ZAP. Thus, kneeling at thy feet--(_kneels._)
BAR. Thou thankless fair! (_raises_ ZAPHIRA.)
Thus to repay the labours of my love!
Had I not seiz'd the throne when Selim died,
Ere this thy foes had laid Algiers in ruin.
I check'd the warring pow'rs, and gave you peace,
Make thee but mine,
I will descend the throne, and call thy son
From banishment to empire.
ZAP. O, my heart!
Can I bear this?
Inhuman tyrant!--curses on thy head!
May dire remorse and anguish haunt thy throne,
And gender in thy bosom fell despair,--
Despair as deep as mine! (_crosses to_ L.)
BAR. (R.C.). What means Zaphira?
What means this burst of grief?
ZAP. (L.). Thou fell destroyer!
Had not guilt steel'd thy heart, awak'ning conscience
Would flash conviction on thee, and each look,
Shot from these eyes, be arm'd with serpent horrors,
To turn thee into stone!--Relentless man!
Who did the bloody deeds--O, tremble, guilt,
Where'er thou art!--Look on me; tell me, tyrant,
Who slew my blameless son?
BAR. What envious tongue
Hath dar'd to taint my name with slander?
Thy Selim lives; nay, more, he soon shall reign,
If thou consent to bless me.
ZAP. Never, O, never!--Sooner would I roam
An unknown exile through the torrid climes
Of Afric--sooner dwell with wolves and tigers,
Than mount with thee my murder'd Selim's throne!
BAR. Rash queen, forbear; think on thy captive state,
Remember, that within these palace walls
I am omnipotent. Yield thee, then;
Avert the gath'ring horrors that surround thee,
And dread my pow'r incens'd.
ZAP. Dares thy licentious tongue pollute mine ear
With that foul menace? Tyrant! dread'st thou not
Th' all-seeing eye of heav'n, its lifted thunder,
And all the red'ning vengeance which it stores
For crimes like thine?--Yet know, Zaphira scorns thee.
[_crosses to_ R.
Though robb'd by thee of ev'ry dear support,
No tyrant's threat can awe the free-born soul,
That greatly dares to die. [_Exit_ ZAPHIRA, R.
BAR. (C.). Where should she learn the tale of Selim's death?
Could Othman dare to tell it?--If he did,
My rage shall sweep him swifter than the whirlwind,
To instant death! [_Exit._
(R.) Right. (L.) Left. (C.) Centre. (R.C.) Right Centre. (L.C.) Left
Centre.
THE MILLS OF GOD.
DUGANNE.
Apart from the noble sentiments of these verses, and their
exquisite diction--in which every word is the best that could
possibly be used--as in a piece of faultless mosaic every
minute stone is so placed as to impart strength, brilliancy,
and harmony--they afford an excellent example of lofty,
dignified recitation:
Those mills of God! those tireless mills!
I hear their ceaseless throbs and thrills:
I see their dreadful stones go round,
And all the realms beneath them ground;
And lives of men and souls of states,
Flung out, like chaff, beyond their gates.
And we, O God! with impious will,
Have made these Negroes turn Thy mill!
Their human limbs with chains we bound,
And bade them whirl Thy mill-stones round;
With branded brow and fettered wrist,
We bade them grind this Nation's grist!
And so, like Samson--blind and bound--
Our Nation's grist this Negro ground;
And all the strength of Freedom's toil,
And all the fruits of Freedom's soil,
And all her hopes and all her trust,
From Slavery's gates were flung, like dust.
With servile souls this mill we fed,
That ground the grain for Slavery's bread;
With cringing men, and grovelling deeds,
We dwarfed our land to Slavery's needs;
Till all the scornful nations hissed,
To see us ground with Slavery's grist.
The mill grinds on! From Slavery's plain,
We reap great crops of blood-red grain;
And still the Negro's strength we urge,
With Slavery's gyve and Slavery's scourge;
And still we crave--on Freedom's sod--
That Slaves shall turn the mills of God!
The Mill grinds on! God lets it grind!
We sow the seed--the sheaves we bind:
The mill-stones whirl as we ordain;
Our children's bread shall test the grain!
While Samson still in chains we bind,
The mill grinds on! God lets it grind!
THE MENAGERIE.
J. HONEYWELL.
Did you ever! No, I never!
Mercy on us, what a smell!
Don't be frightened, Johnny, dear!
Gracious! how the jackals yell!
Mother, tell me, what's the man
Doing with that pole of his?
Bless your little precious heart,
He's stirring up the beastesses!
Children! don't you go so near!
Hevings! there's the Afric cowses!
What's the matter with the child?
Why, the monkey's tore his trowses!
Here's the monstrous elephant,--
I'm all a tremble at the sight;
See his monstrous tooth-pick, boys!
Wonder if he's fastened tight?
There's the lion!--see his tail!
How he drags it on the floor!
'Sakes alive! I'm awful scared
To hear the horrid creatures roar!
Here's the monkeys in their cage,
Wide awake you are to see 'em;
Funny, ain't it? How would you
Like to have a tail and be 'em?
Johnny, darling, that's the bear
That tore the naughty boys to pieces;
Horned cattle!--only hear
How the dreadful camel wheezes!
That's the tall giraffe, my boy,
Who stoops to hear the morning lark;
'Twas him who waded Noah's flood,
And scorned the refuge of the ark.
Here's the crane,--the awkward bird!
Strong his neck is as a whaler's,
And his bill is full as long
As ever met one from the tailor's.
Look!--just see the zebra there,
Standing safe behind the bars;
Goodness me! how like a flag,
All except the corner stars!
There's the bell! the birds and beasts
Now are going to be fed;
So my little darlings, come,
It 's time for you to be abed.
"Mother, 't is n't nine o'clock!
You said we need n't go before;
Let us stay a little while,--
Want to see the monkeys more!"
Cries the showman, "Turn 'em out!
Dim the lights!--there, that will do;
Come again to-morrow, boys;
Bring your little sisters, too."
Exit mother, half distraught,
Exit father, muttering "bore?"
Exit children, blubbering still,
"Want to see the monkeys more!"
IGNORANCE IS BLISS
CHARACTERS.
FRED BROWN.
JOHNNY GRAY.
NED WHITE.
SCENE.--_Recitation-Room at a Public School._
_Enter_ FRED.
_Fred._ A pretty task Master Green has given me this time! He calls me
to his desk, and says, "Brown, those boys, Gray and White, have
been very inattentive during the music lesson: take them into the
recitation-room, and keep them there until they can sing four stanzas
of 'The Battle-cry of Freedom.'" A nice music-master I am! I can't
read, sing, or growl a note, and I don't know a single line of "The
Battle-cry of Freedom." But I must not let them know that. Here they
are. (_Enter_ GRAY _and_ WHITE; _they get in a corner of the stage, and
whisper together._) Now, what conspiracy is hatching? Hem! Here, you
fellows, do you know what you came here for?
_Gray._ To take a music lesson, I suppose.
_Fred._ Well, you had better commence.
_White._ Certainly, after you.
_Fred._ After me! What do you mean?
_White._ I believe it's the custom of all music-masters to first sing
the song they wish to teach. (_Aside to_ GRAY.) He can't sing a note.
_Gray._ (_Aside to_ WHITE.) He can't? good! Let's plague him.
(_Aloud._) Come, singing-master, proceed.
_Fred._ No matter about me. You two can sing, and when you make a
mistake I will correct it.
_Gray._ You'll correct it! That's good. With what, pray?
_Fred._ With this. (_Producing a ratten from under his jacket._)
_White._ O, dear, I don't like that sort of tuning-fork.
_Fred._ You'll get it if you don't hurry. Come, boys, "The Battle-cry
of Freedom."
_Gray._ (_Aside to_ WHITE.) Ned, do you know the song?
_White._ (_Aside._) I know just one line.
_Gray._ (_Aside._) O, dear, we're in a scrape. (_Aloud._) Master Fred,
will you please give me the first line? I've forgotten it.
_Fred._ Certainly. Let me see. "Rock me to sleep, mother." No, that
isn't it.
_White._ (_Aside._) He's split on that rock.
_Fred._ Hem! ah! "Dear father, dear father, come home." O, bother!
_Gray._ (_Aside._) It'll bother him to "come home" with that line.
_Fred._ "Give me a cot."--O, pshaw! I tell you what, boys, I didn't
come here to talk, but to listen: now you two sing away at once, or
down comes the ratten.
_Gray._ (_Aside._) I say, Ned, Brown doesn't know it? here's fun. Now
you just keep quiet, and ring in your line when I snap my fingers.
_White._ (_Aside._) All right. I understand. When you snap, I sing.
_Fred._ Come, come! Strike up, or I shall strike down.
_Gray._ (_Sings to the tune of the Battle-cry of Freedom_,)--
"Mary had a little lamb;
Its fleece was white as snow."
(_Snaps his fingers._)
_White._ (_Very loud._)
"Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Gray._ (_Sings._)
"And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Fred._ Capital! Perfectly correct, perfectly correct. Sing again.
_Gray._ (_Sings._)
"It followed her to school one day;
It was against the rule." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Gray._ (_Sings._)
"It made the children laugh and play
To see a lamb at school." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Fred._ Beautiful! beautiful! I couldn't do it better myself.
_Gray._ (_Aside._) I should think not.
_White._ Come, Mr. Singing-master, you try a stanza.
_Fred._ What, sir! do you want to shirk your task? Sing away.
_Gray._ (_Sings._)
"And so the teacher turned him out;
Yet still he lingered near." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Gray._
"And waited patiently about,
Till Mary did appear." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Fred._ Glorious! Why, boys, it's a perfect uproar.
_White._ There's enough, isn't there?
_Fred._ No, sir, four stanzas. Come, be quick.
_Gray._ I don't know any more.
_White._ I'm sure I don't.
_Fred._ Yes you do, you're trying to shirk; but I won't have it. You
want a taste of the rattan. Come, be lively.
_Gray._ (_Sings._)
"'What makes the lamb love Mary so?'
The eager children cry." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Gray._
"'Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,'
The teacher did reply." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Fred._ There, boys, I knew you could sing. Now come in, and I will
tell Master Green how capitally you have done--that I couldn't do
better myself.
[_Exit._
_White._ Well, Johnny, we got out of that scrape pretty well.
_Gray._ Yes, Ned; but it's a poor way. I must pay a little more
attention to my singing.
_White._ And so must I, for we may not always have a teacher on whom
the old saying fits so well.
_Gray._ Old saying? What's that?
_White._ "Where ignorance is bliss--"
_Gray._ O, yes, "'Twere folly to be wise."
[_Exeunt._
THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS.
ANONYMOUS.
[The following stirring poem is highly dramatic. The reader
should, as far as possible, realize the feelings of the
shepherd-parent as he sees "the youngest of his babes" borne
in the iron-claws of the vulture high in mid air towards his
golgotha of a nest. Much force of attitude and gesture is not
only admissable, but called for, as the agonized father leans
forward following the flight of the vulture.]
I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales,
And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales,
As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er
They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more.
And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear:
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous.
But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:--
"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,
Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells;
But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock,
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.
"One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,
When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,
As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain,
A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.
"I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright,
The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight
I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care,
But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the
air.
"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye!
His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry!
And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave,
That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!
"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me,
And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free,
At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed:
Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.
"The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew,
A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view:
But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight;
'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.
"All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er
forgot,
When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot,
From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached,
He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!
"I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away;
I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay;
A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred,
The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head."
That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers passing by,
Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.
And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,
The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.
FALSTAFF'S BOASTING
SHAKESPEARE.
This scene will give a good chance to practise _variety_ of
expression, both in words and action. Falstaff throws himself
into all the attitudes, and elevates and depresses his
voice, as if he was actually engaged in the combat he
describes--preserving the utmost gravity of face, until he
finds that the Prince has really detected him. Then the "fat
rogue" bursts into a jolly, unctuous laugh, and carries off
the honors, after all:
_P. Henry._ What's the matter?
_Fal._ What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'en a
thousand pound this morning.
_P. Hen._ Where is it, Jack? where is it?
_Fal._ Where is it? taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of
us.
_P. Hen._ What, a hundred, man?
_Fal._ I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them
two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust
through the doublet; four, through the hose; my buckler cut through
and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw _ecce signum_. I never
dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all
cowards!--Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they
are villains, and the sons of darkness.
_P. Hen._ Speak, sirs: how was it?
_Gads._ We four set upon some dozen,--
_Fal._ Sixteen at least, my lord.
_Gads._ And bound them.
_Peto._ No, no, they were not bound.
_Fal._ You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew
else, an Ebrew Jew.
_Gads._ As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us.
_Fal._ And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.
_P. Hen._ What, fought ye with them all?
_Fal._ All! I know not what ye call, all; but if I fought not with
fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three
and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legged creature.
_Poins._ Pray God, you have not murdered some of them.
_Fal._ Nay, that's past praying for, for I have peppered two of them:
two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee
what, Hal,--if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.
Thou knowest my old ward;--here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four
rogues in buckram let drive at me.--
_P. Hen._ What, four? thou said'st but two, even now.
_Fal._ Four, Hal; I told thee four.
_Poins._ Ay, ay, he said four.
_Fal._ These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made no
more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.
_P. Hen._ Seven? why, there were but four, even now.
_Fal._ In buckram.
_Poins._ Ay, four in buckram suits.
_Fal._ Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.
_P. Hen._ Pr'ythee, let him alone; we shall have more anon.
_Fal._ Dost thou hear me, Hal?
_P. Hen._ Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.
_Fal._ Do, so, for it is worth the listening to. The nine in buckram
that I told thee of,----
_P. Hen._ So, two more already.
_Fal._ Their points being broken,----
_Poins._ Down fell their hose.
_Fal._ Began to give me ground: But I followed me close, came in foot
and hand: and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.
_P. Hen._ O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!
_Fal._ But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves,
in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me; for it was so
dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.
_P. Hen._ These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as
a mountain, open palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts; thou
knotty-pated fool! thou whoreson, obscene, greasy, tallow-keech,--
_Fal._ What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth, the truth?
_P. Hen._ Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green,
when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us thy
reason; what sayest thou to this?
_Poins._ Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.
_Fal._ What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the
racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a
reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries I
would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.
_P. Hen._ I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward,
this bed-presser, this horse back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh;--
_Fal._ Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's-tongue,
bull's-pizzle, you stock-fish,--O for breath to utter what is like
thee!--you tailor's yard, you sheathe, you bow-case, you vile standing
tuck;--
_P. Hen._ Well, breathe a while and then to it again; and when thou
hast tired thyself in base comparisons hear me speak but this.
_Poins._ Mark, Jack.
_P. Hen._ We two saw you four set on four: you bound them, and were
masters of their wealth.--Mark now how plain a tale shall put you
down.--Then did we two set on you four: and, with a word, out-faced
you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the
house:--and, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as
quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as
ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword, as
thou hast done; and then say, it was a fight! What trick, what device,
what starting-hole, canst now find out, to hide thee from this open
and apparent shame?
_Poins._ Come, let's hear, Jack: What trick hast thou now?
_Fal._ By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear
ye, my masters: Was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn
upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules;
but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct
is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the
better of myself and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant lion, and
thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have
the money.--Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray
to-morrow.--Gallant, lads, boys, hearts of gold. All the titles of
good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? shall we have a
play extempore?
ON TO FREEDOM.
DUGANNE.
This poem should be delivered with bold energy, with flashing
eye, swelling breast, and free action--as though the speaker's
heart was full of the nobility of the theme:
"There has been the cry--'On to Richmond!' And still another
cry--On to England!' Better than either is the cry--'On to
Freedom!'"
CHARLES SUMNER.
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
'Tis the everlasting cry
Of the floods that strive with ocean--
Of the storms that smite the sky;
Of the atoms in the whirlwind,
Of the seed beneath the ground--
Of each living thing in Nature
That is bound!
'Twas the cry that led from Egypt,
Through the desert wilds of Edom:
Out of darkness--out of bondage--
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
O! thou stony-hearted Pharaoh!
Vainly warrest thou with God!
Moveless, at thy palace portals,
Moses waits, with lifted rod!
O! thou poor barbarian, Xerxes!
Vainly o'er the Pontic main
Flingest thou, to curb its utterance,
Scourge or chain!
For, the cry that led from Egypt,
Over desert wilds of Edom,
Speaks alike through Greek and Hebrew;
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
In the Roman streets, with Gracchus,
Hark! I hear that cry outswell;
In the German woods with Hermann,
And on Switzer hills, with Tell;
Up from Spartacus, the Bondman,
When his tyrants yoke he clave,
And from Stalwart Wat the Tyler--
Saxon slave!
Still the old, old cry of Egypt,
Struggling up from wilds of Edom--
Sounding still through all the ages:
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
Gospel cry of laboring Time:
Uttering still, through seers and sages,
Words of hope and faith sublime!
From our Sidneys, and our Hampdens,
And our Washingtons they come:
And we cannot, and we dare not
Make them dumb!
Out of all the shames of Egypt--
Out of all the snares of Edom;
Out of darkness--out of bondage--
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
When spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,
The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.
The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,
And nodded, careless, by.
The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead;
And, fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.
But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day,
Grew sorrowful and dim.
They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset.
Nor how, when round the frosty pole,
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole,
To banquet on the dead;
Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.
But long they looked, and feared and wept,
Within his distant home;
And dreamt and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.
So long they looked--but never spied
His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he died,
Far down that narrow glen.
DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM.
N.P. WILLIS.
This admirable composition gives ample scope for gentle,
mournful, tear-stricken recitation. The thoughts prompt the
speaker to natural expression:
The king stood still
Till the last echo died: then throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:--
"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair.
How could he mark _thee_ for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!
"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee;
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet '_my father_' from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come
To meet me, Absalom!
"And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:--
And thy dark sin!--Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My erring Absalom!"