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'Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear,
'Tis modulation that must charm the ear.
When desperate heroes grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone,
The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.
The voice all modes of passion can express,
That marks the proper word with proper stress;
But none emphatic can that speaker call,
Who lays an equal emphasis on all.

Some o'er the tongue the labored measures roll,
Slow and deliberate as the parting toll;
Point every stop, mark every pause so strong--
Their words like stage processions stalk along.

All affectation but creates disgust,

And e'en in speaking, we may seem too just;
In vain for them the pleasing measure flows.
Whose recitation runs it all to prose;
Repeating what the poet sets not down,
The verb disjointing from its favorite noun,
While pause, and break, and repetition join
To make a discord in each tuneful line.

Some placid natures fill the allotted scene
With lifeless drawls, insipid and serene;
While others thunder every couplet o'er,
And almost crack your ears with rant and roar.
More nature oft, and finer strokes are shown
In the low whisper, than tempestuous tone;
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixed amaze
More powerful terror to the mind conveys
Than he, who, swollen with impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom of the stage.




He, who in earnest studies o'er his part,
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all

In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A single look more marks the internal woe
Than all the windings of the lengthed Oh!
Up to the face the quick sensation flies,
And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes;
Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair,
And all the passions-all the soul is there.



ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept; All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept.

Oh the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night! Oh the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light!

One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke ; But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.

Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day, And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay.

Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer,

For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.

But the foeman held possession of that hard-won battle plain,
In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain.

Once again the night dropped round them--night so holy and so calm

That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or


On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest,

Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.

Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep;

Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and


For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face,
And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace

To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose,
Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.

And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told:
How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled.

Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars,
While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.

Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low, Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow ?

Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round

As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground.

Came two little maidens,-sisters,—with a light and hasty tread, And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.

And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood

Where the Drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude.

They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store,

And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying


For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.

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And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.

For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need, And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed.

But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er,

And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.

Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.

But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done,
And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun.

And then those little maidens-they were children of our foes-
Laid the body of our Drummer-boy to undisturbed repose.



JOHN MAYNARD was well known in the lake district as a God-fearing, honest and intelligent pilot. He was pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. One summer afternoon -at that time those steamers seldom carried boats-smoke was seen ascending from below, and the captain called out: Simpson, go below, and see what the matter is down there."


Simpson came up with his face pale as ashes and said,
Captain, the ship is on fire."

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Then "Fire! fire! fire!" on shipboard.

All hands were called up. Buckets of water were dashed

on the fire, but in vain. There were large quantities of rosin and tar on board, and it was found useless to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and inquired of the pilot :

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"How long before we can reach there?"

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Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam." "Is there any danger?"

"Danger! here-see the smoke bursting out-go forward if you would save your lives."

Passengers and crew-men, women and children-crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; clouds of smoke arose. The captain cried out through his trumpet: John Maynard!"



Aye, aye, sir!"

"Are you at the helm ?"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"How does she head?"

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"Head her southeast and run her on shore," said the captain.

Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the shore.
Again the captain cried out:

"John Maynard!"

The response came feebly this time, "Aye, aye, sir!

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“Can you hold on five minutes longer, John?” he said.

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The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp, one hand disabled, his knee upon the stanchion, and his teeth set, with his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship; every man, woman, and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to its God.

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