?-where Christian blood
Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain,-
Where Faith and Valour perish in the flood,
Whose billows, rising o'er their bosoms, gain
Dark strength each moment, where the gallant slain
Around the banner of the cross lie strewed,

Thick as the vine-leaves on the autumnal plain,—

Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued,

And through the breach press on the o'erwhelming multitude.

Now is he battling midst a host, alone,

As the last cedar stems awhile the sway

Of mountain storms, whose fury hath o'erthrown
Its forest brethren, in their green array,
And he hath cast his purple robe away,
With its imperial bearings, that his sword
An iron ransom from the chain may pay,
And win, what haply Fate may yet accord,

A soldier's death, the all, now left an empire's lord!

Search for him now, where bloodiest lie the files
Which once were men, the faithful and the brave!
Search for him now, where loftiest rise the piles
Of shattered helms and shields, which could not save,
And crests and banners, never more to wave

In the free winds of heaven!-He is of those

O'er whom the hosts may rush, the tempest rave,
And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close,

Yet wake them not,- -so deep their long and last repose!

And thou! that, on thy ramparts proudly dying,
As a crowned leader in such hour should die,
Upon thy pyre of shivered spears art lying,
With the heavens o'er thee for a canopy,
And banners for thy shroud,-no tear, no sigh,
Shall mingle with thy dirge; for thou art now
Beyond vicissitude.-Lo! reared on high,

The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow;

But where no change can reach,-there, Constantine, art thou!

EXERCISE XXVII.-GENIUS AND METHOD.-Diderot.

[As an exercise in humorous expression, the following piece requires attention to full liveliness and perfect freedom, and even gaiety of tone. To read such pieces in a dull, monotonous manner, is, of course, to defeat their intention, both in elocution and composition.]

At seven o'clock, the company sat down to cards, and Messrs. Le Roy, Grimm, the Abbé Galiani, and I, began to

converse.

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A dispute arose between Grimm and Le Roy about genius and method. Grimm detests method: it is, according to him, the pedantry of literature. Those that can do nothing, he maintained, but arrange, had better not give themselves the trouble; those who can learn nothing but by means of arrangements, had as well remain ignorant. But," said Le Roy, "it is method which makes genius available.""And which spoils it." They said a great many things which it is not worth while mentioning to you; and they would have said a great many more, had not Galiani interrupted them.

“I remember a fable, my friends, which 1 must tell you. It is rather long, perhaps, but it won't tire you.

"One day, in the middle of a wood, there arose a dispute about singing, between the nightingale and the cuckoo. Each gave the preference to his own talent. 'What bird,' said the cuckoo, has so simple, natural, and measured a song as I?'-'What bird,' said the nightingale, 'has a song so sweet, varied, light, and brilliant as mine?'-'I say few things,' said the cuckoo; but they have weight and order, and one remembers them.'-'I am fond of talking,' said the nightingale, but what I say is always new, and never wearies. I enchant the woods, the cuckoo saddens them. He is so attached to his mother's lesson, that he never hazards a note he has not learned from her. I acknowledge no teacher: I laugh at rules; and it is when I break through them that I am most admired. Where is the comparison between your dull method and my happy flights?'

"The cuckoo made many attempts to interrupt the nightingale. But nightingales sing for ever, and never listen :— it is a little failing of theirs. Our friend, carried away by her ideas, ran on without minding her rival's answer.

"At last, however, they agreed to refer the matter to some arbitrator. But where were they to find an enlightened and impartial judge? They set out in search of one.

"In crossing a meadow, they fell in with an ass of the most grave and solemn aspect. Such length of ears never was seen since the creation of the species. Ah!' said the cuckoo, ‘we are in luck. Our quarrel is an affair of the ear, and here is an admirable pair of them. This is the very judge we want.'

"The ass was browsing, and never dreaming that he was one day to be a judge of music. But stranger things sometimes happen. Our two birds lighted beside him, complimented him on his gravity and judgment, explained the subject of their dispute, and begged him very humbly to decide it.

"But the ass, scarcely turning round his clumsy head, and continuing to browse most diligently, made them a sign with his ears, that he was hungry, and that he was not that day, holding a bed of justice.' The birds insist,—the ass continues to browse. At last, however, his appetite was appeased.

"There were some trees planted on the skirt of the meadow. 'Well,' said he, go there, and I will come to you. You sing and I will digest. I will listen to you, and then give you my opinion.'

The ass

"The birds take flight, and perch in a tree. follows them, with the air and step of a chief justice. He lay down on the grass, and called to them, 'Begin: the court will hear you.'

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'My lord,' said the cuckoo, you must not lose a note 1 sing; you must seize the character of my song; and, above all, be pleased to observe its contrivance and method.' Then, drawing himself up, and clapping his wings each time, he began to sing, Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckcuckoo, cuckoo, cuckcuckoo!' and after having combined these notes in all possible ways, he held his peace.

"The nightingale, without any preamble, began to display her voice, struck into the boldest modulations, and warbled the most singular and original strains. Her song was successively sweet, airy, brilliant, and pathetic; but it was not music for everybody.

"Carried away by her enthusiasm, she would have sung longer; but the ass, who had been yawning fearfully all the while, interrupted her. I have no doubt,' said he, that all that you have been singing is very fine, but I can make nothing of it. It seems to me to be strange, confused, and incoherent. You are perhaps more learned than your rival, but he is more methodical than you; and, for my part, I am for method.'