Being native burghers of this desert city,

Should, in their own confines, with forked heads,
Have their round haunches gor'd.

1st Lord.

Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques grieves at that; And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you. To-day, my lord of Amiens, and myself, Did steal behind him, as he lay along Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood; To the which place a poor sequester'd stag, That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt, Did come to languish: and, indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans, That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting; and the big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase: and thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears.

Duke.

But what said Jaques? Did he not moralise on the spectacle ?

1st Lord. Oh, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping in the needless stream; 'Poor deer,' quoth he, thou mak'st a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

6

6

To that which had too much.' Then, being there alone

Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends;

6

'Tis right,' quoth he; thus misery doth part

The flux of company.' Anon, a careless herd,

Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,

And never stays to greet him: Ay,' quoth Jaques,

Sweep on you fat and greasy citizens;

'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look

Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life, swearing, that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.

Duke. And did you leave him in this contemplation?

2nd Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

Upon the sobbing deer.

SHAKSPEARE (As You Like It).

COMPOUND DIVISION.

H. 21 bu. 2 pks. 3 qrs.

103 113 124 133 141

(These may be done by Reduction, or otherwise.)

POETICAL

Co-run'-na, a seaport in Spain
corse, or corpse, a dead body
ram'-part, a wall round a fortified
place

mar'-tial, warlike

up-braid', to scold

gor'-y, bloody

taining about 500

SELECTIONS.

mail, metal armour

tem'-po-ral, worldly, lasting for a

time

at'-tri-bute, a quality ascribed to

any one

mys-te'-ri-ous, not understood
main (n.), the sea

co'-hort, a troop of soldiers con- glis'-ten-ing, shining

sheen, brightness

un-reck'-ed, not cared for

ar-go-sy, a large merchant ship

rev'-el-ry, noisy merriment

dis-tort'-ed, twisted out of shape

fes'-tal, joyful

strown, scattered about

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

(Killed at the battle of Corunna in 1809.)

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But left him alone with his glory.

Rev. C. Wolfe.

DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

(2 Kings xix. 35.)

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the

sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,

That host, on the morrow, lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail;
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.
Byron.

MERCY.

The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes :
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest, it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Think of this,
That in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

Shakspeare.

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main?