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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.
Do not say Latn for Lat'in ; statoo for stat'ue. Pronounce often, of'n.

Enter Bavius and Mevius, meeting. Bavius. Sir, I'm proud to have met you. Long have

I known
Your productions, and often I've wished them my own.
Your verses have beauties in none other found.

Mevius. In yours all the graces of diction abound.
Ba. Your phrases are neat, your style charmingly light.
Me. We find the pathetic in all that you write.

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,
That even old Horace could never attain.

Ba. Can any thing equal your love-ditties rare ?
Me. Can aught with your wonderful sonnets compare ?
Ba. If the public could estimate half of your worth
Me. If merit now met its due honors on earth
Ba. You'd roll through the streets in a carriage of gold.

Me. Every square in the city your statue would hold.
Hem ! this ballad of mine.- your opinion upon it.
I should like to

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 ;
For 't is an exceedingly trifling affair.

Ba. Yet many admire it or so they tell me.
Me. No matter for that; it's as bad as can be.

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 ?
Ba. I.
Me. Well, I wonder how that came to pass.
Ba. I had the bad luck not to please you, alas !

Me. Perhaps there was something distracted my head;
Or else the man spoiled it, so badly he read.
But here is my ballad, concerning which I -

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 The days of the ballad methinks are gone by ; 'Tis very old-fashioned, and out of date quite.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.
Ba. No matter; I think them decidedly flat.
Me. You think them! Perhaps they're no worse, sir,

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.
Go, blotter of foolscap! contemptible creature !

Ba. Go, scribbler of sonnets, and butcher of meter !
Me. Go, impudent pla'giarist! Pedant, gět out!
Ba Go, rascal! Be careful! mind what you ’re about !
Me. Go, go! strip your writings of each borrowed

plume;
Let the Greeks and the Latins their beauties resume.

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.
Ba. Remember your bookseller driven to jail,

* 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.

FIRST SPEAKER.

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?

SECOND SPEAKER.

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 !
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother,
I will believe - but dark seas roll between.

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 !
Will ye give it up to slaves ?
Will ye look for greener graves ?

Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel !

Ask it — ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they're a-fire !

And, before you, see
Who have done it! - From the vale
On they come ! - and will ye quail ?
Leaden rain and iron hail

Let their welcome be !

In the God of battles trust!
Die we may — and die we must :
But, 0, where can dust to dust

Be consigned so well,
As where heaven its dews shall shed,
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell ?

JOHN PIERPONT.

XLIII. — ARNOLD, THE TEACHER.

PRIS'TĨNE, a., first ; earliest. CON'SCIENCE, nog

the faculty of know NEU'TRAL a., indifferent.

ing right from wrong.
Pli'ANT, a., easily bent.

I-DE'AL, a., existing in idea.
CA-REER', n., a course ; a race. TEM'PO-RAL, a., relating to time and
IN-TENSE', a., stretched ; extreme. to things of this world.
IN-STRUCT'OR, n., a teacher.

Ex-POUND'ER, n., an explainer.
CHAR-AC-TER-IS’TIC, a., marking char- IN-VENT'OR, n., one who invents.
acter.

EAR'NEST, a., zealous ; serious.
ZEST, n., relish ; flavor.

IN-GEN'U-OUS (-jen), a., frank.
Do not say umble for hum'ble ; nootral for neü'tral ; ideel for i-de'al ; appint for
ap-point'. Pronounce discern, diz-zern'.

selho teel 1. The career of Thomas Arnold, the distinguished

instructor of youth, though teeming with the poetry one who instinct

from

incling

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