Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings, The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,-the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods-rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase

His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men—
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man-
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrangement with, D. Appleton and Company, the publishers of the author's works.

Opportunity

Edward Rowland Sill

Edward Rowland Sill was born at Windsor, Connecticut, in 1841, and died at Cleveland, Ohio, in 1887. For some time he was engaged in educational work in Ohio, and later he became Professor of English in the University of California.

Although simplicity is found in this poem to a high degree, it yet offers much opportunity for variety. First comes the description of the battle, which can be well developed. Then comes the quotation from the coward, with his scorning of the weapon. Finally, there is the heroism and nobility of the king's son. each stanza different from the others.

Make

THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-
There sped a cloud of dust along the plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's ban-

ner

Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle's edge,

And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-
The blue blade that the King's son bears-but this
Blunt thing!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering, crept away and left the field.

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And saw and snatched it; and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company.

Abou Ben Adhem

Leigh Hunt

For biographical note concerning the author, see "The Grasshopper and the Cricket," page 183.

Tranquility and repose mark this poem. Because of the great import of the simple wording, be careful to preserve dignity of utterance. The rate of delivery should be slow, the transitions indicated by due pauses and changes (particularly where the angel appears and converses with Ben Adhem) and the climax at the close should be brought out in full, round tones, and with strong force.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, like a lily in bloom,

An angel, writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who loved the
Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great awakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,

And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

A Christmas Hymn

Alfred Domett

Alfred Domett was born at Camberwell Grove, Surrey, England, in 1811. He contributed verses to Blackwoods magazine in 1837-39. He was an intimate friend of Robert Browning. In middle life he emigrated to New Zealand where he held most of the important public offices of the colony. Later he returned to England and engaged again in literary work, publishing several volumes in both prose and verse. He died in 1887.

Seek for a low, clear, vibrant tone in reading this poem, and let calmness and solemnity be vividly suggested by a slow and even vocal movement.

It was the calm and solemn night!—

Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might,

And now was Queen of land and sea!
No sound was heard of clashing wars;
Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars,

Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.

'Twas in the calm and silent night! The senator of haughty Rome Impatient urged his chariot's flight

From lordly revel rolling home! Triumphal arches gleaming swell

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway:

What recked the Roman what befell

A paltry province far away,

In the solemn midnight

Centuries ago!