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Diction, n., language ; style. BALLAD, n., a short narrative song. SON'NET, n., a poem of fourteen lines. Pla'GI-A-RIST (-je), n., one who passes PED'ant, n., one who makes a vain off another's writings as his own. parade of his knowledge.
MEŇTER or MEʻTRE, n., measure as apFools'CAP, n., a kind of writing pa- plied to verse. per.
MAIN-TAIN', v. t., to uphold.
Enter Bavius and Mevius, meeting. Bavius. Sir, I'm proud to have met you. Long have
Mevius. In yours all the graces of diction abound.
Ba. Your odes, how delightful! how tender and true! Who now will compare Pope or Dryden with you?
Me. Your songs have a noble and elegant vein,
Ba. Can any thing equal your love-ditties rare ?
Me. Every square in the city your statue would hold.
Ba. Pray, sir, have you met with a sonnet On the flag of our country?
Me. A sonnet? — Just so. 'T was read at a party, a few nights ago.
Ba. Do you know who's the author ?
Me. I know not — nor care ;
Ba. Yet many admire it or so they tell me.
And if you had but seen it, sir, you'd think so too.
Ba. Dear sir, I am sorry to differ from you ; But I hold that its merit must every one strike.
Me. May the Muses preserve me from making the like.
Ba. I maintain that a better the world can not show; For I am the author — yes, I, you must know.
Me. You ?
Me. Perhaps there was something distracted my head;
Ba.. The days of the ballad methinks are gone by ; 'Tis very old-fashioned, and out of date quite.
Me. Yet, even now, many in ballads delight.
for that. Ba. For pēdants, indeed, they have charms beyond
measure. Me. And yet we perceive they afford you no pleasure. Ba. You give others qualities found but in you.
Me. You call others names that are justly your due.
Ba. Go, scribbler of sonnets, and butcher of meter !
Ba Go, you, and ask pardon of Venus and Bacchus, For your lame imitations of jolly old Flaccus.*
Me. Remember your book's insignificant sale.
* Quintus Horatius Flaccus, or Horace, a famous Roman poet, born 65 B. G Venus was the goddess of love, and Bacchus the god of wine, in the ancient jaythology.
Me. My pen shall avenge me - to your great disaster. Ba. And mine shall let you know, sir, who is your
master. Me. I defy you in verse, prose, Latin, and Greek ! Ba. You shall hear from me, sir, in the course of the week.
Imitated from MOLIERE.
XLI. — THE TWO HOMES.
HEART! (the ea like a in far), n., TEN’DRIL, n., a spiral shoot of a climb
place on which a fire is made. ing plant. Yon (yon), a., within view.
SOL'EMN (sol'em), a., sacredly serious. Do not say hawnt for haunt (the au is like a in far). Give ou in fount and oi in rejoic'ing their pure sounds. Do not say acrost for a-cross'. Do not slight the artio ulation of ask'st. Practice it well.
Seest thou my home? —'tis where yon woods are waving,
In their dark richness, to the summer air ; Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving,
Leads dowu the hill a vein of light, —'tis there!
'Mid those green wilds how many a fount lies gleaming,
Fringed with the violet, colored with the skies ! My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer dreaming,
Under young leaves that shook with melodies.
My home! the spirit of its love is breathing
In every wind that plays across my track; From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back.
There am I loved, there prayed for ; there my mother
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye ; There my young sisters watch to greet their brother;
Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly.
There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending,
All the home-voices meet at day's decline ;
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending :
There laughs my home, - sad stranger! where is thine?
Ask'st thou of mine? In solemn peace 't is lying,
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away; 'Tis where I, too, am loved with love undying,
And fond hearts wait my step: but where are they?
Ask where the earth's departed have their dwelling;
Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air ! I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling
My lonely heart that love unchanged is there.
And what is home and where, but with the loving?
Happy thou art, that so canst gaze on thine! My spirit knoweth, in its weary roving,
That with the dead, where'er they be, is mine.
Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother!
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene !
FELICIA HEMANS. (1795 — 1835.)
XLII. – WARREN'S ADDRESS
AT THE BATTLE OF BUNKER'S HILL.
PBAL, n., a succession of loud sounds, Des'Pot, n., a tyrant. as of cannon, &c.
MAR'TYRED, pp., put to death for tho QUAIL, v. i., to sink in spirit.
truth or for patriotism. The e in the last syllable of leaden and heaven is not sounded.
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves !
Hope ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel?
Ask it — ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire ?
And, before you, see
Let their welcome be !
In the God of battles trust!
Be consigned so well,
XLIII. — ARNOLD, THE TEACHER.
PRIS'TĨNE, a., first ; earliest. CON'SCIENCE, nog
the faculty of know NEU'TRAL a., indifferent.
ing right from wrong.
I-DE'AL, a., existing in idea.
Ex-POUND'ER, n., an explainer.
EAR'NEST, a., zealous ; serious.
IN-GEN'U-OUS (-jen), a., frank.
selho teel 1. The career of Thomas Arnold, the distinguished
instructor of youth, though teeming with the poetry one who instinct