"The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, Even in the matter of mine innocence: Nay, after that, consume away in rust, Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron? "Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues "Come, Anthony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world: Hated by one he loves; brav'd by his brother; My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger, If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar: for, I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better Cassius, in JULIUS CESAR. MONOTONE. According to Dr. Rush, when two or more syllables occur successively on the same place of radical pitch, the phrase may be called "the phrase of the Monotone." When the radical pitch of a syllable is a tone above that of a preceding syllable, the phrase may be termed the "Rising Ditone"; if below the preceding syllable, the "Falling Ditone." When the radicals of three syllables successively ascend a tone, the phrase is called the "Rising Tritone"; when they successively descend a tone, the "Falling Tritone." The Monotone may be defined as that inflexible movement of the voice which is heard when fear, vastness of thought, force, majesty, power, or intensity of feeling is such as partially to obstruct the powers of utterance. "This movement of the voice may be accounted for by the fact, that, when the excitement is so powerful, and the kind and degree of feeling are such as to agitate the whole frame, the vocal organs will be so affected, and their natural functions so controlled, that they can give utterance to the thought or sentiment in only one note, iterated on the same unvarying line of pitch. "Grandeur of thought and sublimity of feeling are always expressed by this movement. The effect produced by it is deep and impressive. When its use is known, and the rule for its application is clearly understood, the reading will be characterized by a solemnity of manner, a grandeur of refinement, and a beauty of execution, which all will acknowledge to be in exact accordance with the dictates of Nature, and strictly within the pale of her laws."-Tower. Illustrations of the Monotone. "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, "The lady sprang up suddenly, The lovely lady, Christabel! It moaned as near, as near can be, But what it is she cannot tell. On the other side it seems to be, Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak-tree. "The night is chill; the forest bare; - Keats. There is not wind enough in air "Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! Jesu, Maria, shield her well! She folded her arms beneath her cloak, "O, I have pass'd a miserable night, Coleridge Clarence, in RICHARD III. "Then my heart it grew ashen and sober On this very night of last year, That I journeyed- I journeyed down here— That I brought a dread burden down here, ULALUME.Edgar A. Poe "I am not come : To stay to bid farewell, farewell forever, For this I come! 'Tis over! I must leave thee! Say that thou dost not hate me. Say it to me, Thekla! Max to Thekla. - THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. "Grief should be Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate, Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free, Strong to consume small troubles, to commend - Schiller. Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end." SORROW.-Aubrey De Vere. "I am old and blind! Men point at me as smitten by God's frown: Afflicted and deserted of my kind, Yet am I not cast down. I am weak, yet strong: I murmur not, that I no longer see; O, merciful One! When men are farthest, then art Thou most near; Thy glorious face Is leaning toward me, and its holy light MILTON ON HIS BLINDNESS.—Mrs. E. L. Howell. Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears: He is gone who seem'd so great. - Than any wreath that man can weave him. But speak no more of his renown, God accept him, Christ receive him." ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. Tennyson. SELECTIONS. ILLUSTRATIONS OF DIATONIC MELODY. CHAUCER. Mrs. Browning. But it is in Chaucer we touch the true height, and look abroad into the kingdoms and glories of our poetical literature,—it is with Chaucer that we begin our "Books of the Poets," our collections and selections, our pride of place and name. And the genius of the poet shares the character of his position: he was made for an early poet, and the metaphors of dawn and spring doubly become him. A morning star, a lark's exaltation, cannot usher in a glory better. The "cheerful morning face," "the breezy call of incense breathing morn," you recognize in his countenance and voice; it is a voice full of promise and prophecy. He is the good omen of our poetry, the "good-bird," according to the Romans, "the best good angel of the spring," the nightingale, according to his own creed of good luck, heard before the cuckoo. Up rose the sunne, and up rose Emilie, and up rose her poet, the first of a line of kings, conscious of futurity in his smile. He is a king and inherits the earth, and expands his great soul smilingly to embrace his great heritage. Nothing is too high for him to touch with a thought, nothing too low to dower with an affection. As a complete creature cognate of life and death, he cries upon God, - -as a sympathetic creature he singles out a daisy from the universe ("si douce est la marguerite"), to lie down by half a summer's day and bless it for fellowship. His senses are open and delicate, like a young child's-his sensibilities capacious of supersensual relations, like an experienced thinker's. Child-like, too, his tears and smiles lie at the edge of his eyes, and he is one proof more among the many, that the deepest pathos and the quickest gayeties hide together in the same nature. He is too wakeful and curious to lose the stirring of a leaf, yet not two wide awake to see visions of green and white ladies between the branches; and a fair house of fame and a noble court of love are built and hidden in the winking of his eyelash. And because his imagination is |