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ized heroism. — Not one of all these aids did or could come in use for them. Their character and their situation both excluded them. Their enemies were disease walking in darkness, and destroying at noonday; famine which, more than all other calamities, bows the spirit of a man, presses his radiant form to the dust, and teaches him what he is; the wilderness; spiritual foes on the high places of the unseen vorld. Even when the first Indian was killed, the exclamasion of Robinson was, “ Oh! that you had converted some, before you had slain any."
Now, I say, the heroism which can look, in a great cause, all the more terrible ills that flesh is heir to, calmly in the face, and can tread them under its feet, as sparks, without these aids, — is at least as lofty a quality as that which cannot. To my eye, as I look back, it looms on the shores of the past with a more towering and attractive grandeur. It seems to me to speak from our far ancestral life, a higher lesson to a nobler nature.
CHORUS IN THE “FALL OF JERUSALEM.”
[An example of sublimity and grandeur of “expression," demanding
full “orotund quality,” through the greater part of it, but commen. cing in the 6 pure tone” of “ pathos," with deep utterance and a pectoral quality.” In the description of the fate of the Egyptians, the o movement” becomes a rapid," from intensity of emotion, and again sinks to the low note and slow utterance of awe. The concluding stanza returns to the bold style of exultation.]
King of kings! and Lord of lords!
Thus we move, our sad steps timing
To our cymbal's feeblest chiming,
Behold, O Lord! the Heathen treads
The branches of thy fruitful vine,
That its luxurious tendrils spreads
O'er all the hills of Palestine.
On the margin of the flood,
Then the light of morning lay
With her chosen horsemen prancing,
And her cars on wheels of flame,
With a quick and sudden swell
Its meridian radiance then
Then did Israel's maidens sing,
Then did Israel's timbrels ring, To Him, the King of kings, that in the sea, The Lord of Hosts, had triumphed gloriously :
Shall they not attuned be
Lo! against thy people come
Craze the chariot wheels of Rome?
Thy stern anger overthrow ?
From sadder than Egyptian woe,
Thy race, — the only race that sings
[The following piece is an example of tenderness and repose, requiring
"pure tone,” in its “subdued” form, a gentle “ median stress," " middle pitch," "slow movement,” and long pauses.]
A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl,
With step as soft as summer air,
Of unconfined and flowing hair :
Save thoughtful brow, and ripening charms, –
When sinking into Summer's arms.
A mind rejoicing in the light
Which melted through its graceful bower,-
Unfolding like a morning flower :
With every breath of feeling woke,
From eye and lip in music spoke.
How thrills, once more, the lengthening chain
Of memory, at the thought of thee! —
And boyhood lives again in me :
Its fulness of the heart is mine,
Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.
I hear again thy low replies;
I feel thy'arm within my own ;
With soft brown tresses overblown.
Ah! memories of sweet summer eves,
Of moonlit wave and willowy way, Of stars, and flowers, and dewy leaves,
And smiles and tones more dear than they!
Ere this thy quiet eye hath smiled,
My picture of thy youth to see, When half a woman, half a child, Thy very artlessness beguiled,
And folly's self seemed wise in tirev I too can smile, when o'er that hour
The lights of memory backward streatu, Yet feel, the while, that manhood's power
Is vainer than my boyhood's dream.
Years have passed on, and left their trace
Of graver care and deeper thought;
Of woman's pensive beauty brought.
The schoolboy's name has widely flown; Thine, in the green and quiet ways
Of unobtrusive goodness known.
And wider yet, in thought and deed,
Our still diverging paths incline; Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, While answers to my spirit's need,
The Yorkshire peasant's simple line. For thee the priestly rite and prayer,
And holy day and solemn psalm ; — For me the silent reverence where
My brethren gather, slow and calm.
Yet hath thy spirit left on me,
An impress Time has worn not out;
Lingering, even yet, thy way about :
That lesson of its better hours,
To common dust that path of flowers.