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Orthographical expedients are devices by which the deficiencies of an alphabet are supplied.
Accent is the stress of the voice laid upon a syllable in a word.
Emphasis is the stress of the voice laid upon a word or words in a
Metathesis is a transposition of letters in a word.
Umlaut is the modification of a root-vowel owing to the influence of a suffix.
Changes in words arising from a desire to economise effort in speech are said to be due to Euphony.
A Vowel is a sound by the aid of which any consonantal sound can be audibly produced.
A Consonant is a sound which will not enable us to produce audibly sounds which are by themselves almost inaudible.
A Diphthong is a combination of two vowel sounds in the same syllable.
1. Who is this?—Why are you so late?—Give me your hand.—To bliss domestic he his heart resigned.-There is said to have been a battle. He will succeed or die. -Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green. Let me stay at home.-His horse being killed, he was taken prisoner.-Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers.
Whatever the consequences may be, I shall go my way.—Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.-No other allegorist has ever been able to make abstractions objects of terror, of pity, and of love.--None but the brave deserves the fair. This is made of the same material as that.
Who will undertake it, if it be not also a service of honour?— Won is the glory, and the grief is past.—It is not true that he said that. —Plain living and high thinking are no more.-To the great virtues of that gentleman I shall always join with my country in paying a just tribute of applause.
I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute.
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
Hope for a season bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell.
The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Monan's rill,
And deep his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney's hazel shade.
He that has light within his own clear breast
May sit i' the centre and enjoy bright day.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
A free and quiet mind can take
These for a hermitage.
High on a throne of royal state
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised
To that bad eminence.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty light;
Last eve, in beauty's circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
The morn, the marshalling of arms.
The World is too much with us: late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This vesper-service closed, without delay,
From that exalted station to the plain
Descending, we pursued our homeward course,
In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake,
Under a fated sky.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
The innocent are gay; the lark is gay,
That dries his feathers, saturate with dew,
Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams
Of dayspring overshoot his humble nest.
In this poor gown my dear lord found me first,
And loved me serving in my father's hall: !
And this poor gown I will not cast aside
Until himself arise a living man
And bid me cast it.
The heights, by great men reached and kept,
Were not attained by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.
Then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
When the men who were exploring the pit ascertained that the water had reached a certain level, they knew that the imprisoned colliers could not be rescued without great difficulty.
How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
And statesmen at her council met
Who knew the seasons when to take
Occasion by the hand, and make
The bounds of freedom wider yet.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth :
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
He many an evening to his distant home
In solitude returning saw the hills
Grow larger in the darkness; all alone
Beheld the stars come out above his head,
And travelled through the wood with no one near.
Intermit no watch
Against a wakeful foe, while I, abroad,
Through all the coasts of dark destruction, seek
Deliverance for us all.
The lively Grecian, in a land of hills,
Rivers and fertile plains, and sounding shores,
Under a cope of sky more variable,
Could find commodious place for every god,
Promptly received, as prodigally brought,
From the surrounding countries, at the choice
Of all adventurers.
Thus with the year
Seasons return: but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or noon,
Or sight of vernal bloom or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But clouds instead and ever during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand?
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this gun of York,
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
And where two raging fires meet together,
They do consume the thing that feeds their fury:
Though little fire grows great with little wind,
Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all.
There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
As travellers oft look back at eve
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave
Still faint behind them glowing,-
So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consigned us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.
But whilst, unconscious of the silent change
Thus stol'n around him, o'er the dying bard
Hung Wolfram, on the breeze there came a sound
Of mourning moving down the narrow glen;
And looking up, he suddenly was ware
Of four white maidens, moving in the van
Of four black monks who bore upon her bier
The flower-strewn corpse of young Elizabeth.
Once on a time, an emperor, a wise man,
No matter where, in China or Japan,
Decreed that whosoever should offend,
Against the well-known duties of a friend,
Convicted once, should ever after wear
But half a coat, and show his bosom bare.