Skip to main content

Full text of "The music, or melody and rhythmus of the English language; in which are explained ... the five accidents of speech ... and a musical notation .."

See other formats

fijL &J? &i~f*' 

/ \ > i S//**.*^'^2*K 


//. #***. 







#C SfC SfC. 












By which are Exhibited, and may be perpetuated, 

The True Cadence, Metre, and Rbythmus of the English Language; the 

Rational mode of Scanning Poetry by Cadences as it ought to be 

Read, and not by the Rules of Prosody ; the Tune 

and Time of Composition, and the 

Correct manner of Reading 

and Speaking. 


Outlines of (Bzstmz, 







Est aittem in dkendo etiam quiQam cantus. cic okat. 


Printed by Michael Anderson, 









Introduction, ... xiii 


Music, its Division into Sound and Measure, or Melody 

and Rhythmus, ... ... X 

Definition of Music when applied to Song, and to Speech, 2 

Division of the Organs of Speech, into Vocal and Enunciative, ib. 

Accurate knowledge of these, Indispensable to the correct 

teaching of the art of Reading and Speaking, ... ib. 

Vocal and Enunciative Organs, how distinguished their 

uses, ... ... ... ... 3 

The Organs, collectively, considered as a Musical Instru- 
ment, ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

Speaking by Rote and Singing by Rote, ... ... 4< 

Accentual Slides, among the Greeks, posterior to the days 

ofHomer, ... ... ... 5 

Effects of good Speaking and good Music, ... ... ib. 


The Five grand Accidents of Speech, ... ... 6 

Accent restored to its True meaning, ... ... ib. 



Appogiatura in Music, how applied in Speech, ... 7 

Misapplication of the Appogiatura, ... ... ... ib. 


Quantity, what, its use in Syllables, Cadences, and Pauses, 8 

Quantity subservient to Rhythmus, ... ... ... ib. 

Metre, its business with regard to Quantity, ... ib. 

Eight Degrees of Quantity ; its Notation, ... ... 9 

An Etonian, an Oxonian, a Cantabrigian, or a Wintonian 

measure of Syllables, inadmissible in English Rhythmus, 10 

The Meagre Quantity allowed by Commentators, Proso- 
dians, and Grammarians, to the Greek and Latin Lan- 
guages, ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

No well regulated Language can be limited to a Time and 

half a Time in its Quantity, ... ... ... ib. 

The gross mistake in supposing that Quantity governs 

Rhythmus, ... ... ... ... II 

How Prosodians may be taught, that their Two degrees of 

Quantity, are in reality Eight degrees, ib. 

We should not deny what we do not understand ... 12 


Pauses, their Notation, ... ... ... ... ib. 

All pauses in Speech measured, as well as in Music, ... ib. 
Pauses, in Cadence, of equal importance with notes of Sound, ib. 


Emphatical Divisions of all Speech, causes of this, ... 13 

Grand distinction of Emphasis into Thesis and Arsis, ... ib. 

Origin of Common and Triple Time in Music and Speech, 14? 

Symbolical Marks for Degrees of Emphasis, ib. 

Elocutionary Grace destroyed, Impediments acquired by 
attempts to counteract the Thesis and Arsis, or Pulsa- 
tion and Remission, ... ... ... J5 


Thesis and Arsis overlooked, or misunderstood by Com- 
mentators, Prosodians, and Grammarians : one Solitary- 
Exception, ... ... ... ... 16 

Two Syllables under Thesis cannot be pronounced without 

a Pause or Remission between them, ... ... ib. 

Examples of Thesis and Arsis differently arranged, ... 17 
Heroic Lines, their number of Cadences, ... ... 18 

Thesis, to what syllable it belongs in a Cadence or Bar, ... 19 
Emphasis of Cadence, and Expression of Loudness, not 

Equivalent Terms, ... ... ... ib # 

Pauses and Syllables of equal value in Rhythmus Examples, 20 
Elision often destructive of Pronunciation, Cadence and 

Rhythmus, ib. 

Difference between Scanning and Reading the Classics, ... 21 
Scanning by the Rules of Prosody destructive of our finest 

Classical lines, ... ... ... ... 22 

Moderns, ignorant of the ancient mode of pronouncing the 

Greek and Latin Languages, ... 23 

Absurdity of Scanning English verse with Greek and Latin 
feet, 24 


Force or Quality of Sound distinct from Rhythmical Pulsa- 
tion, ... 25 

Force or Quality occasional, Rhythmical Pulsation alternate, ib. 

Thesis and Arsis, improperly called by Musicians accented 
and unaccented, ib. 


Rhythmus defined, its division into Common and Triple 

Time, 26 

Metres, how diversified, ... 27 

Lengths of Poetic lines, no necessary part of Rhythmus,... ib. 

Polysyllables, how affected to the Heavy and the Light 28 




Cadence, what, and how divided 29 

Cadences must begin with a Heavy Syllable, or a Pause,... ib. 

Cadences divided into Common and Triple Time ib. 

Quantity, or duration of a Cadence, at the pleasure of the 

Composer, 30 

How quantity may be subdivided ib. 

Measure in which a parish clerk announces the Psalm, 31 

Metre, or Measure, what, ib. 

How all Rhythmical sounds ought to be divided ib. 

Examples of Heroic Lines in Six and Eight Cadences ... 32 
Scanning by Greek Feet, which excludes Pauses, destruc- 
tive of Rhythmus ... ... 3% 

Cadences which have most grace and dignity ... ... ib. 

Distichs in Triple Time ... ... $4 

English Sapphics, Triple Time 35 

Quality of Cadences ; those admissible, those inadmissible, 38 

Various qualities of Cadences, ... ... ... 39 


Accurate knowledge of Syllables, how necessary ... ... 41 

Stiffness, affectation, and pomposity in Reading and Speak- 
ing, how acquired ... ... ... ... 42 

Necessity of great accuracy in acquiring the Elements of 

Speech, ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

A great and common mistake, that though Teachers cannot 

pronounce correctly, they can instruct others to do so, ib. 

How Syllables differ from one another : Hints to Teachers, 4? 


Distinction between'Prose and Verse, ... 46 

Cadences of Prose and Verse marked, ... ... ... 47 



Measuring Prose and Verse Change of Time or Rhytli- 
mus Common and Triple Farther illustrations of the 
inutility of Greek Feet in the measuring of English 
Verse, ... ... ... ... ... 4S 

Words marked with proper Accent, Quantity and Emphasis, 
with the names of Greek Feet according to their Quan- 
tities, ... ... ... 56 


Verses measured by this System, as they should be read, 
contrasted with the mode of scanning them by the 
rules of Prosody, by which we never read 65 

Reformation of Prosodians, not the only object of this 

Work, ... ... ... ... ... 72 

Syncopizing, or destroying Milton's fine verses by instinct 

and imperceptibility, ... ... ... ... 75 

Swift's doggrel lines sufficient authority for barbarizing Mil- 
ton's Poetry, ... ... ... 77 


Various passages selected as Exercises to be marked with 

Thesis and Arsis, or Pulsation and Remission, ... 78 


Exercises to be marked with Thesis and Arsis, Pause, and 

Rhythmical Cadences, ... ... 85 


Exercises to be marked with Thesis and Arsis, Bars or Ca- 
dences, and Quantity, ... 98 




Exercises to be marked with Thesis and Arsis, Bars or Ca- 
dences, Quantity and Accent, ... Ill 


Exercises to be marked with all the Accidents of Speech, 128 

Force or Quality of Sound, when applied, ... ... ib. 

Degrees of Walking Measure, how applied to Speech, ... ib. 


Exercises on the preceding rules, ... ... ... 137 

Reasons why Verse should be read before Prose, ib. 


Sacred Pieces in Prose and Verse, *.. ... ... 15% 

Directions how the Scriptures ought to be Read, ib. 

Moses' Song, ... ... 154 

Habakkuk, Chap. 3d, 159 

Matthew, Chap. 5th, 163 

The Ten Commandments, 165 

The Lord's Prayer, marked with Pauses and Rhythmical 

Cadences, ... ... ... 168 

Psalm 1st Paraphrased, ... ... ib. 

The Hundred Psalm marked with the Pauses, Emphases, 

and Rhythmical Cadences, ... ... ... 170 

A Hymn, ... ... ... ... ... 171 

A Paraphrase, with Pauses, Emphases, and Rhythmical 

Cadences, ... ... ... ... ... 172 

A Paraphrase, ... ... ... ... ... 174 

A Paraphrase, ... ... ... 176 

The Dying Christian to his Soul, with Pauses, Emphases, 

and Cadences, ... ... ... Pope, 178 



The Scale of Reading, 
Modulation of Voice, 
Outlines of Gesture, 

CHAP. xxr. 





From the Bride of Abydos, ... Byron. 

Lines written on Visiting a Scene in Argyleshire, Campbell. 
Azim's Entry to the Palace of Mokanna, 

Moore's Lalla Rookh, 

Zelica and Azim's Death, 

Hope the Friend of the Brave, 

Ode to Harmony, 

Medora's Song, 

The parting of Conrad and Medora, 

The Death of Selim, 

On Death, 

Monody on the Princess Charlotte of Wales, 

On the Death of Mozart, 

The Spirit of Music, 

Song, ... 


Speech of Brutus against Caesar, 

Henry V. before Harfleur, 
Satan calling the Fallen Angels, 

Satan's Soliloquy, 


The Exile of Erin, 

Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn, 

The Seasons, a Hymn, 


On Delivery, 

The comparative Merit of Homer and Virgil, 










Moore's Lalla Rookh. 
































Blair. 226 
Ibid. 228 



Sense, Taste, and Genius distinguished, 

The Funeral of Maria, 

The Patriot Soldier, 

Pulteney on reducing the Army, 

Mr Walpole against Mr Pitt, 

Mr Pitt's Reply, ... 

On Religion, ... ... 

The Accomplished Preacher, 

Usher. 230 

Mirror. 233 

Doyle. 236 




Reybaz. 247 

Itoscoc. *J4S 


The following Synopsis of the Music, or Melody and Rhyth- 
mus of Language, is published principally with the view of 
facilitating the improvement of the author's pupils. A re- 
gularly digested plan, as much simplified as possible, is in- 
dispensable, in order, successfully, to communicate instruc- 
tions to the young. On the present system no such plan has 
appeared. Not only from the minuteness and peculiar ac- 
curacy and attention, which this mode of teaching requires, 
but especially from the misapplication of many of the Pro- 
sodial and Elocutionary terms made use of here, as employ- 
ed by our Commentators, Prosodians and Grammarians, and 
their ignorance of others, notwithstanding all that has been 
written on the subject for many centuries, the following 
pages became still more necessary. 

This system is taken from Mr Steele's Prosodia Rationalise 
a work of great merit and ingenuity. I am convinced that 
if this book had been well understood, by teachers at least, 
it would not have been so long neglected ; because, when 
comprehended, it must carry conviction along with it. 

The intention of Mr Steele being to establish, upon the 
soundest philosophical principles, this fact, that the English 
language has the same accidents of speech, viz. accent, em- 
phasis, quantity, pause, and quality of sound, as the ancient 
Greek and Latin languages, he was necessarily led into 
controversy; and, in order satisfactorily to prove his pointy 


it was proper that he should go much deeper into the 
science of music, and all the minutiae of speech, than what 
is required in a system adopted entirely for instruction. 

Mr Thelwall, Professor of Elocution in London, is the 
only gentleman in Great Britain who teaches upon the^_ 
principles of the Prosodia Rationalis> with improvements of*! 
his own ; and I have every reason to believe, has justly met 
with that success from the public, to which he is entitled. 
His Illustrations of English Rhythnus are particularly valu- 
able, for the manner in which he accounts for the Pulsation 
and Remission^ or Thesis and Arsis of the Greeks. I have 
taken the liberty of drawing some useful hints from this 

I hope I have rendered the system, if not more complete, 
at least more simple, and easily comprehended, by illustrat- 
ing many of its intricate parts more minutely, accompanied 
with a greater variety of examples, than is elsewhere to be 
found ; to which are added, adapted exactly for instruction, 
a great number of exercises, marked with the different ac- 
cidents of language, as the progressive nature of the lessons 
may require ; proceeding gradually, and by easy steps, from 
the most simple elementary parts, to the complete develope- 
ment, and practical application of the whole system. 

In proving that we ought not to scan English verse with 
Greek and Latin feet, I have contrasted the mode of scan- 
ning, as practised by our most popular Prosodians, with 
the plan recommended in this system ; so that the pupil, 
as it were at one glance, may perceive the astonishing dif- 

This new system, as it may be called, being only taught 
in London by the gentleman already mentioned, and never 
till now, so far as I know, attempted in this country, as one 
of its natural consequences is to render totally untenable the 
scanning of English verse by Greek and Latin prosody, it 
may possibly meet with some opposition, especially from 


those, who, by learning and prejudice, are indissolubly wed- 
ded to that mode of measuring our language : A system, 
which, if mere age be entitled to veneration, has that claim 
in no small degree ; for it has been sanctioned by the learn- 
>ince the days of Quintilian ; and therefore, were it of 
any avail, may plead a prescriptive, though certainly not a 
legitimate right. 

I respect classical learning and literary men; and since 
the ancient Greeks and Romans, as well as their languages, 
are all dead, it is not my intention to be drawn into any 
comparative contest about them. I have no doubt, but 
that I should be quite overborne by the numbers and abili- 
ties of their champions ; for as nobody envies the dead, 
they have always on these occasions more friends than the 
living. Mr Steele has the following remark, the latter part 
of which I may apply here. " I made my request not to 
be drawn into any contest with the ancient Greeks and 
Romans. If it were possible for me to have a conversation 
with Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Demosthenes, Plato, or 
even Cicero, I should have no doubt of our general agree- 
ment in all these principles of Elocution : But as their com- 
mentators, from Qiiintilian down to our own days, have con- 
founded accent, quantity and emphasis, so as to make no ac- 
count at all of the last, though the most important of the three, 
I cannot agree to be tried by their laws, though I am very 
ready to submit to be judged by those of common sense, that is, 
by the judgment of the ears on our native language" 

It is to be hoped that the internal evidences are sufficient- 
ly strong to convince the candid and unprejudiced, that to 
measure our language as it ought to be read, preserving the 
proper accent and emphasis, the integral quantity of each 
cadence, and the complete rhythmus, instead of scanning 
it a mode, however, which seems to be daily gaining ground, 
*n such a manner as is destructive of all cadence and rhyth- 
mus, quantity and pause is certainly of some consequence. 


I have explained this system, as laid down in the follow- 
ing synopsis, to none who were not immediately convinced 
both of its truth and utility. But perhaps some of the 
Amousoi, though in other respects persons of genius and 
learning, may feel dissatisfied with the system, and attempt 
to cry it down, by endeavouring to show its inutility. How- 
ever inconsistent this conduct may be, should it happen, I 
will neither be surprised nor discouraged ; for we know by 
other instances among men, that it is not unnatural ; for, 
do we not see many who are less ashamed to expose their 
vices, than to acknowledge their poverty. But, while such 
are totally unqualified to judge of the cadence, melody, and 
rhythmus of music, they will not be very ready, it may be 
supposed, to obtrude their opinion with regard to the same 
accidents, when applied to language, where an equal degree 
of accuracy of ear is indispensable. 

But there is surely good grounds to presume, that what- 
ever attempts at opposition this system may meet with from 
the quarters above alluded to, it will receive the unqualified 
approbation of the fair. The study of music being almost 
universally thought a necessary part of their education, they 
will find no difficulty in easily comprehending this system, 
and consequently of perceiving its beauty and utility. And 
should they make the care of their nursery their principal 
amusement, as the best of them do, may we not expect to 
see the rising generation instructed by their mothers in the 
joint knowledge of letters and music ; and the typical marks 
of accent, quantity, emphasis, pause, and quality of sound in 
their proper meaning, added to their spelling books, which 
will then be a complete Gradus ad Parnasswn, and as fa- 
miliarly known as the alphabet. 

Then, if the Attic plant of literature should spring from the 
labours of these lovely instructors, it is surely not being too 
sanguine, to hope, that its branches may soon spread abroad, 
and its fruit at length be cultivated, not in our capital only, 


so justly famous for its genius and learning, but through the 
whole of our country, so much admired and celebrated for 
its education, its patriotism, its morality, and its religion. 

I am aware, that this system, by not being clearly under- 
stood by those who have no other means of judging it, but 
by the written words and symbolical marks, may be liable to 
misrepresentation. This difficulty, if it be one, is not pe- 
culiar to this plan it is found in all our pronouncing Dic- 
tionaries, nay, even in the most approved initiatory books 
that are put into the hands of children. We must learn 
the meaning of these marks before we can pronounce ac- 
cording to their directions; they are as dead as the printed 
letter, until they are enlivened by the human voice. But I 
never heard it said, that the symbolical marks used in our 
best pronouncing Dictionaries, and those so frequently em- 
ployed in the books of children, were of no use, because 
adults could not understand them without being taught, 
experience has proved them to be of the utmost consequence 
in facilitating instruction. 

This aptness to misunderstand this plan, may perhaps be 
increased in no small degree, by the previous misconcep- 
tion of our prosodial terms, and their consequent wrong 
application. I have, however, endeavoured to render the 
plan as plain and intelligible as I possibly could; and though 
it should not be completely understood by those who consult 
the dead letter only, this will be found, I trust, no good 
reason either to attempt to disapprove or condemn it. I 
have never found any difficulty in making my pupils easily 
comprehend it in such a manner, as completely to be con- 
vinced of its truth and utility. 

The medical student sees the origin and physical necessity 
of the Thesis and Arsis, upon which so much of the system 
depends, the moment it is pointed out to him ; though in 
the whole course of his studies, his attention was never be- 
fore directed to that important part of physiological science. 


The student who has made any progress in languages 
and philosophy, though his mode of scanning has been uni- 
formly classical, which, as was already mentioned, is, in al- 
most all cases, contrary to the nature of a cadence, destruc- 
tive of rhythmus, and consequently, the opposite to correct 
reading, yet with him I have never found any difficulty. 
Extremely little explanation convinces him, that quantity 
must always be subservient to rhythmus, and that scanning can 
only be of use in so far as it assists and directs our reading 
with accuracy; that measuring our verse by this system, 
the very soul of which is to direct us how we ought to read 
and speak, is not only consistent with the genuine harmony 
and melody of speech, but is, at the same time, established 
on the soundest principles of philosophical science, arising 
from the situation, and physical action and reaction of the 
enunciative organs. 

With younger, and less scientific pupils, it is easy to con- 
ceive that more time and minuteness of explanation are ne- 
cessary: But this difference is not peculiar in this case. The 
mind of the adult pupil, who has previously gone through a 
complete course of education, is in a very different state of 
preparation, having all his faculties developed and highly 
cultivated, to receive the principles of any art or science ; 
not to mention his great desire for improvement, and his 
assiduous application, when compared with the junior pupil 
between the ages of twelve and sixteen. And yet I have 
not found any of my pupils, who have gone through a 
proper course of study, who have not been able, with sur- 
prising facility, to comprehend and practise this system. 

But the advantage of this plan would be very limited, 
were its object only to show, how we are to measure our 
verses in contradistinction to the mode practised by proso- 
dians. It has much higher pretensions. Its great object is 
to establish a mode of teaching the art of reading and speak- 
ing hitherto unpractised, but in the single instance above 


mentioned. We at present, in almost all cases, read and 
speak by rote* nor is it possible to do otherwise, upon the 
system which is taught. " Read as I read, without any rea- 
son for it," though the general practice ought now to be 
laid aside. It is only fit for mere children. 

The leading design of the following synopsis, is to instruct 
us how we ought to read upon principle. The whole is re- 
gulated by scientific rules, which are founded in the very 
nature of the art itself. It does not stop short with merely 
giving a few general hints how particular tentences, or mem- 
bers of sentences in prose should be pronounced, and some 
lax, undefinable directions respecting the reading of poetry ; 
but applying the whole five accidents of language to their 
proper and natural purposes, marking exactly the pulsation 
and remission of the organs, and preserving entire the ca- 
dence and rhythmus of both verse and prose, by symbolical 
marks which are as simple as the words. By this means we 
are able to give every author his exact tune and time ; for 
these are a part, and as important a part of his meaning, as 
his words, and are always as various; we give distinctness of 
articulation, harmony of expression, and dignity, ease, and 
grace to the whole mode of delivery, on principles that can- 
not easily be mistaken. The Notation shows how every syl- 
lable ought to be pronounced, with regard to accent, quan- 
tity and emphases in their proper meaning ; and at no time, 
is any one of the five grand accidents of language used in- 
stead of another. In this way, it must be evident to every 
one, that we cannot read by rote, but by principle^ having 
distinctly before us reasons for every thing we do. The ad- 
vantages, however, will be better appreciated by an accurate 
perusal of the synopsis itself. 

But the mode of teaching the art of reading and speaking, 
according to the most approved authors, and as at present 
practised, is extremely different. From the ignorance un- 
der which they all labour, of some of the most important 


accidents of language, and the palpable misapplication or' 
others, we have the following confused and jumbled system, 
laid down in books of high authority, and taught, in garbled 
portions, as may suit the taste or fancy of the teacher, with 
great assiduity. The following chaotic mass is neither ima- 
ginary nor overcharged, but will be found, with very little 
research, in various disproportioned fragments, scattered in 
great profusion over the pages of our most celebrated writer? 
on Grammar, Prosody, and Elocution. 

Accent is a sort of Proteus: At one time we hear of the 
accent of prose, at another of the accent of poetry ; applied to 
words of more than one syllable, accent means Thesis mono*- 
syllables have no accent at all : at one time we hear of the 
English accent, the Scotch accent, the Irish accent at ano- 
ther, accent supplies the place of quantity in syllables; w< 
are told to pause at certain places in reading ; no provision 
whatever is made for pauses in scanning though we are told 
to make pauses in reading, we are never told that their length 
must be regulated by the time in which the author has com- 
posed ; nor is it ever once hinted, that pauses constitute as 
important a part of rhythmus as sound : At one time quan- 
tity, such as they make it, is of considerable consequence 
at another, that it has little or nothing to do in English 
Prosody; at another, that it is excluded altogether: At one 
time, allowing quantity to be of such importance as to be en- 
titled to a time and half a time, for this grand reason, because 
Prosodians tell us, the Greek and Latin languages are mea- 
sured by this rule at another, introducing a third species 
which they call doubtful time; at one time, we are told that 
a Pyrrhic is a complete cadence or foot at another, that a 
spondee is nothing more; at one time, commencing a ca- 
dence with a syllable under Arsis, at another with a syllable 
under Thesis, just as it happens to suit the rules of Prosody 
measuring verse by one set of rules, and reading it by ano- 
ther, with the nature of which they arc totally unacquaint- 


ed ; at one time we are to read by the rules of Prosody, at 
another, we are not to do so ; at one time we are told that 
Prosody teaches the proper quantity and accent of syllables 
and words, and the measures of verses that quantity in 
prosody, means the length of syllables in pronunciation 
and almost in the same breath, that the quantity or length 
of syllables is little regarded in English poetry, which is en- 
lively regulated by their number and accent: At one time we 
are informed that metre, or measure, in English poetry, con- 
sists in the number of the syllables and the position of the 
accent (how very accommodating is this gentleman, Ac- 
cent !!! he is almost all things to all Prosodians;) at ano- 
ther, we find elision, synaeresis, syncope, and apocope em- 
ployed in cutting down, to a certain measure, some of the 
finest verses of our best poets ; -by every possible means we 
are directed to cram the lines of our Poets, such as Shake- 
speare, Milton, Thomson, Aitkenside, &c. within ten syl- 
lables, in order that we may have exactly five feet or ca- 
dences: and when we cannot do this, by all the means of 
cutting and mangling, we then, with marked reluctance, 
acknowledge " a redundant syllable,' 1 and of course a bad 
line. But I should never have done, were I to enumerate 
all that authors have written, and teachers, as may easily be 
supposed, have followed, on this important subject. 

With such a heterogeneous mass of indigested directions, 
is it possible to communicate instructions accurately, or to 
teach the same language on the same principles ? We find, 
as a natural consequence, the modes of teaching are as di- 
versified and absurd, as the directions of authors. Hardly 
will two teachers be found who teach upon the same prin- 
ciples, or who use the same books- Is it to be wondered at, 
then, there should be such a diversity in our reading the 
same identical words? For we find, from the vagueness and 
multiplicity of rules, as laid down by authors, and the modes 
of instruction, as followed by teachers, many of them men 


of distinguished merit and ability, almost an endless variety 
of ways in reading the same piece. 

Not to mention the indistinctness of articulation, the fre- 
quent gross defects of utterance, the diversity of pronun- 
ciation, and the excessive silliness and bad taste, of aping 
what is called the English accent, (which, by the bye, is be- 
come very fashionable,) such an accent, however, as was 
never heard to proceed from the mouth of a Mrs Siddons, 
or a Mrs Jordan, but which may be heard in all its perfec- 
tion from a Bond-Street lounger, or a haberdasher in the 
city of London some pronounce without marking their 
emphatic words or syllables, so as in the least to distinguish 
them from other words in the sentence ; some make every 
third or fourth word strongly emphatic some give so little 
force to their accented syllables, as hardly to distinguish 
them from others ; here I use accent and emphasis in the 
vulgar acceptation ; some pronounce the smaller words 
and particles with such rapid flippancy, as to escape notice 
altogether ; others make them of as much consequence as 
any noun or verb in the sentence; some pronounce every 
thing in a stiffj formal, pompous manner ; others reduce 
every author to the common standard of colloquial conver- 
sation; some pronounce in a uniform monotony; others 
drawl their inflexions to such an immoderate length, as to 
produce a species of song ; some make their inflections 
constantly acute ; others as frequently grave ;^-some read at 
the rate of three or four syllables in a second of time ; 
others go on with the rapidity of eight or ten syllables in a 
second ; some pronounce every thing in common; others 
every thing in triple time, without any respect to the 
Jmieand time of the author ; some regulate their pauses by 
the grossly absurd rule of grammarians, viz. one, two, three, 
four ; others stop only according to the imperious de- 
mands made upon them for supplies of breath ; some swell 
the voice at the beginning of every period, and gradually 


lower it to the end of the sentence, throughout the whole of 
any piece of any given length ; others begin on some acci- 
dental pitch, which they regularly continue till the last 
word, which unfortunate word is so completely sunk as not 
to be audible, &c. &c. 

These diversities and striking peculiarities, and many 
more might have been mentioned, must happen notwith- 
standing all the talent and industry of teachers, while they 
follow the present system of reading and speaking by rote. 

It is not so in music, because every thing there is defined, 
and its use and importance ascertained exactly : nor can it 
be so in language, when the whole accidents of speech are 
as evident before our eyes as the words themselves. 

It can be demonstrated, that this system affords the best 
opportunities, not only for removing the defects of utterance, 
so very prevalent, but for curing Impediments, whether ac- 
quired, or what are commonly called hereditary. By not 
regulating our delivery according to a material part of this 
system, we destroy all distinctness of utterance, and all elo- 
cutionary grace ; by ill-directed efforts, attempting to pro- 
nounce contrary to the capabilities of the principal enun- 
ciative organs ; by endeavouring to counteract what nature 
has wisely established, the regular and periodical succes- 
sion of Thesis and Arsis, which, from physical necessity, 
must be alternate, in defiance of every effort on the part of 
the speaker ; but which, at the same time, may be so in- 
jured and impeded, or accelerated, in the proper dicsharge 
of their alternate pulsations, as to produce a species of arti- 
culation, if it deserve the name that cannot be understood ; ; 
by these, and similar causes, we give rise to almost all Im- 
pediments of speech. 

On the principles of this system, I have removed many 
impediments and defects of utterance, which were consider- 
ed irremediable, from the previous attempts that had been 
made, and the great length of time they had been establish- 
ed. I beg to be understood as claiming no merit for this ; 


because any one tolerably acquainted with this system, might 
have clone the same thing* The merit, therefore, is in the 
system much more than in the person who applies it; " hon- 
our to whom honour is due :' I have already designated 
to whom it is due in this case. 

To the classical scholar, I have only to observe, that if 
he is captivated with the beauties of Homer and Virgil, 
while he scans them by the rules of Prosody, he will find, 
if he makes the experiment, that these beauties are a thou- 
sand times magnified and heightened, when he measure* 
the classics Ar such a manner as to preserve entire their in- 
imitable cadence, metre, and rhythmus. And it is to be 
hoped that the time is not far distant, when it will be not 
less an object of attention, and equally meritorious, to mea- 
sure our own language, and to scan Shakespeare and Mil- 
ton, by laws founded in nature, which preserve their true 
metre, cadence and rhythmus, and which give energy and 
grace, beauty and harmony, elegance and expression to 
their diction, as it is at present to measure the dead la?i- 
gnagcs, or to be able to scan, with rules by which we never 
read, the hardest passages of the Iliad or the iEneid. 

I would recommend to all grammarians and professors of 
Elocution, to acquire a little knowledge of music. Music 
and Grammar were, by the ancients, always taught together. 
They are of mutual advantage, and should never have been 

I will not, though there is a most ample field for it, enter 
at present upon the many important purposes which would 
naturally be the consequence, if this system were brought 
into general use; but conclude with remarking, that if this 
were the case, the Elocution of our modern Orators, whether 
of the Pulpit, the Senate, or the Bar, and also that of our 
most celebrated Tragedians, might be transmitted to posteri- 
ty, as accurately as we have received the musical composi- 
tions of Corelli, Haydn, or Handel. 











Music, which is equally applicable to speech as 
to song, whether applied to speaking, singing, or 
dancing, is divided into two great branches, viz. 
sound and measure, which are commonly called 
tune and time ; instead of which words, it will suit 
my purpose better, to use the more classical terms 
of Melody and Rhytkmus, being more significant 
as generals, than the vulgar terms. 


When applied to song, music may be defined, a 
series of sounds moving distinctly from grave to acute, 
or from acute to grave, by intervals , and always 
dwelling for a perceptible space of time, on one 
certain tone. 

But when music is applied to speech, it may be 
defined, the melody of speaking ; in this application, 
it moves rapidly up or down, not by notes, but by 
slides, in which no graduated distinction of tones, 
or semi-tones can be measured by the ear ; nor does 
the voice dwell distinctly, for any perceptible space 
of time, on any certain or uniform tone, except the 
last tone, on which the speaker rests or makes a 

There are two grand classes of organs necessary 
to accomplish speech, viz. Vocal and Enunciative. 

These ought to be well understood by the Pro- 
fessor of Elocution, or his instructions will be inac- 
curate and ineffectual. The various purposes for 
which they are intended; the physical effects which 
their peculiar applications produce ; and, the im- 
portant phenomena they give rise to in human 
speech, by the action and reaction of some of the 
most material of these organs ; ought to be care- 
fully elucidated to the pupil : And great pains 
should be taken to render him perfectly familiar, 
by proper examples, with the manner in which their 
combined operations produce either vowels or con- 
sonants, syllables or words. 

The Vocal organs* are th 0SP , hy whfrh wp prndnrp 


^voluntary and tuneable sounds: They are chiefly 
the Larynx and Glottis . 

The Enunciative organs, are those by which 
we add to the vocal the specific and characteristic 
phenomena of literal and verbal utterance . The 
primary organs used here are, th e throat, palate, 
teeth , tongue, lips, and nostrils : There are others 
more remote, which may be considered as secon- 

It must be evident, from these definitions, that an 
accurate knowledge of these organs, and the man- 
ner in which they co-operate in the production of 
language, is an indispensable requisite to every in- 
structor who would teach others the proper and 
scientific mode of reading and speaking. Without 
this knowledge, man, it is true, can be taught to 
speak and to read \ and perhaps it is well that it is 
so : But to be able to speak and to read, as we gen- 
erally hear these important offices performed, and 
to be able to do them well, are two things so obvi- 
ously different, that no illustration is necessary to 
point them out. 

The organs of speech, collectively, may be con- 
sidered as an instrument upon which we play every 
time we speak or sing. In order then, to play well, 
we ought to be intimately acquainted with the in- 
strument which we use. If we have no knowledge 
of its powers, how are we to employ them to ad- 
vantage ? If we are ignorant of the extent and 
variety of its compass, how are we to modulate its 
tones; or produce that infinitely diversified intona- 
tion of which it is susceptible ? 

Public singers bestow great pains to acquire a 
knowledge and command of their voice, although 
their object be only to please : But how few of 
our public speakers bestow any attention upon this 
the most important part of their art, although their 
great object is, or ought to be, not only to regulate 
the affairs of mankind, but to convince them of the 
things most essential to their true interests, to in- 
struct them in their most indispensable duty, and 
to persuade them to the performance of those things 
which are not only necessary for their happiness in 
this world, but for what is infinitely superior, their 
eternal welfare. 

Were it not that bad speaking is so very common, 
we should be as much disgusted with it in public 
speakers, as we are with bad singing at public ex- 

How many performers of music have we, who, 
to superficial judges, play well, but who only play 
by rote, and are ignorant not only of the power of 
their instrument, but frequently cannot tell the key 
in which they are playing ? So it is with the gene- 
rality of speakers ; they speak and read by rote, 
and frequently are totally ignorant, not only of the 
wonderful effects which the instrument they use 
can produce, but of the proper management of its 
.simplest tones. Nay, we find some of those who play 
by role, and sing by rote, are proficients in practice, 
without knowing that those arts are capable of rules, 
and of very subtile analyzation, any more than a 
child of five years of age comprehends, or can ex- 
plain, how he stands and walks. 

Our pedestrian performers on the pipe and fid- 
dle, &c. are seldom farther advanced in the literate 
art of music, than Europe is in the musical part 
of language ; that is, unconscious of notes, or any 
scientific method, they are talking and playing by 
rote and by ear, or, in the more vulgar phrase, by 

There was a time when the Greeks, with regard 
to their language, were in the same situation ; for 
we are told accentual slides, or notes, were not used 
by them, till long after the days of Homer, 

Now, when an unlettered pedestrian performer, 
though perhaps of some fancy and considerable 
execution, meets with an inferior player possessed 
of the art by notes, it humbles the pride of his 
native talent, and he submits to the lettered man 
as his master. 

But what is the effect produced upon an im- 
proved, polite, and intelligent audience by this ex- 
cellent pedestrian, compared with the musician 
who excels in practice and in science ? There can, 
indeed, be no comparison. 

When a piece of music is properly played, or a 
speech properly spoken, the senses of the audience 
are immediately influenced, and carried along with 
the player or speaker, in whatever is the proper 
measure of his tune or his speech ; and it is worthy 
of remark, that the effect of this periodical im- 
pulse is more immediate and more certain in speech 
than in music ; in as much as we are all more per- 
fect in our understandings of speech than of mu. 

sic : many people are not musicians, but all use 
their tongues, and listen to the discourses of others. 



Speech consists of the five following accidents, 
without a correct knowledge of which, accurate 
instructions in the art of reading and speaking 
cannot be communicated. 1. Accent. 2. Quanti- 
ty. S. Pause, or rest. 4. Emphasis, or Cadence. 
5. Force, or quality of sound. 

First, Accent. It is acute /, grave \, or both 
combined v ~' /- ^ l in a variety of circumflexes. 
These are, in this system, restored to their true, 
original meaning, viz. the slides of the voice, and 
are called the accents or notes of melody. 

These notes or accents are totally distinct from 
force or want of force, upon any syllable or word ; 
nor have they any thing to do with emphasis, rhyth- 
mu^ metre or quantity. 

The accents are the essential constituents of that 
characteristic manner of speaking, which is so 
easily marked, and which so forcibly strikes the 
ear of the most common observer ; not only be- 
tween those, who, in different parts of the country 
speak the same language, but between all nations 
who articulate words as signs of their ideas, with- 

out the music of song. These accents, though ca- 
pable of being considerably diversified, all originate 
from three simple modifications of voice. 

The application of the accents must always vary 
according to the position of the words, whether in 
question or answer, in a suspended, or in a final 

Besides these varieties, there is also a manner of 
gracing the notes, which, as in singing, is always 
at pleasure. This is done by what the Italians call 
the Appogiatura or supporter. As the quantities 
of these little notes, in music, are always taken out 
of the next note that follows, so it is in speech ; 
instead of a plain acute, we may use a little cir- 
cumflex grave-acute, thus \l, or sometimes acute- 
grave, thus /v ; and sometimes, instead of a plain 
grave, thus \, or thus V. 

It is said that this appogiatura, or grace-note, 
is also applicable to some particular syllables, and 
constitutes an essential part of the expressive har- 
mony of the best writers, and should never be su- 
perseded by the barbarous expedient of elision, 
either in printing or in utterance, practised so 
much by those finger-counting critics who scan by 
their eyes rather than by their ears. The syllable 
meant here, is that which is generally cut out by 
Prosodians. It is printed in italics in the following 
lines : 

Girt amzable a scene of pastoral joy. 

Covering the beach, and blackening all the strand. 

His genwine and less guilty wealth to explore. 


The cock's shrill clanon and the echoing horn. 
Ungrateful offering to the immortal powers. 
But the appogiatura is in no way peculiarly ap- 
plicable to these vowels, or to any syllables that 
prosodians may absurdly cut out with elision, they 
are regulated by the next article, or accident of 
language, and not by accent. 



The term Quantity, is appropriated to discrimi- 
nate the relative value of sounds in duration of 
time, being either the quantity of whole cadences, 
that is, it refers to the distinction of longer or 
shorter notes or syllables, or of longer and shorter 
pauses. It is, therefore, subservient to the caden- 
ces of rhythmus, as fractional or aliquot parts are 
to integers ; and it is the business of Metre, to ad- 
just the quantities of notes or syllables contained 
in each cadence or bar : Rhythmus is to keep, by 
its pulsations, all the cadences of an equal length. 

The time or duration, therefore, of every indi- 
vidual sound, syllable, or pause, is called its quan- 
tity, and may be marked 

longest tj, long <j>, short y, shortest |, 

which, since the measures of time in music and in 
speech are the same, may be distinguished by the 
terms used in music, thus, 
a semibrief = 2 minims = 4 crotchets = 8 quavers. 

cj = <f <j> = yyYY = im nil 

The method adopted in music for lengthening a 
note by a point or dot, is also used here, as 

a Cj. =Cj ? , a ? .= ?Y> a Y-=YI 
Long and short notes or syllables are the common 
component parts of all metres, of all cadences, under 
all kinds and species of rhythmus ; that is, each 
cadence under any species of either of the general 
modes, may be metrically subdivided into fractional 
or aliquot parts. 

The absolute quantity of every syllable, as to the 
positive time it requires, is to a certain extent lati- 
tudinary ; or we should not be able to speak faster 
or slower, and consequently have no distinction of 
rhythmus. Hence it is, that in delivery, we find 
no difficulty in giving to a trochee or an iambus, 
the same entire quantity with a spondee, &c. or 
'vice versa, though differing in the proportions of 
their integral parts. 

When, therefore, the standard or preponderate 
cadences, are spondees, the whole measure will be 
stately and solemn, and the trochaic and iambic 
feet must have, in delivery, still without the least 
difference to their integral proportions, an increas- 
ed quantity. If the trochee be the prevailing foot, 
the cadences of that passage must preserve the 



same briskness of measure ; and the spondees, 
though still maintaining their syllabic equality, 
must be pronounced comparatively short. 

It must be evident, therefore, that syllables are 
not meted out by a Wintonian, an Oxonian, a Can- 
tabrigian, or an Etonian measure, according to any 
arbitrary standard of critical legislation ; but derive 
their quantities from the accidental association of 
their elements, and other independent circum- 

The Greeks, we are told, gave rules for the long 
quantity equal to two times, and the short quantity 
equal to one time ; only two propositions in all. 
They sometimes admitted a third, which they called 
irrational : it was shorter than the long and longer 
than the short. It is mentioned by Meibomius 
Bacchius senior. But this distinction has been 
little attended to by prosodians, if not altogether 

The English Language, notwithstanding all the 
efforts of Commentators, Grammarians and Proso- 
dians to reduce it to the standard which they have 
assigned to the Greek and Latin Languages, has 
at least eight different proportions of quantity, as 
explained at the beginning of this chapter. All 
these and more different proportions of time are 
employed either in syllables or pauses. And what- 
ever is either taken from, or added to, the pauses, 
is given to, or taken from the syllables ; so that 
all these various proportions may be necessary in 
well regulated language. 


It is a gross mistake to suppose, as many do, 
that quantity governs rhythmus. The truth is, 
that quantity is as subservient to rhythmus as ma- 
terials are to the building of an edifice ; where it is 
the business of the workman to choose the materials 
that will fit, and not accommodate the size of the 
apartments to the dimensions of the bricks and 

To a person not initiated in these degrees of 
quantity, but accustomed to consider all syllables 
as regulated by the rules of prosodians, it is proba- 
ble that he may deny that there is any such thing 
as eight degrees of it in our language, for this 
plain reason, because he cannot perceive them. 

But notwithstanding this want of the power 
of distinction in those who are unpractised in 
the art of reading, as here explained, these dis- 
tinctions of quantity are perfect ; and those who 
are versed in them, find no difficulty in accurately 
distinguishing them. 

We know that those who are entirely ignorant 
of music, when they begin to acquire it, cannot 
easily perceive the difference between a crotchet and 
a quaver ; yet the proportion of these notes are as 
two to one ; and they have still more difficulty 
in distinguishing the difference between a doted 
crotchet and a plain one, which are to each other as 
three to two. But these novices never think of 
doubting, much less of denying that such facts 
exist, although their ears are, at first, too obtuse to 
perceive them - 7 but they persevere, and by practice 


come to find no difficulty, not only in discriminat- 
ing these, but even in being able to distinguish, 
nay, perform twenty-four, or thirty-two notes in a 
second of time. 

It has very properly been observed, that it would 
be unjust for any one to say, that there is no dis- 
tinct power of description in the language of Japan, 
for this special reason, because he did not under- 
stand it, and that all the words of that language 
sounded to his ears exactly alike. 



Pauses may be marked semibrief rest |, minim 
rest w, crotchet rest r , quaver rest" 1 

All measured rests or pauses are as significant 
in computation of time, and in value of place, re- 
specting cadence, or the heavy and light, as express 
notes of sound. If a syllable be too short, we may 
supply its deficiency by a pause ; by which means 
an iambus or trochee may answer to fill a cadence 
as well as a spondee. 

This, however, is only one of the many impor- 
tant purposes which rests or pauses serve in speech. 



All speech, prose as well as verse, naturally falls 
under emphatical divisions, which are here called 
cadences ; which will be afterwards more minutely 

Our breathing, the beating of our pulse, and our 
movement in walking, make the divisions of time 
by cadences familiar and natural to us. 

Each of these movements, or cadences, is divided 
into two alternate motions, significantly expressed 
by the Greek words Arsis and Thesis, raising and 
posing, or setting down ; the latter of which, com- 
ing down as it were with weight, is called heavy, 
being the most energetic or emphatic of the two ; 
the other, being more remiss, and with less empha- 
sis, is called light. When we lift our foot, in order 
to walk, that motion is arsis or light ; and when we 
put it on the ground, in order to proceed, that act 
of posing is thesis or heavy. 

If we count every step or cadence which we make 
in walking, we shall find each of them consisting 
of, and sub-divided by, these txvo motions, arm 


and thesis, or the light and the heavy ; and if we 
count only on every second cadence or step, which 
makes a pace, we shall find each pace sub-divided 
by four motions ; two of which will be thesis or 
heavy, and the other two arsis or light 

This division of the step by the even number 
two, and of the pace by the even number four, na- 
turally arises from the walk of a sound or perfect 

The halting of a lame man makes a pace divi- 
sible into six, instead of four ; that is, the thesis or 
posing of one of his feet, rests twice as long on the 
ground as that of the other foot ; consequently, 
in each pace of this lame walk, there will be one 
thesis of so much greater weight or emphasis than 
the other, that the second thesis appears, in compa- 
rison with it, to be light This whole pace is, there- 
fore, considered as one cadence, divided unequally 
into heavy, lightest, light, lightest. The following 
marks represent these degrees of poise. Heavy A, 
light /. lightest . . 

Here, then, are two general modes or measures 
of time. The first, wherein each step makes a 
cadence, and is divided by the even number two ; 
and the pace or double cadence, by four : and this 
in music is called common time, andante, or the 
measure of a march. 

The second, where the whole pace making only 
one cadence, may be equally divided by the num- 
ber six, as the double of three ; and is called tripk 
time, or the measure of the minuet or jig. 


But it must be observed, that the two steps com- 
posing the pace of triple time, are so far dissimilar, 

A .. 

that one of them is composed by 3 + 1, and the 

other by 1 + 1; which diversity when slow, makes 
the graceful variety of the minuet, and when faster 
the merry hobble of the jig. 

The thesis and arsis, or heavy and light, pervade 
every language. They must always, from the very 
nature and conformation of the organs of speech, be 
alternate ; and are as independent of volition, as the 
beating of the pulse, or the ebb and flow of the 
breath. The reasons of this are so minutely point- 
ed out to the pupil, and illustrated by such appro- 
priate examples, as to render it perfectly obvious, 
and easily comprehended by any one of ordinary 

It is a demonstrable fact, that the primary causes 
of the destruction of all the graces of Elocutionary 
utterance arise from efforts to articulate, without 
proper attention to the laws of pulsation and remis- 
sion, or thesis and arsis. And this, in almost all 
cases, arises from improper modes of instruction. 
It is a fact equally incontrovertible, that with 
very few exceptions, all the causes of impediments 
of speech, under the various phenomena which they 
assume, may be shown to have their origin in a 
gross violation of these natural affections. To un- 
dertake, therefore, with almost certain success, the 
cure of impediments, the first and most indispensable 


step, is to understand the peculiar structure of those 
organs of speech, which, by physical necessity, pro- 
duce this pulsation and remission. 

The thesis and arsis, and the powerful effect 
which they had upon articulated language, were 
well understood by the ancient Greeks, as the 
structure of their language evidently shows : but 
they have been entirely overlooked, or misunder- 
stood by all the commentators, grammarians, and 
prosodians, with the single exception of Mr 
Steele, the author of the Prosodia Rationalis, which 
appeared in 1779. 

This affection of heavy and light, when properly 
understood, demonstrates to all who can judge of 
language by their ears, the palpable absurdity of 
measuring verse by prosodial rules, which require 
a mode of pronouncing totally different from the 
manner in which the same reader pronounces a 
verse, either before or after he has scanned it. 

Such power have the thesis and arsis, from the 
physical situation and power of the organs, over 
articulated sounds, that we cannot pronounce even 
two heavy sounds in succession, without a pause or 
remission between them. 

It must be carefully remembered that these af- 
fections of heavy and light, or pulsation and re- 
mission, are totally independent of accent and 
quantity ; they are always alternate, unless cut off 
by rests or long-holding tones, without change of 


Examples of Thesis and Arsis differently arranged. 

1. A succession of heavy sounds, necessarily re- 
quiring a pause or rest after each, A r A r A r A 
r A r A r A r. 

2. A succession of heavy and light alternately, 
or the pauses between filled up with light, which is 
the natural order, A .\ A /. A .\ A .\ A /. 

3. A succession of light sounds /. /. /. /. /. 

4. Light and heavy alternately .*. A /. A .* A 
.*. A .*. A /. A /. A /. A .*. A /. A 

The Thesis, or heavy, may be applied to such 
words as these ; love, live, leap, learn, hill, keep, 

A A A A A A 
lame, walk, man, hand, horse, &c. 
A A A A A 

The Arsis, or light, may be applied to such words 
as, we, ye, you, of, to, for, by, it, in, or, &c. 

Heavy and light are exemplified, in the natural 
order, in such words as these, dissyllables : favour, 

honour, fervour, patron, matron, father, climbing, 
A .\ A .*. A .\ A .\ A .\ A .\ 
falling, running, better, matter. 
A .\ A ,\ A .\ A .\ 

Light and heavy on such dissyllables, as, prefer, 

detest, relieve, molest, conceit, deceive, receipt, 
/.A .\A .\A .\ A .\ A .\A 
deprive, propose, reprieve, &c 
.A .\A /.A 



Heavy, lightest and light syllables ; or 3-4 ; as, 
consecrate, designate, numerous, syllable, abro- 
A .. .\ A.. .\ A ... / A.. /. A .. 
gate, telescope, &c. 

Light, lightest and heavy syllables \ as, ac- 

quiesce, contravene, decompose, disbelieve, un- 

.. A /. ..A .*... A /...A 
derstood, reprimand, &c. 
. . A .\ . . A 
Lightest, heavy and light syllables, as develope, 

..A .\ 
rejoicing, detested, convulsive, domestic, returning, 
.A/. ..A.\ .. A/. ..A/, ..A/. 
carousing, reporter, &c. 
. . A /. . . A /. 

It must be particularly noticed, that almost every 
syllable in our language, monosyllables excepted, 
is affected positively, either to the Arsis or Thesis, 
though some are of a common nature, and may be 
used with either. 

Our heroic, or ten-syllable lines most commonly 
begin with a syllable under Arsis ; and supposing 
a line to consist of five feet, or rather, according to 
this system, of five bars or cadences, of musical 
time, exclusive of rests or pauses, there will be half 
a bar at the beginning and half a bar at the end ; 
that is, it will begin with Arsis and end with Thesis. 
But sometimes the affection of the first syllable is 
so positive to Thesis as to oblige the measure of 
the line to begin with a whole bar ; for the beat or 


Thesis constantly falls on the first note or syllable 
of the bar : but always some rests or pauses are ne- 
cessary, as being more agreeable both to the sense 
and to the measure ; so that, including the rests, 
a line of nominal^^^^, or ten syllables in words, 
occupies at least the time of six bars or cadences, 
as in the following example ; in which the syllable 
Oh ! is positively emphatical and under Thesis ; and 
the syllable our, agreeably to the sense in this ex- 
pression, is as positively remiss and under Arsis. 



happiness r 
A . . /. 


being's end and 
A .\ A /. 


But it may be observed, that this emphasis of 
cadence, and the expression of loudness are not to 
be considered as equivalent terms, or affections of 
the same kind : for arsis or remiss may be loud or 
forte ; and the thesis or emphatic may be piano or 
soft, occasionally. The Thesis and Arsis being 
periodically alternate, whether expressed or sup- 
posed ; whereas the piano and forte, in speaking 
as in singing, are always ad libitum, or apropos. 

It may be proper here to show, that a line of 
heavy syllables, that is, where they are all under 
the affection of Thesis, has the same rhythmus, as 
when the pauses are filled up with a light syllable 5 


My hopes, fears, joys, pains, all centre in you, 

/. A .\ A .\ A .\ A ,\ A/. A .\ .\ A 

My hopes, k fears, & joys, & pains, all centre in you, 

9 \ A .\ A .\ A ,\ A.\ A.\ A /. ,\ A 

are both of the same length as to rhythmus, and this 
may be proved by the swings of a pendulum, or the 
strokes of a time-beater. 

Were prosodians to attend to this, and, directed 
by their ears, acquire an accurate idea of rhyth- 
mus, we should not have so many of the best lines 
of our finest poets so shockingly mangled ; nor 
meet with such barbarisms as hoxfring for hovering ; 
dang'roas for dangerous : tit autumnal, for the au- 
tumnal : nor, in the sublime and perfect rhythmus 
of Milton, meet with such violences done to his 
finest lines as the following : tit omnipotent, for 
the omnipotent, tit etherial, for the etherial : tit 
Almighty, for the Almighty : Nor would many of 
the most beautiful lines of our best classics be de- 
prived of their peculiar excellence. I shall give 
an example or two from Virgil ; merely as a hint 
to my classical pupils. And I request them to 
observe, that determining Greek and Latin he- 
roics, such as the Iliad and JEneid, to be hexa- 
metre lines, excludes rhythmical pauses altogether. 

The followingline of the JEneid, set (by our marks 
for quantity and pulsation), strictly according to the 
Latin prosody, will be thus, in common time : 



? Y Y ? J? 

.? ?. 



Arma vi 

rumque ca 

no lro 

jse qui 

primus ao 

or is. 

A .'. 

A 77 

A ,\ 

A .'. 

A .'. 


Here, there is no room for variety of metre, nor a 
moment's pause even for breathing, the line being 
strictly confined to the six metres, or cadences, or, 
in the common phrase,/^. The above line is set 
according to the quantities prescribed by the rules 
of prosody ; it may be proper also to exhibit it, as 
it is generally scanned in our schools ; where, by 
making the last syllable of the dactyl longer than 
the first, in direct contradiction both to the rule 
and the real quantities, they turn dactyls into ana- 

Y' 1? 

Y- 1 ? 

1 J 

.? ?. 

Y-l ?, 


Arma vi 

rumque ca 

no lro 

jas qui 

primus ab 


A .-..-. 

A .-. .-. 

A A 

A A 

A .-. .-. 


Upon this and the three following lines of the 
iEneid, this remark will be found in the Prosodia 
Rationalis. " If I could meet with a living Virgil, 
I should ask him, why these lines might not be set 
in the following manner, in triple measure, still pre- 
serving the long and the short syllables, but with 
an extended variety of long and longer, short and 
shorter, and also with the proportion of triples and 
thirds, as well as of doubles and halves ? And if 
he gave me a better reason why they should not, 
than either the grammarians, or the commentators 
have done, I would certainly submit to him, and 


copy his manner of pronouncing exactly, in accent 
as well as in quantity, which would most probably 
be quite new to all Europe." 






Y' 1 Y I Y'Y 
} \ \ ! } V 

Arma vi 

rumque ca 

no, r 

<- 1 Tro 

jae qui 

primus ab 

oris 1 


A ...-. 

A . . .-. 


a" .-. 





By reading the line in this manner, the rhyth- 
mus and the metre are preserved, and by the ad- 
dition of necessary rests for breathing-time, and 
for stops of expression, it becomes an octometre in- 
stead of an hexametre. 

How monstrously is the following line cut to 
pieces by the rules of prosodians. 

It is here set first according to these rules, and 
also according to the rules of this system ; and it 
will be found, that without any elision they are. 
both pronounced exactly in the same time, if re- 
peated to the swings of the same metronome, or 

Let the distance of time between A and A be 
equal to one step of walking. 

Y- Y- 

Monst' hor 

Y' I Y 

Monstrum hor 

A .-. 

Y\, Y- 

rend in 


form' in 

A .-. 

Y- 1: 

gens cui 

A .-. 

Y* r 1- 

lumen a 

A .. .-. 

d Y ' t Y ' 


A .-. 

rendum in 

A . . .% 


forme in 

A ...-. 

Y- Y' 

gens cui 

A .\ 

Y'l Y 

lumen a 


1 t Y ' 


A .-. 


When the construction of a language depends on 
the termination of its words, elisions by which these 
terminations are concealed, must, to say the least 
of them, tend to render such a language obscure. 

But I have no doubt, that as good reasons can 
be given for elisions of the above kind, as for scan- 
ning verses, whether of the dead or of the living 
languages, in such a manner, as no good reader of 
either ever pronounces Nay, I have strong reason 
to suspect whether even a Prosodian can read ac- 
cording to his own rules. 

These are only two instances of thousands that 
might be given, of the absurdity that Commenta- 
tors, Grammarians and Prosodians have been teach- 
ing since the days of Quintilian the Rhetorician, 
who died A. D. 95. His Institutes of Eloquence 
were discovered A. D. 1415, in an old tower of a 
monastery at St. Gall, by Poggio Bracciolini, sl na- 
tive of Florence. 

But perhaps there would be very little harm, if 
these absurdities were confined to what are called 
the dead languages: for it is believed, that the 
moderns know no more of the manner in which 
Cicero and Demosthenes pronounced their lan- 
guages, than they know of the mode of pronounc- 
ing the language of Britain, in the time of King 

But this very abstruse and most useful part of 
classical erudition has found its way, even for ages 
past, into our own language. Every initiator of 
children, must scan his own native tongue with 


Greek feet : and many of them, not contented with 
teaching this most important part of grammar, they 
must write upon it also ; and cautiously copy all 
the blunders that the literati have handed down to 
them, with frequently not a few of their own. 

It is surely matter of regret, that this strange 
inconsistency should have been persevered in, from 
the days of Quintilian down to the last treatise 
which I have seen upon the subject of scanning, 
published in London in 1816, with the exception of 
the book I have already mentioned, viz. The Pro* 
sodia Rationalis. 

Were this book properly understood, this monstf 
hor\ with all his long irregular train of associates, 
would, huge as he is, be entirely rooted out of the 
deep, sacred recesses of our Universities, and other 
seminaries of learning. And then, in all proba- 
bility, our native language would be scanned as it 
should be ready and not according to the measure- 
ment of the ancient poetic feet 

But till accent, quantity, and emphasis, especially 
the last, as it is the most important of all, be clear- 
ly understood, not only as separate affections of 
speech, but as totally independent of each other, 
this is not to be expected. 




The variety of soft and loud, or, according to 
musicians, of piano and forte, should never be consi- 
dered as a governing principle of rhythmus, because, 
though sometimes it may be accidentally coincident 
with rhythmical pulsation, yet it would be offensive 
if it continued for any considerable length of time ; 
for the application of the loud and soft, both in 
music and in language, either for use or ornament, 
must not be indiscriminate or periodically alternate, 
but as occasion calls for it : Whereas, the rhythmi- 
cal pulsation of A and /., or emphatic and un- 
emphatic, is regularly periodical and constant as 
the swings of a pendulum, but of itself implies no 
sound or noise at all. And agreeably to this, a band 
of musicians are much better governed in their 
measures by a silent waving of the hand, or of any 
thing that may catch the eye, than by the more 
noisy way of beating time with the foot. 

These affections of A and / were always felt in 
music, though erroneously called by the moderns 
accented and unaccented; the accented or heavy note, 
however, was never understood to be necessarily 
loud, and the other necessarily soft. Because if this 



were so, there would be no occasion for separate 
directions where to apply the piano and forte, in as 
much as the affections of heavy and light are con- 
tinued in every sentence of every air, from the be* 
ginning to the end : Whereas the forte and piano 
are often applied directly contrary to heavy and 

I repeat it, as I wish it to be clearly understood, 
that the distinction of load and soft, must never* as 
is too often the case, be reckoned among the go- 
verning powers of rhythmus, though they may 
sometimes coincide with the heavy and the light, 
which are the only governing principles of it. 



Rhythmus, as it signified with the Greeks num- 
ber, that is, the number of metres contained in a 
line or cadence, so it may signify with us the num- 
ber of cadences in a line or sentence ; but we shall 
use it as the general term under which cadence is 
a division, and quantity a subdivision. 

Rhythmus, then, in this acceptation, is divided 
into two general modes of time, common and triple, 
each of which is subdivided into specific differences 
of faster and slower ; consisting of cadences whose 


inetres may be uniform or mixed, even or pointed. 
These diversities of uniform or mixed, even or point- 
ed, arise from the different manner of subdividing 
or disposing the quantities contained in the whole 
of each cadence or bar* 

For example, this cadence of common time Cj 
may be subdivided uniformly into - Y Y ? 
or thus, the two genera of com- 

mon and triple measure may > 

be mixed, - - ) YYVYY 

or thus, pointed, - - Y" I Y* I 

or thus, even, - - - IIIMIII 

or any other way, so that the fractions, being aliquot 
parts, shall altogether make up the whole quantity 
of the bar or cadence. The bar or cadence of triple 
measure may be subdivided in a similar manner. 

It must be observed, that rhythmus takes notice 
of no quantity less than that of a whole cadence. 

The lengths of verses, or lines of poetry, are no 
necessary constituent part of rhythmus; for, though 
every line should be composed of regular metres or 
cadences, yet the rhythmus will he good, whether 
the number of cadences in each line be equalized 
or not, as in the species of poems called Odes. 
But a line may consist of ten syllables, which, for 
want of the proper poize, that is, the thesis and 
arsis, or the proper quantities, cannot be reduced to 
metrical cadences, without great assistance from 
pauses, or changing the position of the words, and 
of course will not be a rhythmical verse. It is 
emphasis, cadence, or the poize of A and *. which 


alone governs, by its periodical pulsation, that part 
of music and poetry properly called rhythmus. 

It may be remarked, that in the rhythmus of 
language, all polysyllables are affected to their 
poize of heavy and light so positively, and the poize 
determines the cadence, that nothing remains in 
doubt, except the difference between the fastest 
and the slowest speakers. This, however, is of no 
consequence, since every speaker, if he preserves 
the proportions demanded by the natural quantity 
and poize of the words, must adopt that measure of 
quickness which the poize of the words points out ; 
that is, he must allow himself time to mark the dif- 
ference between long and short syllables : For, as 
has been mentioned, a cadence must begin with A 
and end with /., the .. being only an inferior 
species of the light ; or, in other words, as every 
cadence begins with A, of course the whole of every 
cadence lies between A and A, as often as they 

It is the office of rhythmus, aided by the influence 
of this instinctive poize, to regulate the whole dura- 
tion of every melody or movement, by an exactly 
equal and periodical pulsation, until it is thought 
proper to change the measure, for some other uni- 
form pulsation, either quicker or slower. 



The space of time between each pulsation and 
the next succeeding pulsation is a cadence or bar. 
The word bar, properly speaking, is only the gra- 
phical mark of the beginning and ending, or of the 
boundaries of cadences : Whereas cadence itself is 
an essence co-existing with articulate sound, the 
subject both of sense and intellect, totally inde- 
pendent of any mark on paper. 

Each cadence, as was already mentioned, must 
always begin with thesis, or a pause supplying its 
place ; and end with light, or a pause. If there be 
only one note or syllable which fills the whole ex- 
tent of a cadence, of course, that one note is at 
first heavy, and the latter continuance supposed 
light. If a cadence be subdivided into many notes 
or syllables, they are nearly divided under the se* 
veral degrees of emphasis of A, /. . . 

The whole time of a cadence or bar must be ca- 
pable of being subdivided by the number 2, the es- 
sential and distinguishing mark of the genus of 
common measure, or by the number 3, the essential 
mark of the genus of triple measure. 


The whole quantity of the time or duration of a 
cadence, may, at the pleasure of the composer, be 
subdivided by metrical articulation, in sound or in 
silence, into any unequal fractional quantities of 
time, provided their sum, altogether, be neither 
more nor less than the integral quantity of the said 
cadence or bar. 

Something similar to the following example will 
be found in the preceding Chapter. Let the time 
of a whole bar be equal to 1 , then the subdivisions 
of other bars in the same piece may be J- + \ = 

J 4- l 4- X III j 1 - - _i_'l -L 2 2 \ jl 

3 3 5 ~"~~ I 4. Tl 6 ' i 6 ' 6 3 ' 3 

&c. the sum of each bar making always 1, And 
this diversity of division within a bar, is the subject 
of quantity. 

The division, as formerly noticed, of i- + J- 
is naturally governed by the andante, or walking 
cadence of a perfect man. 

The division of t + \ is the halting of a lame 
man, or minuet measure. 

And the & + T V + T V + * + tV+ A. or > 
as commonly marked by musicians -| # 5 equivalent to 

* The denominator 8, shews into how many parts a semi- 
brief is supposed to be divided, " and the numerator 6, the number 
" of these parts in the for;" and consequently that a bar of 
this measure contains only three quarters of a semibrief. If a 
semibrief represented any positive length of time, this rule of 
making it appear as a standard would have some useful mean- 
ing ; but as its length is only relative, it has little or none, and 
the figures 2 and 3 would be sufficient to denote all changes, of 
measure, and be more simple and more satisfactory. Prosodia 


* +T-6+ tt + tt + tV + ft is the cantering 
of a horse or the measure of a jig. The procla- 
mation of a parish clerk, announcing the psalm, is 
in this measure : the natural rhythmus and metres 
of the words will admit of no other. 

5 T C I 

8 Let us 

i % t r. t 

sing to the praise and 

C-EC ^ 

glory of God ! n 

The integral division of a cadence is properly 
called its Metre, according to which its aliquot 
quantities are metrically computed and disposed ; 
that is, the cadence is either equally divided by the 
integral even number 2, or by the integral odd num- 
ber 3, which constitute the two general modes of 
metre or measure: These two being the first numbers 
possible that occur, for the division of any length 
into two parts, and the next possible division is 
into three parts. 

This division of all rhythmical sounds, by the 
multiples or subduples of 2 or of 3, is so strongly 
affected by our nature, that either a tune or a dis- 
course will give some uneasiness, or at least not be 
quite satisfactory to nice ears *, if its whole dura- 
tion be not measured by an even number of com- 
plete cadences commensurable with, and divisible, 
by 2 or by 3. For this reason, the judicious com- 

I * The last movement in the celebrated overture of La Buona, 
FigUuola, has this defect, and every nice ear feels it. Prosodia 


poser or orator, unless he wishes to offend the ears 
of his audience, will lengthen his piece with pro- 
per expletives, or with adequate rests or pauses, so 
as to make his periods duly commensurable. 

Whoever would pronounce our heroic lines of 
ten syllables with propriety, must allow at least six 
cadences, by the assistance of proper pauses to 
each line, and frequently eight : as in the follow- 
ing example. Not attending to this is one of the 
many reasons why we hear so much of our finest 
poetry wretchedly read and delivered, and the 
rhythmus of our most sacred songs totally destroy- 

Example in Six Cadences. 









happiness ! r 



end and 


A .. .\ 

A .-. 

A .-. J 

A .-. 

A .. 

The same line in Eight Cadences or Bars. 









happiness 1 r 




end and 






A .-. 

A .-. 

A .-. 



Another Example in Six Cadences. 

r Tb 

n To en 

3 3 J 

all in 
A .-. 


ten or 

Y- 1 Y, 

A- .-. 

r 'tis 

joy the 

A .-. 

? Y 

state al 

A .-. 


lott ed 


? Y 

them by 

A .-. 

Y ? 

giv en, 


heav en. 



The following also, as well as thousands of lines 
that might be produced, distinctly show, that the 
method of measuring, or scanning English verses 
with Greek feet, without any allowance for pauses, 
is inaccurate and indecisive, and ought to be a 
lesson to those prosodians who are guided in the 
measuring of our finest verses, by their eyes rather 
than by their ears ; which they will find, if they 
make the experiment, to be as fallacious guides, 
when applied to the rhythmus of a poetic line, as 
they are when applied to the rhythmus of music. 

The following lines are set with the marks of 
rests, quantity, and cadence. It will appear that 
verses of jive feet consist of from 6 to 8 cadences ; 
and those off our feet generally consist of five caden- 
ces. Lines which consist of five cadences or metres, 
have less grace and dignity than those of eight. 

Y' Yl 

Daughter of 

A -.-. 

? Y 



God and 


a ac 

A .-. 

A .-. 

A .-. 

Y ? 


A .-. 

Eve. r 


I Pleasures,! - the 
A.-. A .-. 

sex, r 

m as 


childrenjbirds purlsue. r j rj 

A.\ A .-. A.\|A.\ 

The following line set as pronounced by Mr 

rong with 








" with 

A .-. 

Y; Yl? Y 

outoer flowing 


full, r 


Thou, r 
A .-. 


- When 
A .-. 

? Y 


? Y 
first, for 

A .-, 


? Y 
wast no 

A .-. 

? Y 

A .-. 

thee, my 
A .-. 

lyre I 

? r 

young, r 

A .-. 

? r 

strung. r 

A .-. 

The three following distichs are all in triple time 
and jig measure, and the syllable more or less, at 
first, or at last, makes no difference in the rhyth. 

i Y! Y- i Y 

r , From the knaves, and the 

A* A 
I JmX 

Y' I Yl Y* i Y 

fools, and the | fops of the 

A .. .-.A .. .% 


time r 1 

a .-. 

I Y 

1 From the 

Y' IY 

drudges in 

A . . .-. 

m My I time, oh ye 

A .-. I A . . .\ 

Y- I Y 

prose, and the 

a .. .-. 


Muses, was 

A.. .\ 

triflers in I rhyme* 1 r 

A . . .v I A .-. 



spent, r ^ 

A .-. 


- When 

A .-. 

Y* I Y I Y' I Y 

Phoebe went I with me where 

Y- 1 Y 

ever I 

A . . .-. 


went. r 1 

1 It I Y 

If I e'er in thy 

A .-. I A . . .. 

Y- I Y 

sight I found 

A ...-. 

T l 1 

favour, A 

A . . .\ 





- De 

A .-. 

Y' I Y 

fend me froi 



Y- I Y I Y' I Y 

all the dis I asters that 

A . . .*. I A . . .*. 





In the application of the preceding rules to 
these and the following examples, the only endea- 
vour was to do justice to the proper measure of 
our language, without the least intention of adapt- 
ing them to the Greek prosody. 


Y- IY 

Place me in 


. . . 


regions 01 e 

a.. TT* 

Y Y 

ternal T 
A . . .-. 

YY r 

winter, r 
A . . .'. 

J IYf n YY 'J 

Where not a j blossom to the 

A ...-. . *-*-> 
I A., 

Y* Y 

breeze ~l can 

A . . .-. 

open ; r but 


V 1 Y i Y Y 

Darkening > tempests r 

closing all a 


Y Y 

round me, i 

Y' I Y 

Chill the ere 


ation. r 

Y* I Y 

Place me where 

. a . 

Y Y Y 

Climes where no 
A , * .-. 

Y Y* 

sunshine "* 
A . . .-. 

M Y Y 

ever more me 
A . . .-. 

Y Y 

scorches, r 
A ...-. 

mortal r 
A . . .\ 

v- III 

builds his habi 
A ....... 

YY r 

tation; 1 

A . . % 


Y' I Y 

Yet with my 

Y Y 

charmer r 

. I A ... 

Xii 1 Ui 

fondly will I 
A .. 

Y Y 

wander f 
A . . .-. 

Y" ! Y 

Fondly con 
A . .*. 


versing. r 

Herries* Elements of Speech. 


Y* Y i 

Swift thro' the 


sky r the 
A.. .-. 

Y Y I J 

vessel ot the 


Suras, "1 
A .. .. 

Y: I Yl Y- i 

Sails up the I field r of 

iajk . . I JmA . 

Y i Y I 

ether like an 


angel ; "1 
A . . .\ 

y- Y I 

Rich is the 

Y- Y 

freight, n O 

vessel ! that thou 


bearest, r 
A.. .'. 

Y'l Y IYY 

Beauty and J Virtue. r 

A...-. A .. .-. 

Y' IY 

A . . .-. 

^ r 1 , 

cares, \ ana 

A % 


filial vene 

YY ' 

ration, r 
A . . .\ 

Y' Y I 

Hearts which are 

A .. .-. 

proved r and 

A .. .-. 

Y I Yl. 

strengthened by af 




A.. . 


Y'l Y 

Manly re 

A ...\ 

Y # Y 

sentment, 1 

A .'. m \ 

Y'Y I 

fortitude and 

A../. .. 

YY r 

action, r 

A . . ,\ 

Y'i Y 


A . . .'. 

Y Y 

goodness. r 


I Y 

11 with which 


Nature r 

halloweth her 

Y Y 

daughters, r 
A .. .-. 

Y- I Y 


A . . .-. 

truth, r and 

V. I, 

punty and 

v y 

meekness, r 

p Y't Y I Y-.Y r 

Jri e ty, I patience, l 
A . . .-. I A . . ,\ 

faith, and res lg 

YY r 

nation, i 

Y- I Y I Y Y 

Love and de I votement. r 

A .. .-. A .-. 

Y; I Y 

Ship of the 

A .. .-. 

Y Y 

Y Y 

Y .Y 

YY , 

god ! r how 

richly r 

art r thou 

laden ! r 

A . . .. 

A .. .. 

A .. .-. 


Y- I Y 

Proud of the 

Y Y 

charge, T thou 

A . . .\ 


voyagest re 

A...\ .. 




Y* Y I 

Clouds float a 



Y- , I 

round, r to 

A . ..% 

honour thee, and 
A .. .-. .. 

T Y-I Y 

Lingers in 
A.. .-. 

even inj 

A . . .-. 


heaven. r 

Southey's Curse ofKehama^ 

It must be observed, that two or more cadences 
may be compressed within the space called a bar j 
or there may be a bar at every cadence ; the 
bar, of itself, as already mentioned, being of no 
other use than as an eye-mark to the reader or per- 
former, to shew where some cadences are, by which 
he can easily observe t]ie others. 

At the pleasure of the composer, the space be- 
tween bar and bar may contain either 1, or 2, or 3, 
or 4, or 6, or 8, or 9, or 12, &c. cadences, which 
may be multiples of 2 or of 3, but whereof neither 
5, 7, 11, 13, or any prime number, except the fore- 
going 2 or 3, shall be divisors or factors. This, 
however, may be considered, as more strictly ap- 
plied to music than to the rhythmus of speech :-r-be 
that as it may, the number S, being composed of 
the prime numbers 2 and 3, may be excepted, and 
is the only exception. 

Cadences may be either in common time, as, 
| Ye | hills and | dales, r | r ye rivers, | woods and plains r | 


Or in triple time, as, 

| Where is the | mother that | look'd on my | childhood. r | 

The quality of Cadences are various. 

1. The best cadences are those that are made 
up of two or of three syllables, that is, common or 
triple time ; and as the one or other of these pre- 
vail, it gives the denomination to the verse. 

2. The next kind in excellence, and which may 
be called the Emphatic cadence, is when a cadence 
or foot is made by a single protracted syllable, be- 
ginning with Thesis and ending with Arsis ; for a 
cadence may have only one syllable or note, in the 
rhythmus of speech, as well as in music. Ex- 
amples of this are frequently to be found. It oc- 
curs in the following lines. In the first example 
the words sing and fate, constitute each a ca- 

Arms and the I man I I sing, 

A .. .-. A .*. r**-* 

r who, r 
A .-. 

forc'd by 

A .-. 



And the words hail and born in the following line : 



ho ly 


light ! r 

A .-. 

offspring of I heaven first 

A . . .-. I A . . .-. 



3. The next of inferior degree may be called 


the accelerated cadence, or foot of four syllables, 


r The | admirable, | r the in | imitable | Poem 
of | Paradise | Lost r | is com | posed of | these r I 
three kinds, | r the last in | deed r | r is but | spar- 
ingly | used, r | r but | when it is, | r it is | placed 
in the | best r | possible ] station | r for the | rhyth- 
mus | r of the | line. 1 " | 

4. The foot or cadence of 5 syllables, may be 
considered as a base foot for the reasons already 
mentioned. It is seldom found but in familiar con- 
versational prose, and is more generally the result of 
carelessness in the speaker, than from any necessity 
in the language, or even in the arrangement. I 
shall exemplify this in the following prose sentence. 
Pronounced in a careless indistinct manner, as, 

If die | mind be im | proved and | happily dis | posed, J 
every thing be | comes | capable of af | fording enter | tain- 
ment- | 

How different is it, when pronounced with di- 
stinctness of articulation, and in a grave didactic 
manner, as, 

If the mind r | r be im | proved and | happily dis | pos- 
ed, r | every thing r | r be | comes | capable | r of af | ford- 
ing | r enter | tainment. 

Monosyllables that are long or short, at discre- 
tion, as most of our monosyllables are, must be pro- 


iiounced A or *. or . , just as the syllable with 
which they are combined may require, and the state 
of the organs will, at the time, permit. 

The progress of the voice, in the formation of the 
cadences, both in reading and in speaking, must 
be regularly perceptible from A to .*. without re- 
spect to the nature of the syllable with which the 
line may begin. For though the mode of marking 
the cadence may be discretionary, yet the alterna- 
tion is inevitable. 

Pause and emphasis may, and frequently do, in- 
crease the number of cadences, but they must 
never alter in any degree their proportion. 



Without an accurate knowledge both of the 
quantity and quality of syllables, no distinct reading 
and speaking can be taught. 

There may be some things, I have no doubt, that 
it maybepossible to teach,if the instructor be well ac- 
quainted with the principles upon which they pro- 
ceed, although he cannot exemplify them : he may, 
for example, describe them, which may be sufficient. 
But parents ought to know that reading and speak- 



ing are none of these. If the teacher is obliged to 
be upon his guard when he teaches, least he pro- 
nounce wrong, he will teach a stiff, affected, mouth- 
ing manner of speaking ; he may even give some- 
thing like the language of an illiterate Englishman- . 
nay, he may give some sounds as fine as a Cockney; 
but, though such vulgarity is too often mistaken 
for what is correct, it is, however, at a vast distance 
from that ease, accuracy, and elegance inseparable 
from genuine English. 

Even the articulation of the first elements, the 
letters, is of much more consequence, than most 
parents and teachers seem to be aware. It is at the 
age when these are generally taught, that distinct- 
ness and accuracy, or the reverse, are most easily 
acquired. To this period can be traced that drawl- 
ing, cluttering, indistinct articulation, which is so 
very prevalent, and which generally remains during 
life, bidding defiance to all future attempts to 
ameliorate, or destroy, what time and custom has 
formed into a second nature. 

They are, therefore, miserably mistaken, who 
either deceive themselves or the public into the be- 
lief, that any instructor can teach children the first 
elements; or that a man may be a very good 
teacher, not only of the initiatory part of the 
English language, but even of Elocution, (for al- 
most every initiator is a Professor of Elocution,) al- 
though his mode of pronouncing, when in conver- 
sation, does not place him above the level of those 


who are destined to drudge in the illiterate arts of 
life, and who have, from their education and pro- 
fession, no pretensions either to accuracy or ele- 
gance in the pronunciation of their native language. 
English syllables, and indeed the syllables of 
every language, differ from one another in a vast 
variety of ways. Those teachers who wish to ac- 
quire an accuracy and neatness in articulating and 
pronouncing the language, and who are desirous of 
making good readers, will particularly attend to 
this. Many of these varieties are of a very delicate 
nature, and take their rise from the various passions, 
emotions, sentiments, &c. with which we are affect- 
ed. Many of the most important of these can only 
be exemplified to the pupil, when he is studying 
those passages that require particular and appro- 
priate intonations of voice, arising from the various 
degrees of agitation with which the mind is affected, 
when reading or delivering such passages.^ These 
are most prevalent in the higher degrees of oratory, 
and in Epic and Dramatic speaking. But the prin- 
cipal, and indeed, the indispensable differences, be- 
cause they are constantly occurring in all ordinary 
cases, are the following, viz. 

I. Syllables differ from one another in their enun- 
ciative elements, that is, in the qualities of the let- 
ters of which they are composed. 

II. In their respective quantities, that is, in the 
time required in pronouncing them. This difference 
takes in a much wider range than commentators, 


grammarians, and prosodians allow in the Greek 
and Latin languages. These literati, not the lan- 
guages, for, in many respects, these languages are 
more perfect than the English ; allow only a time 
and half a time to their syllables ; whereas, in our 
language, we have all the degrees, from a time to the 
eighth of a time, 

III. Syllables differ from each other in their poize, 
viz. in the affections of heavy and light the Thesis 
and Arsis of the Greeks. These alternations, un- 
derstood by so very few, constitute those measure- 
able cadences, by which alone the proportion and 
varieties of rhythmus can be rendered palpable to 
the ear. Without a thorough knowledge of these 
most important affections of speech, in vain will we 
attempt to measure, or read English poetry. 

IV. Syllables differ from one another by the quality 
of percussion. By this is meant an additional ex- 
plosive force ; not arising from organic affection, 
as just mentioned, though always upon the syllable 
under Thesis, but from the sense of the passage. 
This additional force upon the heavy syllable, or 
word, is independent, for its place, of the taste, 
feeling, or judgment of the reader, but inherent in 
the very nature of the sentence, and may properly 
be called the emphasis of sense. 

This species of emphatic percussion, must be 
carefully distinguished from that commonly called 
emphasis of force, which is entirely at the option 
and taste of the reader, and which we use when we 


wish to be animated, forceful, or impressive. But 
although this additional force may grace, enforce, 
or enliven our reading and speaking, it cannot, in 
any degree, affect the sense of any passage. What- 
ever degree of percussive force we may give to such 
words or syllables, it must always be inferior to that 
degree of percussion which exclusively belongs to 
the emphasis of sense, if any such occur in the 

Even this emphasis of sense has its varieties of 
percussive force ; and this depends entirely upon 
the nature o the emphasis. We have, under the 
general term Emphasis or Thesis, the five following 
varieties, viz. 

1. The Thesis or heavy syllable, constantly alter- 
nate with the light. 

2. The additional percussion given to the heavy 
syllable, called emphasis of 'force. 

3. The percussion given to the heavy syllable, 
called emphasis of sense, when the antithesis is ex- 
pressed, and not denied. 

4. The force given to the emphasis of sense, 
when the antithesis is expressed and denied. In 
the last place, the highest degree of emphatic force, 
is that which is given to the emphatic word, when 
it affirms something in the emphasis, and denies 
what is opposed to it in the antithesis, while the 
antithesis is not expressed but understood. No 
emphasis of sense can take place without an anti- 
thesis either expressed or understood ; whereas the 


emphasis of force, though frequently mistaken for 
it, is infinitely of inferior moment, and always at the 
option of the reader. 

5. Syllables are still farther diversified by their 
degrees of loudness and softness, piano and forte, 
and other varieties of modulation. As a general 
rule, for I cannot here go into particulars, substan- 
tives, verbs, and adjectives require more swelling 
loudness than the smaller and less significant words 
and syllables. 

6. Syllables differ from each other in those most 
evanescent, yet highly important properties, their 
musical accents which constitute the melody of 



Verse is constituted of a regular succession of 
similar cadences, or of a limited variety of cadences, 
divided by grammatical pauses and emphasis, into 
proportional clauses, so as to present sensible res- 
ponses to the ear, at regular proportioned distances. 

Prose differs from verse, not in the proportions, 
or in the individual character of its cadences, but in 


the indiscriminate variety of the feet that occupy 
these cadences ; and in the irregularity of its clau- 
sular divisions. " It is composed of all sorts of 
cadences, arranged without attention to obvious 
rule* and divided into clauses that have no obvious- 
ly ascertainable proportion, and present no respon- 
ses to the ear, at any legitimate or determined in- 

The two following passages exemplify these defi- 
nitions ; they consist of the same words or syllables, 
and differ only in that arrangement which is pecu- 
liar to each : 


Hail, r | therefore, | patroness of | con tern | pla- 
tion, | r of j health and | ease, r | heart r | solacing 
I j 0vs > r I r ana< I harmless | pleasures, | r un- f 
known in the | thronged a | bode of | multitudes ! 
| Hail ! r | rural | life ! | 


| Hail, r | therefore, | patroness of | health r | r an d | ease, r J 
| TAnd | contem | plation, | heart r | solacing | joys, r | 
| r And | harmless | pleasures, | r in the | throng'd a | bode r ( 
| r Of multitudes un | known: f | Hail! r | rural | life ! r | 

Cowper's Tack. 



Then I will | not be | proud of my | beauty or 
my | youth, | since r | both of them | fade and I 
wither ; | r but r | gain a | good r | name by I do- 
ing my | duty | well; | this, 1 " | when I am | dead, r 
j will | scent like a | rose. 


| r Then | I'll not be | proud r | r of my | youth or my | beauty, 
| r Since | both r | r of them | wither and | fade ; r | 
| r But | gain a good | name r | r by well | doing my | duty ; r j 
| This will | scent like a | rose r | when I'm | dead, f | 



When the cadences of our language, whether verse 
or prose, are marked according to the preceding 
rules, every person, properly initiated, can easily 


understand them. The pupil, after a proper prac- 
tical knowledge, will acquire a correctness of ear 
which will enable him to mark off any piece of 
composition in bars or cadences, distinctly to point 
out the pulsation and remission, to fix the time, whe- 
ther common or triple, and the different species of 
each, and to preserve entire the rhythmus of the 

Though the mixture of common and triple time 
is constantly occurring, yet when properly ex- 
plained and exemplified, the quantities distinctly 
ascertained, and the ear properly tuned to the na- 
ture of a cadence, nothing is more easy. For, as 
has been shown, V- V* make a cadence in common 
measure, and are exactly equal in length or dura- 
tion to Y V Y' wn * cn ma ^ e a cadence or bar in triple 
measure ; the duration of each of these cadences 
or bars being determined by the swings of a pen- 
dulum of the same length ; as in the following ex- 
ample. The measure, it will be observed, changes 
from 2 to 3, that is, from common to triple time, 
but the times or lengths of each cadence or pulsa- 
tion, are exactly equal, notwithstanding the diversir 
ty of the subdivisions into 2, or 3. 





t Y Y 




in our 





A /. 

A .'. 






Y Y 

prose or 

verse, r 

r r 

has a 


r r 

A /. 



A .'. 

A *. 



* h. 



r_, pe 


to it 

self; f 

r r 


A /. 






Y Y 

That is, 

J ,1 

in the 

Y' I Y. 

language of 
A /. 



rr .l J 

lodern mu 


r r it is 


/ -'^ s 

/ ' \ 



A /. 

either in 




common time 

i iY Y 

minuet time, 

Yl Y YY 

r r or triple time, 
A .\| A .\ 

r r Vt 



.Y' Y- 

rr or 

jig time, 


A .*. 

rr or 
A .\ 

mixed. r ~* 

It will be observed, that we can make the pulsa- 
tions, and of course, the cadences quicker or slower 
at pleasure ; just as we alter the swing of a pendu- 
lum, by making it shorter or longer. 

With regard to the preceding example, it maybe 
remarked, that where the brace is written, it is to 


show, that all the syllables or rests under it, are to 
pass as one in respect of the A, or the .* ; thus, in 
minu, or in the. 

~a" "/T 

It admits of some alterations also, which may be 
worthy the attention of the pupil : similar altera- 
tions are frequently occurring, particularly in prose. 



n x 

sentence in 
A .\ 


? y 




A .'. 

This mark "3 s shews that the three notes written 
under that arch must pass off in the time of two ; 
by which means, the two modes of common and 
triple time are easily intermixed. 

Besides, by this alteration the syllable in, one of 
our pliant monosyllables, which before was heavy 
and acute, is become light and grave ; and our is 
become heavy on the diphthong ou, and light on. 
the liquid r, and extending to the length of two 
syllables, is accented with a circumflex as before. 







Has a 


r of its 

own, pe 


r to it 

self. r 



A .'. 


A .-. 





It must always be remembered, that the Thesis> 
or pulsation, is not peculiar to a long syllable, nor 
the Arsis or remission to a short one^ but may be 
upon either. 

Whether a cadence begins with a long or a short 
syllable, or note, or with a rest in silence, is quite 
indifferent to rhythmus 5 but the syllable, or note, 
or rest, must invariably carry with it the heavy poize 
or Thesis. 

Many of our finest verses, which present such a 
stumbling block to the prosodians, who scan Eng- 
lish verse with Greek feet, begin in this manner ; 
that is, with a rest and one syllable, or sometimes 
two under Arsis ; which, though they are not aware 
of it, constitute a complete cadence or bar. 

The Greek feet, under all their various names, 
cannot answer in any suitable degree to the rhyth- 
mus of our language ; for the commentators have 
told us, and our learned prosodians and gramma- 
rians scrupulously follow their directions, that their 
long and short syllables were in proportion to each 
other as 2 to 1 ; whereas, in our rhythmus, we have 
the several proportions of 2, 1, J-, \: and 3, 1, , -; 
and when we add to this, that no allowance, by this 
learned mode of scanning, is made for pauses, we 
must conclude, that to measure English verse by 
Greek feet is inaccurate and indecisive ; and that 
those who scan our verses by these feet, give the 
best possible proof that they have yet to learn the ; 


nature, power, and effect of pulsation and remission, 
quantity, cadence, and rhythmus. 

However important the difference may be be- 
tween a dactyl, an anapest and a cretic ; or between 
a spondee and a trochee, or an iambus, to those 
who scan by their eyes rather than by their ears, it 
will be found upon experiment, which is paramount 
to a host of such prosodians, that the difference is 
extremely unimportant in our language, provided 
the thesis or heavy poize is not put out of its pro- 
per place. 

As mechanical instruments for the composition 
of Poetry, the Greek feet were ingenious, though 
intricate and inaccurate, compared with our musical 
rhythmus : But now, if joined with ours, the two 
together may become useful for the better reading 
of the ancient classics, and perhaps for modern 
composition in our own language. 

It may be affirmed, that according to this method 
of rhythmical divisions by bars, or cadences, and by 
the metrical subdivisions of these cadences into 
sub-duples, and sub-triples, or any such mixed frac- 
tional numbers as are aliquot parts of the whole 
cadence, there are no words, or form of words, but 
what may be reduced to an exact rhythmus. 

The invention of our modern notes, the figures 
of which denote accurately their metrical quantities, 
together with the bar to mark the pulses or rhyth- 
mical divisions, has rendered the Greek feet totally 
useless in the practice of modern music, 

Poetry is often read in a certain formal manner, 
supposing the ten syllables of our heroics must be 
cut exactly into five cadences of two syllables in 
each, or of four whole, and two half cadences ; 
whereas they always require the time of six cadences 
at least, and sometimes seven, and even eight ; but 
those who have only the idea of 'Jive cadences seldom 
attend to the necessary rests or pauses, or to a nice 
metrical subdivision of the cadences according to the 
natural and necessary emphasis or poize, and the 
quantity of such syllables, and therefore frequently 
misplace the light and the heavy. 

Several of our monosyllables, such as our, hour, 
xvorn, torn, borne, and the like, are so long, that any 
one of them, with eight other syllables, will make 
an unexceptionable hexametre line. However, long 
syllables so employed have evidently the effect, and 
nearly the same sound as two syllables, though in 
other lines they may be sounded as merely mono- 

Example of a line of nine syllables in six cadences, 
coupled with an Alexandrine of eight cadences. 

8 | r So | Britain | worn | out with | crops of | men, r | 
| ri Must J now be | stock'd with] brutes, r | - a| wilderness a J gain. r 

Measured lines, therefore, of whatever lengths, 
are, or may be rhythmical clauses ; and are other- 
wise distinguished both in ancient and modern lan- 
guage, by the names of hexametres, pentametres, 


tetrametres, &c. It may be remarked, that if it 
were not for the rhymes in modern Poetry, the ear 
would never discover the ends of verses, when pro- 
perly pronounced ; because the rhythmus never 
stops, not even at pauses ; for, though there is a 
discontinuance of sound, the rhythmus still conti- 
nues to the end of the piece, and by that continu- 
ance every pause is measured. These, however, 
would be tiresome and offensive, if we found them 
at equal and periodical distances ; and hence it is, 
that the caesure is never offensive in blank verse. 

From this is evident, not only the indispensable 
necessity of pauses, but the propriety of measuring 
them in every line. But wc find them not only 
frequently improperly placed, both by readers and 
authors, but their time or measurement totally ne- 

Many instances might also be adduced, where 
both poize and quantity have been violated by our 
best poets ; but a poetical license, the offspring of 
hard necessity, is not a sufficient authority to vio- 
late the laws of nature. For, though speech is ar- 
tificial, yet pause, accent, quantity, and poize are na^ 
tural principles, without which it could not be con- 




It was mentioned in the last Chapter, that per- 
haps the Greek method of composing by feet, join- 
ed with ours, might be of some use in modern com- 
positions : In this view, I shall set down, from the 
Prosodia Rationalis, several English words, mark- 
ing them with the notes of accent, quantity, and 
poize; and likewise give them the names of such 
Greek feet as their quantities seem to refer them to. 

The following specimen will shew that our lan- 
guage has the same title to syllabic accents, and 
perhaps as fixed as those of the Greek ; for it is not 
probable that the Greek tongue should have been 
denied the convenient power of marking the dif- 
ference between an interrogative and a positive ex- 
pression, by the change of accent. 

The following are Spondees: 


Y- Y* 


Y- Y" 


constant ? 


carelses ? 



A /. 

A .'. 

A /. 

A .'. 



x yy yx n n y 

ling, wicked ? wicked, maxim ? maxim, won- 
A /. A .% A/. A.*. A 

y yx r? yx xy 

der ? wonder, succeed ? succeed, success ? 
A /. % A / A .*. A 

yx y 




success. common ? common. 


. A A /. A ,\ 






accent ? 





insult ? 







music, trochee. 

music, spondee* 


eager, trochee. 
A /. 



accent ? 



eagerly, dactyl. 
A .'. 



able, trochee. 

a bi li ty, choriambic. 








x n 

* hi 

I Y 
/ \ 

compose, iambus. 

.'. A 



composition, third epitrite. 
A ,\A /. 


wonderful, " 
A /. 

absolute ? 
A /. 


A /. 

dactyl, or a- 
napest d ma~ 


compensate, molossus. impossible?^ 
A A 

compensation, choriambus. impossible, ) 

A* A A 

choriambic or 


pry V/X 

varu^, dactyl or spondee, exquisite, anapetl. 

aT a " * 

vanTty, choriambic. deliberate, choriamhc. 




cuiw dactyl or spondee, avwice, MUpnft 

a TT A 

cu ri o sity, iambus 8$ ana- aver, iambus. 

*~*~* *A* pest per co- .\ A 

* A .. ^ w /^ w# 

terrify, anapest. average, anapest. 

n it . . h 

exterminate, choriambic, r . , 
^a^ confess, iambus. 

, A .. .. A 


t LY 
\ f ( 

confession, dactyl. 

or, successor, cretic. 


A ' .-. 

or, confession, 1st pceon. beauty, spondee. 

"r^ A .-. 

. A .\ 

confessor, dactyl. 
.-. A - 

beautifully, proceleumatic. 


or, confessor, creft'c. 


beautiful, cretic. 

succession, 1st pceon. 
- A 



consider, cretic. 
.-. A.: 


successor, dactyl. 
.: A^ 


A % A.-. 


declare, iambus. 
.-. A 

musical, dactyl. 

declaration, diambic. 
A- A~ 

U T 


musician, dactyl. 



to demonstrate, lacchic. differ, p.rrhic. 
.: A . A .-. 

a demonstrative, Idpceon. defer, iambus* 
.: A -.-. .\ A 



demonstration, diambic. difference, anapest. 
A .\ A.\ A .-. 

necessary, proceleusmatk. deference, anapest. 
A.-. A.-. <r*-> 

0n y 

necessity, choriambic* 


delicate, anapest. 

.: A 




delinquent, bacchic. 

a project, iambus, 


to project, spondee. 


mis e ry, ampest, 
A V. 


species, efac/[y/ or spondee. 


specific, cre//c, 
.\ A .*. 

respect,(in suspense)^ 


respect, (final) 
/. A 

respective, molossus. 


miser, spondee. 

. J ? 


fo cs compare, iambus. 
' .'. A 


comparison, choriamUc* 




instant, spondee. constitution, disspondee* 

A A ..AA 

instantaneous, jrooftrf. <& ' . ^ ' \ _ . _ 

a . a .. . ^j constituent, choriarnbus < 


y m 

1 UH 

communicate, choriarnbus. ' -.. v 

A . ..- constanti |nopie,?wo/os.s^# 

A . . .- A . . spondee. 

r j m 

/y / \ /\ Y Y 

communication, rfacA & . 

~ spoi instru A ct ' ^P "** 
A A.-. ^ . A 


\ ' A 

continue, creft'c. 

,\ A 

continual, choriarnbus. 
.-. A-.-. 

instruction, molossus, 
.-. A .-. 


continu I ation, J#cA & 

1 ~ spondeeJ Vduce tambus. 
A--.% A.-. ^ .-.A 

instrument, dactyl. 
A . - .. 



\ V 

the produce, iambus. 

inspire, iambus. 


.-. A 



product, ditto. 

inspira tion, dis-spondee. 


A .-. A^? 

production, bacchic. 


.-.A ?T 

or inspira tion, ionicus a ml 

^^ A *-*-* wore. 
.. A .. 


syllable, anapest. 
A . . .-. 

vibrate, spondee. 


A .v 

syllabic, dactyl. 

. A .\ 


H ; 

to frequent, 


vibration, molossas. 
.-. A .-. 

.-. A 


adj. frequent, 
A .-. 

dee. / /\ 


occupy, ^dactyl 
A .\ 


MH .... >?-# 

occupa tion, ionicus d mi- or occupation, diambic. 
/ ~ A ~> a""""^ nore. A f \ A .\ 



In measuring the different kinds of verse in this 
Chapter, according to the system laid down in the 
preceding pages, I have contrasted them with the 
mode of scanning practiced by our modern proso- 
dians. According to their mode of scanning, viz. 
by Greek feet, it is impossible to read our poetry ; 
and if prosody is not to assist and direct us how we 
ought to read, I confess I know not its use. Al- 
though I have heard repeatedly the best speakers 
in Britain, have studied with the most eminent 
professors of the art of reading and speaking, and 
have been in the practice of teaching elocution for 
twenty years, I never found one who read poetry 
according to the rules laid down by prosodians for 



scanning it ; indeed, I believe it is impossible to do 

Nor can this be wondered at, when we find 
these accidents of language, poize, accent, quanti- 
ty, &c. so much mistaken and misapplied. # 

* " As these Greek and Roman names of feet and verses have 
(with the substitution of English accent for Greek and Latin 
quantity), been applied to English versification by other writers 
before me, and as they are convenient terms to save circumlo- 
cution, I have deemed it expedient to adopt them after the ex- 
ample of my predecessors, and to apply to our accented and un- 
accented syllables, the marks generally employed to indicate 
long and short syllables in the Greek and Latin prosodies : as, 
for example, the marks, thus applied to the Greek Pegasos, or 
the Latin Pegasus, signify that the first syllable of that animal's 
name is long, and the other two short ; whereas, in English 
prosody, the same marks are to be understood as simply mean- 
ing, that the first syllable in Pegasus is accented, and the other 
two un-accented. This observation applies to every other 

" It might be thought improper to pass, wholly unnoticed, a 
fourth species the Dactylic of which Mr Murray observes, 
that it is " very uncommon :" and indeed he has not quoted any 
admissible example of such metre ; for, as to that which he ad- 
duces, thus marked with the appearance of three dactyles 

" From the low pleasures of this fallen nature 
I cannot discover in it even one real dactyl. If the fault be 
mine, I am sorry for it ; but I have been taught (whether right 
or wrong, I leave to better scholars than myself to determine), 
that, in scanning verse, whether Greek, Latin, or English, we 
are not arbitrarily to connect or disjoin syllables, with the view 
of producing whatever kind and number of feet we choose ; 
much less to alter, at our pleasure, the accent or quantity of 



The first example has six cadences ; each line be- 
gins with a syllable under Arsis, which is filled up 
with a pause equal to a heavy syllable or Thesis ; it 
being always remembered, that every cadence must 
begin with a A syllable, or a pause. These two 
lines, therefore, are two complete hexametres. 

syllables for that purpose, as in From, Low, and Fall, in the ex- 
ample above quoted ; but that each foot must independently 
stand on its own ground, without any violation of accent or 
quantity ; and that we must produce the due number of feet, 
whatever those feet may be : otherwise there would be an end 
of all metre ; and no reader could tell the difference between 
verse and prose. The observance of those rules, of which I 
never have heard the propriety disputed, compels me, however 
reluctant, to differ from Mr Murray, and to scan the verse as 

" From the^ | low plea- | siires 6T | this fall- | en na- | tiire 
making it a five-foot Iambic, with a redundant syllable at the 
end, as is common in every kind of English metre, without ex- 

" We see that a Pyrrhic, of two light, un-accented syllables, 
equally makes a foot with us, as a spondee of two heavy, ac- 
cented syllables ; and this, not only in cases where a contiguous 
spondee might be supposed to compensate, by the additional 
length of its time, for the stinted brevity of the Pyrrhic, but also 
in verses innumerable which contain no spondee, though some- 
times two Pyrrhics occur in the same line." And elsewhere we 
have these remarkable words The quantity or length of syl- 
lables is little regarded in English poetry, which is entirely regu- 
lated by their number and accent/' Caret's English Prosody. 


1st Example 

*. I r The I swain, with j tears, r his 

* A/.l A .-.| A /. 


A /. 


yields, r 
A * 

r And I famish'd, I dies a I mid his 1 ri pen'd | fields, r 

A .\ A .% A .\ A .% A/. A /. 

These lines, scanned by the latest prosodians, 
with Greek feet, have only five cadences in the line, 
and each of these cadences, contrary to nature, be- 
gins with a syllable under /. 

The swain, | with tears, | his frus | trate la | bour yields, | 

And fa | mish'd, dies | amid | his ri | pen'd fields. | 


2. Examples in Six Cadences. 

r In | moder | a tion I plac ing I all my ] glo ry, 

Imoder | 
A/. I 

A.\| A/. I A/. I A.\ | A .\| A 

While r I Tories I call me 1 Whig, r and I Whigs a I Tory. 

A ,\ j A/, j A /. j A .Y I A /. I A.\ 

Improperly scanned with Greek feet in 5. 

In mo | dera | tion pla | cing all | my glo | ry, | 

While To | ries call | me Whig, | and Whigs | a To | ry. 



3. Examples in Five Cadences. 

r Of I pleasure's I gilded I baits be I ware, r 


A .\ I A ,\ J A .% | A ,'.| A 

r Nor | tempt the I siren's I fatal I snare. r 

A /.A ,\ A .\ A .\ A .\ 

Improperly scanned, with Greek feet, in 4, 

Of pleas | ure's gild | ed baits | beware, | 
Nor tempt | the si | ren's fa | tal snare. | 

4. Example in Five and Four Cadences. 

Ir A I las ! by I some de | gree of | wo, r 
A .-. I A .: J A .-. I A .-. J A .-. | 

II" We w ev e ry 1 bliss must I gain ; r "1 I 
A .-. J A--.-. J A .-. I A .-. I 

| r The 1 heart can I ne'er a I transport I know, r | 
A .-. I A .-. I A .-. J A .: I A .-. j 

I That r I never I feels a | pain. r I 
A .-. I A .-. I A .-. j A >, j 

Improperly scanned in Four and Three- 
Alas ! | by some | degree | of wo, | 

We ev | 'ry bliss | must gain ; ( 
The heart | can ne'er | a trans | port know, j 

That nev | er feels | a pain. | 


5, Example in Three Cadences, 

[ r With | ravish'd | ears, r | 
| r The | monarch J hears, r | 
| r As j sumes the | god, r | 
| r Af | fects to | nod, r | 
p And | seems to | shake the | spheres/ | 

Improperly scanned thus, 

With ra | vish'd ears, | 
The mo | narch hears, | 
Assumes | the god, | 
Affects | to nod, | 
And seems | to shake | the spheres. 

6. Example in Four Cadences complete. 

Man a | lone, in I tent to I stray, f I 
A .\ j A .% I A .\ J A .-. f 

Ever I turns from I wisdom's I way. ? 
A.'. A .-. A.'. A .*. 


These lines, scanned by Greek feet, are called 

trochaic verses, of three Jeet and a hatj: Let it be 

observed, that the three feet in each of the lines, 

exemplified below, are accidentally right, be- 


cause each of these feet forms a cadence. I say 
accidentally r , because, in scanning by these feet, we 
find no attention paid to the cadence, whether it 
begins with a syllable under pulsation or remission, 
but as it happens to suit the foot ; and, of course, it 
it will be found, that cadences formed by these 
feet, are frequently begun with a syllable under 
arsis, which should never be the case, as already 
explained. By not knowing the value of a pause, 
they call the last syllable half a foot, whereas, by a 
proper pause, viz. a crotchet, it is a complete ca- 
dence ; because every pause or rest is counted in 
the rhythmus of a line, as well as sound, and is fre- 
quently even more expressive ; but our learned 
prosodians, not being aware of this, are constantly, 
according to their rules, destroying the rhythmus 
of our verses. 

Scanned according the laws of Greek prosody ; 

Man a | lone, in | tent to ] stray, 
Ever | turns from | wisdom's | way. 

7. Example in Five Cadences. 

3.] r Tis the I voice of the 
.-. ..| A 

r Yon have j wak'd me too 

.\ I A 

sluggard; I I hear him com I plain, r 
A .*. A .'. ' A 

soon,i 1 1 must r I slumber a 

A . A A .-. 


A | 


Mark how these lines are spoiled by the rules of 
prosody, by making every cadence begin with a 
light syllable, and allowing no time for pauses : 

'Tis the voice | of the slug | gard ; I hear | him complain, | 
You have wak'd | me too soon, | I must slum | ber again. | 

Should any of those prosodians, who scan accoraV 
ing to the Greek terms of prosody, be of opinion 
that there is nothing in this improved mode, but a 
direct tendency to spoil that manner of scanning 
which has been sanctioned for many centuries, they 
are at full liberty to remain in that opinion, and 
will, no doubt, do so, until they are able to under- 
stand what, in the preceding pages, is meant by 
Thesis and Arsis, the value of quantity in rhyth- 
mus, the meaning and proper application of the 
term accent, as an affection which is totally distinct 
from quantity and rhythmus, the meaning and 
music of a cadence, and that it may be completed 
with rests or pauses, as well as with syllables, &c. 
I write this, not so much with the view of reform- 
ing prosodians, as to put my own pupils upon their 
guard against false modes of scanning, by which 
they cannot read, and to teach them the method of 
preserving, in their reading and speaking, the pro- 
per melody and rhythmus of the English language. 


8. Example in Four and Three Cadences, with the 
light syllables, as formerly exemplified, placed at 
the beginning of each, with an unnecessary elision 
in the word powers. 

Ye pow'rs | who make beau | ty and vir | tue your care ! | 

Let no sor | row my Phil | lis molest ! | 
Let no blast | of misfor | tune intrude | on the fair, | 

To ruf | fle the calm | of her breast. | 


These lines ought to be marked thus, in six and 
four cadences, totally independent of the Greek 
feet. The verses are in &. 

| r Ye 1 1 powers who| make "Jj beauty and | virtue your | care ! r | 

| Let no | sorrow my | Phillis | molest, r | 
| Let no | blast of mis | fortune in | trude on the | fair, r | 
J r To | ruffle the | calm of her | breast. 1 " | 

As examples that the Pyrrhic forms a complete 
foot or cadence in our language, we find the two 
following lines scanned thus : 

As on | a day, | reflect | %ng on | his age. 


Solem | mtys | a co | ver for | a sot. 



This doctrine, I make no doubt, may suit very 
well all prosodians who scan our verses with Greek 
feet ; but that it will direct any one to read a line so 
as to preserve the integral quantities of a cadence 
or bar, and produce the rhythmus, 1 hold to be im- 
possible ; these lines ought to be measured and 
read in this manner : 

| r As on a | day re | fleeting r | r n his | age. r | 
| r So | lemnity's | r a r | cover | r for a | sot. f | 

Here, it may be observed, that the integral quan- 
tity of every cadence, including the pauses, is alike, 
and may be measured by the same swings of a pen- 

The spondee is equally mistaken by giving it the 
same time in a cadence as a Pyrrhic, not being 
aware that two heavy syllables cannot be in one 
cadence, nor can two heavy syllables succeed each 
other, and be pronounced without a pause between 
them ; and, as was formerly shown, cadence is al- 
ways from heavy to heavy ; as, 

{ Rocks, r | caves/ | lakes/ | bogs/ | dens, r | fens and | shades of | death/ 

where the pulsation, the cadence, and rhythmus 
are exactly the same, as if the line were thus filled 
up with light syllables, and which would add no- 
thing to the length of the line were it measured by 
a time-beater. 


Rocks, & j caves, & lakes, { j& | bogs, & | dens, & | fens, & | shades of | death. 

But mark how it is scanned by our learned pro- 
sodians : 

Rocks, caves, | lakes, dens, | bogs, fens, j and shades | of death. 

But farther, let us observe the scanning of the 
following inimitable lines of Milton, and how dread- 
fully they are mangled ; and the minuteness of the 
directions how to do so. 

" The fact is," says a modern prosodian, " that 
we do not, in the utterance of these lines, (viz, the 
two following,) pronounce murmuring as three com- 
plete syllables, or innumerable as five ; in each case, 
we instinctively and imperceptibly make a syncope, 
which converts murmuring into a trochee, and in- 
numerable into an iambus and a pyrrhic, thus : 

Murm'ring ; | and, with | him fled | the shades | of night. 
Innu | m'rable | before ] th' Almigh | ty's throne." 

It may be matter of regret, but really we are not 
conscious of any such instinct or imperceptibility as 
to lead us to barbarize Milton's fine verses in such 
a manner. Such instinct and imperceptibility may 
indeed belong, or be imagined to belong to those 
who are so completely fettered by the prejudices of 
learning, as to consider it a species of the grossest 
heresy to scan any verses by any rules, but those 
dictated by prosodians, viz. the Greek feet ; but un- 


questionably by none who have perceptibility enough 
to be guided in the cadence, metre, and rhythmus 
of our verses by their ears, which, though infinitely 
superior, are not, with prosodians at least, so legiti- 
mate guides, as the eyes. 

These lines ought to be measured and read thus, 
by which means we preserve entire Milton's pecu- 
liarly expressive and highly poetic verses, and also 
the complete cadence, metre, and rhythmus of 
each line, without either syncope, or apocope, or 
any other necessary implement of cutting and mang- 
ling. Each line has six cadences, instead of five, 
as marked by the rules of prosody. 

Murmuring ; | r an d I with him I fled the I shades of | night, r 

A /. I .\ A .*. I A.\ I A/. I A 

r In | numerable I r be | fore the Al I mighty 's | throne. r 

.\ A-.V /.A /. A /. A 

The following line of Milton is directed to be 
scanned and read thus : 

All judg | ment, whe | th'r in heaven, | or earth, | or hell, 

where the author is much indebted to Swift for his 
authority, which is established by the following lines: 

And thus fanatic saints, though neitKr in 
Doctrine or discipline our brethren. 


which is quite sufficient grounds for barbarizing 
Milton's line, as measured above, and cramming it 
within five cadences ; whereas it should be mea- 
sured and read in six cadences, without any elision $ 

All r I judgment, I whether in 1 heaven, or I earth, or I hell. r 

A A /. A-.\ A- .\ A /.A 

As to the authority of Swift on this point, I con- 
sider it equally good, or equally bad with the thou- 
sands who have gone before him, that scanned Eng- 
lish verse with Greek JeeL 

But perhaps the measure of this learned absurdi- 
ty is not complete, without the following example 
from Shakespeare ; where, in order to make it 
obedient to this most imperious law, the exact 
number of feet, we have this extraordinary line : 

O Ro | meo ! Ro | meo ! where | fore art | thou Ro | meo? 

Instead of the beautifully complete rhythmus of 
Shakespeare, which ought to be measured and read 
thus, without any synceneris or redundance, 

O HRoraeo! 1 Rome o ! | wherefore ] art thou I Rome o ? 

A J A ".\| A-/. J A /. J A .\ J A-.\ 

which is a line of fourteen syllables, measured in 
six cadences, instead of the eleven syllables, scan. 


ned in five feet with a redundant syllable, by the 
rules of prosody. 



To be able accurately to mark the syllables under 
A and .*. is a most important step in this system, 
so much so, that, without this, which may be con- 
sidered as the basis of rhythmus, no proficiency can 
be acquired. Jn going over these exercises, the 
student is made acquainted with the degrees of 
pulsation and remission, how they are accomplish- 
ed by the action and re-action of the enunciative 
organs ; why these organs cannot pronounce two 
pulsations without a pause or remission between 
them and is shown, that from the very nature of 
the organs, these affections must pervade every 


Soft r rising now the eastern breeze* 
A A.\ A ,\ A .% A 

Plays r rustling through the quivering trees. 
A A /. A .\ A .\ A 


Come r lovely health ! divinest maid ! 
A A .\ A A /. A 

And lead me through the rural shade. 
.\ A % A .\A.\ A 

Soft r is the strain when zephyr gently blows, 

A A .\ A /. A /.A/. A 

And the smooth r stream in smoother numbers flows ; 

\ ' A A .\ A .\ A ,\ A 

But r when r loud r surges lash the sounding shore, 

A A A A .-. A .\ A .% A 

The hoarse r rough r verse should like the torrent roar, 

/.A A A /. A /. A /. A 

When Ajax strives r some r rock's r vast r weight to throw, 

/.A/. A A A A A .\ A 

The line, too, labours, and the words r move r slow. 

/. A .\ A .\ /. /.A A A 

Judge we by nature ? habit can efface, 
Interest o'ercome, or policy take place : 


By actions ? those uncertainty divides : 
By passions ? those dissimulation hides : 
Opinions ? they will take a wider range, 
Find, if you can, in what you cannot change, 
Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes, 
Tenets with books, and principles with times. 


'Tis with our judgements as our watches, none 
Go just alike, yet each believes his own- 
In poets, as true genius is but rare, 
True taste as seldom in the critics share ; 
But must alike from heaven derive their light, 
These born to judge, as well as those to write. 
Let such teach others, who themselves excel, 
And censure freely who have written well. 
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, 
But are not critics to their judgements too ? 



Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend : 
Bless' d be that spot, where cheerful guests retire, 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire j 


Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair : 
Bless'd be those feasts, with simple plenty crown'd, 
Where all the ruddy family, around, 
Laugh at the jests or pranks, that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale : 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 



A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore, 
And proud defiance in their looks they bore -, 
u For thee," they cried, " amid alarms and strife, 
We saiFd in tempests down the stream of life j 
For thee, whole nations fillM with arms and blood,' 
And swam to empire through the purple flood : 
Those ills we dar'd, thy inspiration own, 
What virtue seem'd was done for thee alone." 
" Ambitious fools !" the queen replied, and frown'd, 
" Be all your acts in dark oblivion drown'd j 
There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone, 
Your statues moulder'd, and your names unknown !" 
A sudden cloud straight snatch'd them from my 
And each majestic phantom sunk in night. 



See the sole bless heaven could on all bestow I 
Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know ; 
Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind, 
The bad must miss, the good, untaught, will find : 
Slave to no sect, ^-who takes no private road, 
But looks through nature, up to nature's God ; 
Pursues that chain which links the immense design. 
Join heaven and earth, and mortal and divine : 
Sees that no being any bliss can know, 
But touches some above and some below ; 
Learns from this union of the rising whole, 
The first, last, purpose of the human soul ; 
And knows where faith, law, morals, all began, 
All end in love of God and love of man. 

For him alone hope leads from goal to goal, 
And opens still, and opens on his soul, 
Till lengthen'd on to faith, and unconfin'd, 
It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind. 




Hark ! heard ye not that piercing cry, 
Which shook the waves and rent the sky ? 


Even now, even now, on yonder western shores, 
Weeps pale Despair, and writhing Anguish roars : 
Even now, in Afric's groves, with hideous yell, 
Fierce Slavery stalks, and slips the dogs of hell : 
From vale to vale the gathering cries rebound, 
And sable nations tremble at the sound ! 

Ye bands of Senators ! whose suffrage sways 
Britannia's realms, whom either Ind obeys, 
Who right the injur'd and reward the brave, 
Stretch your strong arm, for ye have power to save ! 
Thron'd in the vaulted heart, his dread resort, 
Inexorable Conscience holds his court ; 
With still small voice the plots of guilt alarms, 
Bares his mask'd brow, his lifted hand disarms ; 
But wrapp'd in night, with tenors all his own, 
He speaks in thunder when the deed is done. 
Hear him, ye Senates $ hear this truth sublime, 


No radiant heart, which crested fortune wears, 
No gem, that twinkling hangs from beauty's ears, 
Nor the blue stars, which night's blue arch adorn, 
Nor rising suns, that gild the vernal morn, 
Shine with such lustre, as the tear that breaks 
for others' wo, down virtue's manly cheeks. 





Where my Laura is laid beneath this old tree, 
Asleep to the whispers that die on the gale, 

Ye wood-nymphs attend, as kind guardians, and see 
That no harsh intrusion her slumbers assail. 

Swell gently thy murmur, O, soft rolling stream, 
And gently, ye zephyrs, skim o'er the sweet maid ; 

By rustling your pinions, disturb not her dream, 
Nor ruffle the bank where my Laura is laid. 

May her dreams be of rapture, and through her dear 
May pleasure, quick darting, give transports 
divine ; 
Such transports as lovers oft feel unexpress'd, 
Too poignant for language, for utterance too fine. 

O let me for ever, unconscious of change, 

Still, sleeping or waking, protect the sweet maid ; 

Still range the same groves that my Laura shall range, 
And lie on the bank where my Laura is laid. 

A. M'D. 




r The 1 man r that j hath no I mu sic I in him I self, ** 

\ I A .\ I A .\| A.\ I A *\ | A 

r Nor, j is not I mov'dJ" with I concord of | sweetl I sounds," 1 

A .'. | A /. I A /. I A I A 

r Is 1 fit for I treasons, r I stra ta gems, r I r an d I spoils 

.\|A.\| A/. A--/. .*. A 

r The I mo tions I in his I spi rit r are 1 dull as I night, r 

..| A/. |A.\| A/, v I A/. 

r And | his af I fections r | dark as I Ere bus : 

A /. j A /. j A /. j A /. 

Let ? 1 no such 1 man be I trusted. 

A | A.'. I A .\| A v.. . 

Merchant of Venice* 



\ A A /. A ,\ 

r A I mighty | wind o'er | flows the I hills,'" 

.\ I A ,\ I A /. J A .\ J A 

r And I pours'its I current I down the I vale,- / 

.\ A /. A ,\ A .% A 

How, 1 I yonder, I many | forest I stoops 

A I A.*. I A.\| A.\ | A 

r Be | neath its I fu ry ! 

A /.A .\ 

r And I lo ! r I on the in I dignant J main," 1 

A A^ A.'. I A 

What r I a gi I ta tion I r of its I waves ; n 

A A.\ A.\ / A 

. r Or I tossing 

.-. I A .-. 

high their I foamy 

A .-. A.-. 

heads, r 


Or J dashing r J gainst the I shore. r 

A .-. A .-. A 

Onward in I billowy I gusts, 1 " 

A .-.A-.-. A 

F The im 




A .-. 


A .-. 

f And I aught its I force with I standing I fiercely as | sails:"! 

A .-.A .-. A .-. A -.-. A 


r Of I mingled I strife the | clamorous I voices I rise, ^ 

.-. I A I A .-. I A-.-. I A.-. I A 

r And in I rude r I peals, in I vade the a I larmed I ear. r 

A A .-. I A-- .-. I A .-. I A 

r But | upward | turn'd, r | r the ad | miring I eye n I 

.-. | A.-. I A I ".-.| A.-. | A I 

Far r I other I prospect I meditates 

A A .-. A.-. A-.-. 

r The I moon, r I fair r I governess of I night, r 

A I A I A--.-. "I A 

Walking in I brightness : 

A .-. \& .-. 

And, I scatter'd | o'er the I vast ex I panse, r 

.-. I A.-. I A .-. I A .-. I A 

r The in 





r f 

stars, r 


f With | what r I calm r I aspect r i they ap I pear i 
A A A.-. A .-. A 

r To I view the I storm be I low. 1 

.-. A .-. A .-.A 

While r 1 musing I o'er r | both r I scenes, n 

A [ A.-. I A J A A 

While r I thus r I both r I scenes con I trasting, 

A A A A A.-. 

My | fervent I spirit e 1 jaculates, I " Oh ! 1 I when, r 

..[A.-. I A-.% I A-.-. A I A 


Frm the se | rener I heights of I mental j peace, r 
A ' .\ A. ; . | A .\ J A .'. I A 

Shall r I I look I down on | life's tu | multuous | cares."" 1 

A I A.-. | A .-. I A .-. I A--.-. I A 




J" In | man or | woman, | but r | far r | most in | man, r [ 

r And | most of | all r in | man that ] ministers | 

r And | serves the | altar, | r in my | soul I | loath 1 | 

All r | affec | tation. | Tis my | perfect | scorn, c | 

Object | r of my | r implacable | r dis | gust, r | 

What ! | will a | man play | tricks, r | will he in | dulge f j 

r A | silly [ fond con | ceit of his | fair r | form, f | 

r And | just pro | portion, | fashion | able | mein, F | 

And | pretty | face, in | presence | r of his God ? r 

F Or | will he | seek to | dazzle me | r with | tropes, r | 

F As I with the | diamond | r on his | lily | hand, | 

r And | play his | brilliant | parts be | fore my | eyes, r | 

r When | I am | hungry | r for the | bread of | life ? | 

r He | mocks his | Maker, | prostitutes j r and | shames r 

His r | noble | office, | r and, in j stead of | truth, r | 

r Dis | playing his | own | beauty, | starves his | flock ! | 

Therefore, a | vaunt | all r | attitude, | r and | stare, r | 

f And | start the | atric, | practised | at the | glass ! | 

r I | seek di | vine sim | plicity in | him r | 

Who r | handles | things di | vine ; | r and [ all be | sides, 


Though r | learn'd with | labour, | r and tho' | much ad | mir'd 
By r | curious | eyes and | judgments | ill in | form'd, | 
I" To | me is | odious | r as the | nasal | twang r | 
Heard r | at con | venticle, | where r | worthy | men, | 
r Mis | led by | custom, | strain ce | lestial | themes r | 

Through the | press'd | nostril | spectacle | t bestrid. | 




Force, ruffian force, and guilty hands, 

Has torn me from my joys away ; 
Condemn'd to toil in distant lands, 

And doom'd to weep each passing day. 
The sounding whip and clanking chain, 

With horrid din disturb my rest ; 
And curses dire, from lips profane, 

Shoot sudden terrors through my breast. 
Divided far from all I love, 

Remov'd from all my heart holds dear, 
Death's sharpest pangs each day I prove, 

And shed, each hour, the fruitless tear, 




There vice and folly run their giddy rounds j 
There eager crowds are hurrying to the sight 
Of feign'd distress, yet have not time to hear 
The shivering orphan's prayer. The flaring lamps 
Of gilded chariots, drawn by pamper'd steeds, 
Illume the snowy street : the silent wheels 
On heedless passenger steal unperceiv'd, 
Bearing the splendid fair to flutter round 
Amid the mazy labyrinths of the dance. 


Hail, long lost Peace ! hail, dove-ey'd maid divine! 

See at thy feet a suppliant votary bend : 
Oh ! deign to view him with an eye benign ; 

So dying hope shall find in thee a friend : 
Ah ! turn not thy angelic face away ! 

If thou'lt be mine, no more I quit this vale, 
But sit beside thee all the live-long day, 

And list in silence to thy rural tale. 


There may we live, unsought for, arid unseen 

By fortune's train, fantastic, cold, and rude ; 
Nor let the sons of Comus mark the green, 

Nor lounging triflers on our hours intrude 
If ought be welcome to our sylvan shade, 

Be it the traveller who has lost his way ; 
Who knows not where to rest his anxious head, 

Who knows not where his weary limbs to lay. 


O thou who bad'st thy turtles bear 
Swift from his grasp thy golden hair, 

And sought'st thy native skies : 
When War, by vultures drawn from far, 
To Britain bent his iron car, 

And bade her storms arise ! 

Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway, 
Our youth shall fix some festive day, 

His sullen shrine to burn ; 
But thou who hear'st the turning spheres, 
What sounds may charm thy partial ears, 

And gain thy blest return ! 


O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind ! 
O rise, and leave not one behind 

Of all thy beamy train : 
The British lion, Goddess sweet, 
Lies stretch'd on earth to kiss thy feet, 

And own thy holier reign. 

Let others court thy transient smile, 
But come to grace thy western isle, 

By warlike honour led ! 
And, while around her ports rejoice, 
While all her sons adore thy choice^ 

With him for ever dwell. 


1 am monarch of all I survey ; 

My right there is none to dispute, 
From the centre all round to the sea, 

I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
O solitude ! what are the charms, 

That sages have seen in thy face ? 
Better dwell in the midst of alarms, 

Than reign in this horrible place. 


I am out of humanity's reach ; 

I must finish my journey alone, 
Never hear the sweet music of speech, 

I start at the sound of my own. 
Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestow'd upon men ! 
Oh ! had I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would I taste you again ! 
Ye winds that have made me your sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore, 
Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more. 



Fair Beech, that bear'st our interwoven names 
Here grav'd, the token of our mingled names, 
Preserve the mark, and as thy head shall rise, 
Our love shall heighten till they reach the skies : 
The wounds in us, as these in thee, shall spread, 
Larger by time and fairer to be read. 
Stand sacred Tree, here still inviolate stand, 
By no rude axe profan'd, by no unhallow'd hand. 
Be Thou the Tree of Love, and here declare, 
That once a nymph was found as true as she was fair. 





All bloody sunk the evening sun, 
And red the wild wave gleam'd, 

And loud and billowy o'er the deep, 
The angry tempest scream'd. 


When Mary, weeping, kiss'd her babes, 

And laid them down to rest, 
As slow the sad thought pal'd her cheek, 

And chilFd her heaving breast. 

Blow, blow, she cried, thou wintry wind, 
Then cast her streaming eyes, 

Where, foaming o'er the rocky cliff, 
The bursting breaker dies. 

Ah me ! to Mary's harass'd heart, 
How welcome yon rude tone, 

That swells on sorrow's saddening ear, 
And, wailing, seems to moan. 


Tho' many a day be past and gone, 

Tho* many a month be fled, 
Since Henry left his tender wife, 

And shar'd her faithful bed ; 

I've seen his form, when still at eve, 

The moan on ocean slept ; 
I've heard his voice, when o'er the rock, 

The dying breeze hath crept. 

She scarce had said, when from the deep. 

Slow peal'd the sullen swell ; 
Dark grew the heavens, and dark the wave, 

And fast the chill rain fell. 

When Mary thought on Henry dear, 

And breath'd the tender sigh ; 
When wild, as scream'd the untimely ghost, 

Was heard the seaman's cry. 

She left her cot, and turn'd the cliffy 
Where plain'd the dismal sound $ 


She flew, on hopeless Henry cali'd, 
And wav'd her hand around. 


That moment rush'd the billowy surge, 
And o'er the rough rock rolFd ; 

And far through ocean's viewless depths, 
The knell of Mary toll'd. 


Her children slept till morning's dawn, 
Then kiss'd each other's cheek ; 

As pouring o'er their guileless heads, 
They heard the tempest break. 


They wept, they call'd for Mary dear, 

Her soft embrace delay'd, 
Then turn'd their dewy eyes to heaven, 

And clasp'd their hands and pray'd. 


The wild wind ceas'd, the sun beam'd forth, 

Red shone the tinted ray ; 
The children rose, and Edward smil'd 

His Charlotte's tears away. 



They went to seek their lost mamma, 

They reached the craggy shore, 
When lo ! to land poor Mary's corse, 

The tide deep heaving bore. 


When nought she answer'd, their fond hearts 

Did almost burst with grief, 
And won't mamma, then, speak to us ? 

And won't she bring relief ? 


They kiss'd her pale lips, kiss'd her hands, 

And laid down by her side j 
Their cheeks to her cold cheek they placed, 

And weeping still, they died. 

















yet in 



A .*. 


yet un 

A .*. 

Y' I 

close her 

A /. 

wrath a rise/ 

A .\ I A I 

I J It L 

Ton the tyrant s 

Y: I 1 Y Y 

make op I pression 
A .'. I A /. 



breast, r 

Y- I 

groan, op 

A .*. 

press a. ' 







Y- 1 

stranger ! 

A /. 



A .'. 

Y' I 

hear the 

A ,\ 






Y- I 

snatch him 

Y Y, 

debtor s 

A .'. 

Y Y 

from des 

A /. 


prayer ! 









r And 



Y' I 

guilt and 

A /. 


fol ly 






Y Y 



Yl I 

many a 


Y- I 

feel the 

A /. 

Y Y 

oft shed 

a .*. 
Y Y 

wrong in 

A /. 

Yl I 

many a 

A .'. 


si lence 





Y' I 

they de 

A .\ 




Y r 

vour, r 

A ' 

f In 

Y; I 

vain my 

a .-. 



. I A ,\ 

Y I 

vows, my 

A /. 

Y Y 

hand of 

A .'. 

I Y 

j wants'" 


Y- I 


A /. 


cry r 




. A A 
Y ' J 

loud for 

A .*. 



Since r 


laws se 

A /. 


vere with j rigour 

A .'.A /. 

Y Y 

are o 

A .'. 






There r 

lies my 

A .-. 

wife, on 

A .-. 

Y' I I YY I Y I 

damp and 1 sickly 1 bed, r 

A .-. I A .-. I A 1 

Her p 

r With 

r To 

Y' MY' I 

peace de I stroy'd, her 

Y- I 

youth and 

A .-. 



all in 



A .-. 

saw her 

A .-. 

Y Y 

child ex 

A .-. 

difte rent 



death r 


^ r 

her r 





I r 

pire ' 


sole de 

A .-. 


fled, r 

sire. r 



Sweet r | poet I of the I woods, 1 a I long a I dieu I" 1 I 

A J A.-. I .-. --I A .-. J A .-. I A 

Tare | well, r I soft 1 " I minstrel | f" fthe I early I year!!" 

A A A .-. .-. .-. A .-. A 

Ah ! I 'twill be 

A A .-. 

long i ere I thou shalt I sing a I new, r 

A .-.A .-. A .-.A 

And I pour thy | music I r on the | * night's r j dulir 

A I A 


Whether on 1 spring r i thy r I wandering I flight a I wait, 1 " 

A -.-. I A I A I A -- | A .-. I A 

f"Or | whether I silent I in our | groves you | dwell, r I 

.-. A .-. A.-. A.-. A .-. A 


r The I pensive I muse T shall 
A.-. A .-. 

own thee I for her J mate, r 

A .-.A .-. A 

r And I still pro I tect the I song 1 " she I loves so I well. r 

A .-.A .-. A .-.A .-.A 

r With 



step ~ l the 

A .-. 

love-lorn 1 vouth shall 

a .-. a ;. 

glide r 


Through the 

A .-. 



brake that 

A .-. 

shades thy 

A .-. 

mossy l nest ; r 

A. -J A 

r And I shepherd I girls, 1 from I eyes pro 

A .-. A .-. A .-. 

fane, shall 

A .-. 

hide r 


r The | gentle I bird, r | who r 1 sings of 1 pi ty I best ; r 

A.-. A A A .-. A/.U 

r For I still thy 1 voice 1 shall I soft af 

.-. A .-. A .-. A.-. 

fection I move, n 

A.-. A 

r And | still be 1 dear to I sorrow I r and to I love. 1 

A.-. A .% A.-. .-. A 



I love thee, mournful sober-suited night, 

When the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane, 

And veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light, 
Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main. 

In deep depression sunk, the enfeebled mind 
Will to the deaf, cold elements complain, 
And tell the embosom'd grief, however vain, 

To sullen surges, and the viewless wind. 


Though no repose on thy dark breast I find, 

I still enjoy thee, -cheerless as thou art ; 

For in thy quiet gloom, the exhausted heart 

Is calm, though wretched ; hopeless yet resign'd : 

While, to the winds and waves its sorrows given, 

May reach, though lost on earth, the ear of heaven. 




Of chance or change, O let not man complain, 
Else should he never, never cease to wail ; 
For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain 
Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale, 
All feel the assault of fortune's fickle gale ; 
Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd ; 
Earthquakes have rais'd to heaven the humble vale, 
And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd, 
And where the Atlantic rolls r wide continents have 

But sure to foreign climes we need not range, 
Nor search the ancient records of our race, 
To learn the dire effects of time and change, 
Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace. 


Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither' d face, 
Or hoary hair, I never shall repine : 
But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental grace, 
Of candour, love, or sympathy divine, 
Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame is mine. 

Beat tie. 



Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, 
And woo the weary to profound repose ; 
Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest, 
And whisper comfort to the man of woes ? 
Here Innocence may w r ander, safe from foes, 
And Contemplation soar on seraph wings. 
O Solitude, the man who thee foregoes, 
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings, 
Shall never know the source r whence real gran- 
deur springs. 

Vain man, is grandeur given to gay attire ? 
Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid : 
To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hirer 
It is thy weakness that requires their aid : 
To palaces, with gold and gems inlay'd ? 
They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm : 


To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade? 
Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm ! 
Behold what deeds of wo r the locust can perform ! 

True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind 
Virtue has rais'd above the things below, 
Who, every hope and fear to heaven resign'd, 
Shrinks not, though Fortune aims her dreadful 

blow : 
This strain from midst the rocks was heard to flow 
In solemn sounds. Now beam'd the evening star j 
And from embattled clouds emerging slow, 
Cynthia came riding on her silver car, 
And hoary mountain-cliffs r shone faintly from afar. 



3. Our bugles sang truce for the night-cloud had 
And the sentinel stars 1 set their watch in the 
And thousands had sunk ^ on the ground over- 
The weary to sleep, "> and the wounded to die. 


When reposing that night ~ 1 on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring faggot 1 that guarded the slain ; 

At the dead of the night " 1 a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning 1 I dream' d it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's ~l dreadful array. 
Far, far I had roam'd 1 on a desolate track : 

'Twas autumn and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me 

1 flew to the pleasant fields, "* travers'd so oft 
In life's morning march, when my bosom was 
young ; 
I heard my own mountain-goats n bleating aloft, 
And knew the sweet strain "" that the corn- reapers 

Then pledg'd we the wine cup, and fondly I swore. 
From my home " 1 and my weeping friends never 
to part ; 

My little ones kiss'd me "* a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobb'd aloud 1 in her fulness of heart. 

Stay, stay with us-^-rest, thou art weary and worn ; 
And fain 1 was their war-broken soldier to stay 



But sorrow returned n with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 



The hinds how bless'd, who ne'er beguil'd 
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn-wild ; 
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main, 
For splendid care and guilty gain ! 

When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam 
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, 
They rove abroad in ether blue, 
To dip the scythe in fragrant dew ; 
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, 
That nodding shades a craggy dell. 

'Midst gloomy shades, in warbles clear, 
Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear : 
On green untrodden banks they view 
The hyacinth's neglected hue ; 
In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, 
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds : 


And startle from her aspen spray, 
Across the glen, the screaming jay : 
Each native charm their steps explore, 
Of Solitude's sequester'd lore. 

For them, the moon, with cloudless ray, 

Mounts to illume their home-ward way : 

Their weary spirits to relieve, 

The meadows incense breathe at eve. 

No riot mars the simple fare 

That o'er a glimmering hearth they share 

But when the curfew's measur'd roar 

Duly, the darkening valleys o'er, 

Has echo'd from the distant town, 

They wish no beds of cygnet-down, 

No trophied canopies, to close 

Their drooping eyes in quick repose. 

Their little sons, who spread the bloom 
Of health around the clay-built room, 
Or through the primros'd coppice stray, 
Or gambol in the new-mown hay ; 
Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine, 
Or drive afield the tardy kine ; 
Or hasten from the sultry hill 
To loiter at the shady rill : 


Or climb the tali pine's gloomy crest. 
To rob the raven's ancient nest. 

Their humble porch with honied flowers 
The curling woodbine's shade embowers : 
From the trim garden's thymy mound, 
Their bees in busy swarms resound : 
Nor fell Disease before his time, 
Hastes to consume Life's golden prime ; 
But when their temples long have wore 
The silver crown of tresses hoar, 
As studious still calm peace to keep, 
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep. 



If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, 

Like thy own solemn springs, 

Thy springs, and dying gales, 

O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun 
Sits in yon eastern tent, whose cloudy skirts, 

With brede etherial wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed : 


Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eye'd bat, 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small, but sullen horn, 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum : 
Now teach me, Maid compos'd, 
To breathe some soften'd strain, 

Whose numbers stealing thro' thy darkening vale, 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit, 

As musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial lov'd return ! 

For when thy folding star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours and Elves 

Who slept in buds the day, 

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with 

And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still, 

The pensive Pleasures sweet 

Prepare their shadowy car 


Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, 
Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells, 

Whose walls more awful nod, 

By thy religious gleams ; 

Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, 
That from the mountain's side, 
Views wilds, and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, 
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all, 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont. 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 

While Summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light : 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, 
Or Winter, yelling thro' the troublous air, 

Affrights thy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends thy robes : 


So long regardful of thy quiet rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 
Thy gentlest influence own, 
And love thy favourite name ! 





* \ 





long the 

fu ri ous 

god of 

war" 1 


A /. 


A .-. 



X X 




J" Has 

crush'd us 

with his 

Ir on 

car, "J 

A ,\ 

A .*. 




Y Y* 1 
/ / / 




rag'd a 

long our 

ru in'd 

A .\ 

A .\ 


plains, r 



x \ 

Y Y 




soil'd their 

i with his 

cru el 

stains, i 

A .*. A .\ 

A.\ A 






r Has 

sunk our 

youth in 



A .'. 

A .*. 




r And 

t { 

made the 
A .\ 




virgin ' weep. 

a.-.; a 


.\ A A .\ 






Y Y 1 Y- 

\ \ } 

r Ex 

pos'd to 


1 where 


pleasure , glows," 1 


A A 


A .'. 

A .\ ' A 


r And all the j lures ~> 

A v A 

which r 


vice for 
A .-. 

Y* I 
\ / 


a .-. 


throws, i 



y\) h 

r 'Tis ; thine," 1 un 

' .-.I A .-. 

y x y 

r And, tho' thou 

A .-. 

hurt r 


j xx \) 


A .-. 


midst r 


to re 





r The as 



feel'st its 

A .-. 

X ) 

thus "* the 

A .-. 




power of 

A .\ 



prove it 

A .-. 



fire de 
A .-. 

fies," 1 




midst its 

A .-. 


vi o lence, 


r un 




lies ; n 




Y* 1 1 
/ / 

tho' de s 


X X 



Y* 1 

flames a 

A .-. 

X ( 

round it 

A .-. 


roar, "l 


Quits th 
A . 


e fierce 

. A 


1 furnace, 1 




as be 







i"But v 

whence r c 

A i 


anst r 


thou, with 

A .-. 


feet un 

A .-. 



A.-. J 


tread r 



r The w 

X X 

odd's dire 


path, - ! 










spread I r 



Whence r 

can thy 


A .-. 


X { 

heart i temp 

A .\ 



tation's power dis dain, 

A.-. A .\ I A 




Y - 1 Y* 1 

} \ r / 


While r 


darts as 

sail thy : fame in 

vain ? 



A .-. 

A .-.JA .-. 







thee Re 

A .-. 










wave, "" 




X \ 

y \ 





guards the 

wreath that 


gave." 1 


A .-. 

A .-. 




Hark I the wild r maniac sings, to chide the gale 

A .\ A A-V.A .\ A .\ A 

r That wafts so slow " her lover's distant sail. 

,\ A .\ A .\ A /. A .* A 

She, r sad spectatress ! r on the wintery shore, 

A A /.A/. .\ A-.\ A 

Watch'd the rude r surge, his shroudless corse that bore, 

A ,\ A A /. A .\ A /. A 


Knew the pale r form, and, shrieking, in amaze, 

A /.A A /. A /. --/.A 

Clasp'd her cold r hands, and fix'd her maddening gaze. 

A .\ A A .\ A .*. A /. A 

Poor r widow'd wretch ! 'twas there she wept in vain, 

A A/. A .\ A /.A A 

Till r me mo ry fled r her a go nis ing brain. 

A A-.\ A A /.A/. A 

r But mercy gave, to charm the sense of wo, 

\ A .\ A /. A .\ A .\ A 

r I de al peace, that truth could ne'er bestow. 

\ A/. A ,% A ,\ A .\ A 

Warm 1 on her heart, the joys of fancy beam, 

A /. A /.A .\ A/. A 

r And aimless hope de lights her darkest dream. 

V. A i\ A /.A .\ A .\ A 

Douglas's account of the hermit. 

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote? 

And inaccessible, by shepherds trod, 

In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, 

A hermit liv'd ; a melancholy man, 

Who was the wonder of our wandering swains. 

Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, 

Did they report him ; the cold earth his bed, 


Water his drink, his food the shepherds' alms. 

I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd, 

With reverence and with pity. Mild he spake, 

And, entering on discourse, such stories told, 

As made me oft revisit his sad cell. 

For he had been a soldier in his youth, 

And fought in famous battles, when the peers 

Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led, 

Against the usurping infidels, display'd 

The blessed cross, and won the holy land. 

Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire 

His speech struck from me, the old man would shake 

His years away, and act his young encounters ; 

Then having show'd his wounds, he'd sit him down, 

And, all the live-long day, discourse of war. 

To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf 

He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts, 

Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use 

Of the deep column and the lengthen'd line, 

The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm : 

For all that Saracen or Christian knew 

Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known. 




Injurious Hermia, most ungrateful maid, 

Have you conspir'd, have you with these contrivM 

To bait me with this foul derision ? 

Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd, 

The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent, 

When we have chid the hasty-footed time 

For parting, us ; oh ! and is all forgot ? 

All school-days friendship, childhood innocence? 

We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, 

Created with our needles both one flower, 

Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion ; 

Both warbling of one song, both in one key, 

As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, 

Had been incorporate. Lo, we grew together, 

Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 

But yet a union in partition ; 

Two lovely berries, moulded-on one stem ; 

So with two seeming bodies, but one heart ; 

Two of the first, like coats of heraldry, 

Due but to one, and crowned with one crest. 

And will you rend our ancient love asunder, 

To join with men ia scorning your poor friend ? 


It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly : 

Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, 

Though I alone do feel the injury. 


Griffith's description of cardinal wolsey 

Men's evil manners live in brass ; their virtues 
We write in water. May it please your highness 
To hear me speak his good word ? This Cardinal, 
Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly 
Was fashion'd to much honour from his cradle : 
He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one ; 
Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading ; 
Lofty and sour, to them that lov'd him not, 
But to those that sought him, sweet as summer ; 
And tho' he were unsatisfy'd in getting, 
Which was a sin, yet in bestowing, Madam, 
He was most princely ; ever witness for him 
Those twins of learning that he rais'd in you, 
Ipswich and Oxford ! One of which fell with him, 
Unwilling to out-live the good he did it : 
The other, tho' unfinish'd yet so famous, 
So excellent in art, and still so rising, 
That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. 


His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him ; 
For then, and not till then, he felt himself, 
And found the blessedness of being little : 
And to add greater honours to his age 
Than man could give him, he died fearing God. 




Daughter of Jove, relentless power, 

Thou tamer of the human breast, 

Whose iron scourge and torturing hour 

The bad affright, afflict the best ! 

Bound in thy adamantine chain, 

The proud are taught to taste of pain, 

And purple tyrants vainly groan, 

With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. 

When first thy sire to send on earth 

Virtue, his darling, child, design'd, 

To thee he gave the heavenly birth, 

And bade thee form her infant mind. 

Stern rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 

With patience many a year she bore ; 

What sorrow was thou bad'st her know ; 

And from her own she learn'd to melt at others wo. 


Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly 

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, 

Wild laughter, noise, and thoughtless joy, 

And leave us leisure to be good. 

Light they disperse, and with them go 

The summer friend, the flattering foe ; 

By vain prosperity received, 

To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd. 

Wisdom, in sable garb array 'd, 

Immers'd in rapturous thought profound , 

And Melancholy, silent maid, 

With leaden eye, that loves the ground, 

Still on thy solemn steps attend, 

Warm Charity, the general friend, 

With Justice, to herself severe, 

And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. 

Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, 

Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand ! 

Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 

Nor circled with the vengeful band, 

(As by the impious thou art seen,) 

With thundering voice and threatening mein, 

With screaming Horror's funeral cry, 

Despair, and fell disease, with ghastly Poverty. 


Thy form benign, Oh, Goddess, wear, 

Thy milder influence impart, 

Thy philosophic train be there, 

To soften, not to wound my heart : 

The generous spark extinct revive, 

Teach me to love, and to forgive, 

Exact my own defects to scan, 

What others are to feel, and know myself a man. 



Who shall awake the Spartan fife, 

And call in solemn sounds to life, 
The youths, whose locks divinely spreading, 

Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue, 
At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding, 

Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view ? 
And now Alcaeus, fancy-blest, 1 
Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest, 

At Wisdom's shrine a-while its flame concealing, 
(What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd ?) 

Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, 
It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted 
wound ! 


O Goddess, in that feeling hour, 
When most its sounds would court thy ears, 

Let not thy shell's misguided power, 
E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears. 
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell, 
How Rome, before thy weeping face, 
With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell, 
Push'd by a wild and artless race, 
From off its wide ambitious base, 
When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke, 
And all the blended work of strength and grace, 
With many a rude repeated stroke, 
And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments 


Yet even, where'er the least appear'd, 
The admiring world thy hand rever'd ; 
Still, 'midst the scatter'd states around, 
Some remnants of her strength were found j 
They saw, by what escap'd the storm, 
How wonderous rose her perfect form ; 
How in the great, the labour'd whole, 
Each mighty master pour'd his soul ! 


For sunny Florence, seat of art, 
Beneath her vines preserv'd a part, 
Till they, whom Science lov'd to name, 
(O who could fear it ?) quench'd her flame. 
And lo, an humbler relic laid 
In jealous Pisa's olive shade ! 
See small Marino joins the theme, 
Tho' least, not last in thy esteem. 
Strike, louder strike the ennobling strings 
To those, whose merchant sons were kings ; 
To him, who, deck'd with pearly pride, 
In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride : 
Hail port of glory, wealth, and pleasure, 
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure : 
Nor e'er her former pride relate, 
To sad Liguria's bleeding state. 
Ah, no 1 more pleas'd thy haunts I seek, 
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak ; 
(Where, when the favour'd of thy choice, 
The daring archer heard thy voice ; 
Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dread, 
The ravening Eagle northward fled :) 
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near, 
With those * to whom thy stork is dear : 

* The Dutch. 


Those whom the rod of Alva bruis'd, 
Whose crown a British queen refus'd ! 
The magic works, thou feelst the strains, 
One holier name alone remains ; 
The perfect spell shall then avail, 
Hail Nymph ! ador'd by Britain, hail ! 


Beyond the measure vast of thought, 
The works, the wizard time has wrought ! 

The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story, 
Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand, 

No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary, 
He pass'd with unwet feet thro* all our land. 

To the blown Baltic then, they say, 

The wild waves found another way, 
Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding; 

Till all the banded west at once *gan rise, 
A wide wild storm even Nature's self confounding, 

Wither'd her giant sons with strange uncouth 

The pillar'd earth so firm and wide, 
By winds and inward labours torn, 

In thunders dread was push'd aside, 

And down the shouldering billows borne. 


And see, like gems, her laughing train, 

The little isles on every side, 
Mona, # once hid from those who search the main, 

Where thousand Elfin shapes abide, 
And Wight who checks the western tide, 

For thee consenting heaven has each bestow'd, 
A fair attendant on her sovereign pride : 

To thee this last divorce she ow'd, 
For thou hast made her vales thylov'd, thy last abode! 


Then too, 'tis said, a hoary pile, 
'Midst the green centre of our isle, 
Thy shrine in some religious wood, 
O soul-enforcing Goddess, stood ! 
There oft the painted natives' feet 
Were wont thy form celestial meet : 
Though now with hopless toil we trace 
Time's backward rolls, to find its place : 
Whether the fiery-tressed Dane, 
Or Roman's self o'erturn'd the fane, 
Or in what heaven-left age it fell, 
'Twere hard for modern song to tell. 

* The isle of Man. 


Yet still, if truth these beams infuse, 
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse, 
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie, 
Paving the light-embroider'd sky, 
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains, 
The beauteous Model still remains. 
There happier than in islands blest, 
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drest, 
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story, 
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory, 
Hear their consorted Druids sing 
Their triumphs to the immortal string. 

How may the poet now unfold, 
What never tongue nor numbers told ? 
How learn delighted, and amaz'd, 
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd ? 
Even now, before his favour'd eyes, 
In Gothic pride it seems to rise ! 
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join, 
Majestic thro' the mix'd design ; 
The secret builder knew to choose, 
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues : 
Whatever heaven's purer mold contains, 
When nearer suns emblaze its veins ; 


There, on the walls, the Patriot's sight 
May ever hang with fresh delight, 
And, grav'd with some prophetic rage, 
Read Albion's fame thro' every age. 

Ye forms divine, ye laureat band, 
That near her inmost altar stand ! 
Now soothe her, to her blissful train, 
Blithe Concord's social form to gain : 
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep 
Even Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep : 
Before whose breathing bosom's balm, 
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm ; 
Her let our sires and matrons hoar 
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore, 
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair, 
Play with the tangles of her hair, 
Till, in one land applauding sound, 
The nations shout to her around, 
O how supremely art thou blest, 
Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the west ! 





This accident of language, viz. Force or Quality 
of Sounds is only occasionally used ; it depends on 
the nature of the subject, and the taste and judg- 
ment of the reader or speaker $ it is, therefore, ad 
libitum ; it is totally independent of the heavy and 
the light syllables, which are never ad libitum, but 
positively fixed, in all words, except monosyllables. 
The loud or soft, i. e. the Forte or Piano, is al- 
ways upon whole words or sentences, never upon 

The following four lines are spoken in slow walk- 
ing measure. Walking measure means, that the 
duration of the whole quantity of syllables con- 


tained in one cadence, that is, as much as is mark- 
ed between two bars, should be equal to the time 
of making one step of walking ; which admits the 
varieties of slow, ordinary, and quick walking ; the 
next degree, above which, in velocity, is running 



Soft r 

is the 


A .'. 

1 1 

^ O 








1 when 


A /. 






O Q 

aa i 

O 1 

) { 

And the 

smooth i 


stream "I in 

A /. 

* O O 



Y Y 
/ / 


A /. 




Butr w hen r 

A| A 

loud r 

r I o 



surges J lash the \ sounding 

A .\|A ,\ A .\ 

/ p I ^/ > i *> p p 


shore, r 



r i The hoarse r 

/. A 







verse " should 



X \ 



like the "> 


roar, r 

A /. 




pr* o * 



Dire r I Scylla | there ? a 
A J A /. I A /. 

r And I here Cha j rybdis T 
.\ A .\ A .% 


scene of I horror I forms, r I 
A /. I A.\| A 

fills the I deep with | storms : 
A .\ A .\ A 

When the 

A /. 

tide r 


rushes ^ 



ora her 

A .. 


A /. 

caves, r 





r The 

rough r 


rock i" 




. r 





boil the 

A .\ 

waves, r 









With many a weary step, and many a groan, 
Up the high hill, he heaves a huge round stone ; 
The huge round stone resulting with a bound, 
Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the 

'Tis Rome demands our tears : 

The mistress of the world, the seat of empire ! 
The nurse of heroes, the delight of gods ! 
That humbled the proud tyrants of the earth, 
And set the nations free Rome is no more ! 
Oh liberty ! Oh virtue ! Oh my country ! 

How the sweet moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, and let the sound of music 


Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night, 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 

. Thou slave ! thou wretch ! thou coward ! 

Thou little valiant great in villany ! 
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side ! 
Thou Fortune's champion, thou dost never fight 
But when her humorous ladyship is by 
To teach thee safety i Thou art perjur'd too, 
And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou, 
A ramping fool ; to brag, and stamp, and swear, 
Upon my party ! Thou cold blooded knave, 
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side ? 
Been sworn my soldier ? bidding me depend 
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength ? 
And dost thou now fall over to my foes ? 
Thou wear a lion's hide ! Doff it for shame, 
And hang a calf's skin on those recreant limbs. 


Ye amaranths ! ye roses like the morn ! 
Sweet myrtles, and ye golden orange groves ! 
Joy-giving, love-inspiring, holy bower ! 
Know, in thy fragrant bosom thou receiv'st 
A murderer ! Oh, I shall stain thy lilies, 
And horror will usurp the place of bliss ! 


Ah, she sleeps,- 

The day's uncommon heat has overcome her. 
Then take, my longing eyes, your last full gaze. 
Oh ! what a sight is here ! how dreadful fair ! 
Who would not think that being innocent ! 
Where shall I strike ? Who strikes her strikes him- 
My own life-blood will issue at her wound 
But see ! she smiles ! I never shall smile more 
It strongly tempts me to a parting kiss. 
Ha ! smile again ! she dreams of him she loves. 
Curse on her charms ! I'll stab her through them 

nil f 

**! * Youngs Revenge. 

You have resolv'd your faithless bride shall die : 
That's truly great. What think you 'twas set up 
The Greek and Roman name in such a lustre, 
But doing right in stern despite to nature, 
Shutting their ears to all her little cries, 
When great, august, and god-like justice call'd ? 
At Aulis, one pour'd out a daughter's life, 
And gain more glory than by all his wars ; 
Another, in just rage, his sister slew : 
A third, the theme of all succeeding times, 
Gave to the cruel axe a darling son : 


Nay, more, for justice some devote themselves, 

As he at Carthage, an immortal name i 

Yet there is one step left above them all, 

Above their history, above their fable : 

A wife, bride, mistress of your heart do that, 

And tread upon the Greek and Roman glory. 

Youngs Revenge- 

zanga's reason for hating alonzo. 

'Tis twice five years since that great man 

(Great let me call him, for he conquer'd me,) 

Made me the captive of his arm in fight. 

He slew my father, and threw chains o'er me, 

While I, with pious rage, pursu'd revenge. 

I then was young ; he plac'd me near his person, 

And thought me not dishonour'd by his service. 

One day (may that returning day be night 

The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year !) 

For something, or for nothing, in his pride 

He struck me : (while I tell it, do I live ?) 

He smote me on the cheek ! 1 did not stab him : 

That were poor revenge. E'er since, his folly 

Has striven to bury it beneath a heap 

Of kindnesses, and thinks it is forgot : 


Insolent thought, and like a second blow I 

Has the dark adder venom ? So have I, 

When trod upon. Proud Spaniard, thou shalt feel 

By nightly march, he purpos'd to surprise 
The Moorish camps : but I have taken care 
They shall be ready to receive his favour. 
Failing in this, (a cast of utmost moment,) 
"Would darken all the conquests he has won. 
Be propitious, O Mahomet, on this important hour j 
And give, at length, my famish'd soul revenge ! 

Youngs Revenge* 


Joy, thou welcome stranger ! twice three years 

1 have not felt thy vital beam, but now 

It warms my veins, and plays around my heart : 
A fiery instinct lifts me from the ground, 
And I could mount the spirits numberless 
Of my dear countrymen, which yesterday 
Left their poor bleeding bodies on the field, 
Are all assembled here, and o'er inform me 
O bridegroom ! great indeed thy present bliss, 
Yet even by me unenvy'd ; for be sure 
It is thy last, thy last smile, that which now 
Sits on thy cheek : enjoy it while thou may'st: 


Anguish, and groans, and death, bespeak to-morrow. 
Thus far my deep-laid plots and dark designs 

Go well 

. Ah ! what is well ? O pang to think ! 

O dire necessity ! is this my province ? 
Whither, my soul, Ah ! whither art thou sunk 
Beneath thy sphere ? Ere while, far, far above 
Such little arts, dissemblings, falsehoods, frauds j 
The trash of villany itself, which falls 
To cowards and poor wretches wanting bread. 
Does this become a soldier ? this become 
Whom armies follow'd, and a people lov'd ? 
My martial glory withers at the thought. 
But great my end : and since there are no other, 
These means are just, they shine with borrow'd 

Illustrious from the purpose they pursue. 
And greater sure my merit, who, to gain 

A point sublime can such a task sustain ; 

To wade thro' ways obscene, my honour bend, 

And shock my nature, to attain my end. 

Late time shall wonder ; that my joys will raise, 

For wonder is involuntary praise. 

Young's Revenge* 



glocester's soliloquy on his own deformity. 

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths > 
Our stern alarms are chang'd to merry meetings ; 
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures : 
Grim-visag'd war has smooth'd his wrinkled front } 
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds, 
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, 
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, 
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. 
But I, that am not made for sportive tricks, 
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass ; 
I, that am curtail' d of man's fair proportion, 
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time 
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, 
And that so lamely and unfashionably 
That dogs do bark at me as I halt by them ; 
Why I, in this weak piping time of peace, 
Have no delight to pass away my hours, 
Unless to see my shadow in the sun, 
And descant on my own deformity. 
Then, since this earth affords no joy to me, 
But to command, to check, and o'erbear such 
As are of happier person than myself, 


Why, then, to me this restless world's but hell, 
Till this mis-shapen trunk's aspiring head 
Be circled in a glorious diadem. 
But then, 'tis fix'd on such a height Oh ! I 
Must stretch the utmost reaching of my soul. 
I'll climb betimes, without remorse or dread, 
And my first step shall be on Henry's head. 

Richard III. 



It will be observed, perhaps, with surprise, that 
Prose is not the leading article in this selection ; 
although it is always placed^r^^ in school-books, 
being considered the more simple composition, and 
consequently the more easily read. And indeed, 
according to the present mode, generally practised, 
of teaching Elocution, I might almost have said 
universally, for I know of only one exception^ it is of 



no consequence whether prose or verse is the initi- 
atory article. The student may, I believe, acquire, 
by practice, a little more readiness in reading by 
rote or mere imitation ; but while the necessary 
accidents of language, explained in the eight first 
chapters, are so completely misunderstood, and of 
course neglected or misapplied, no higher degree 
of accuracy in reading either prose or verse can 
reasonably be expected. 

So far is prose from being easier than verse, that 
it is by far the more difficult of the two. It must 
be evident to all who are versed in the rhythmus 
of language, that prose is much more irregular in 
its cadences ; and the integral quantities of each 
are not, as in verse, limited to any obviously de- 
termined rule. While experience, on the contrary, 
proves to us, that the measured rhythmus of verse, 
the regularity of its cadences, and the nice adjust- 
ment of their integral quantities, though diversified 
in themselves within the cadence, are, beyond all 
question, best adapted to give that smoothness, har- 
mony and expression to Prose, which, I have no 
hesitation in saying, can never be acquired merely 
through the medium of prose alone. 

But, till a correct knowledge of the melody or 
music of language, viz. the accents, of quantity, of 
pulsation and remission, &c. and consequently, a 
more distinct and accurate perception of cadence 
and rhythmus be acquired, we must not be sur- 
prised to hear such peculiarities of tone, such same- 


2i ess of inflection, such unvaried monotony, and 
such a perversion of musical cadence and rhythmus, 
as violently to shock any tolerably cultivated ear, 
and totally to destroy our finest verses ; and fre- 
quently so completely to eclipse the sense, with 
sounds which none but a prosodian, equipped cap-a- 
pee with all the prosodial machinery, could be able 

, To scan 

With Midas ears, committing short and long.' 

It must be through the medium of verse that 
the ear can be properly tuned, and taught that ac- 
curacy and delicacy of perception, by which alone 
harmonious reading can be effectually acquired. 
It need hardly be noticed, that this can only be 
obtained by the living instructor. No rules pre- 
sented in the dead letter, will ever make an accu- 
rate pronouncer, much less a good reader or speaker. 
Nor will mere imitation ever accomplish this im- 
portant purpose. The student may, it is true, in 
proportion as he possesses the power of mimickry, 
pronounce what his teacher pronounced before 
him, with tolerable accuracy ; but present him with 
a piece he has never heard read, and, as he has no- 
thing to imitate, he cannot read he may, however, 
pronounce the piece. 

But hard necessity compels the professors of the 
art of reading to teach in this manner, and natu- 
rally induces them to condemn what they do not 
understand \ to exclaim against all rules \ to assert 


that science, and hard technical names, as they call 
them, are merely the machinery of empirics, and 
have nothing to do with the plain, simple, natural 
mode of teaching, with elegance, to read both prose 
and verse. I have heard this sometimes said, I have 
seen it advertised, and I know the ignorant and 
crafty play it off with too much success against the 
uninformed parent and guardian, and the credulous 
and unsuspecting pupil. 

I have never heard one of these readers but with 
pain, generally accompanied with emotions of pity. 
I never knew a pupil taught upon such principles, 
and I have had many who have attended such profes- 
sors. The truth is, that nature, in this, as in many 
other things, must lay the foundation, but science 
and art must raise the superstructure. And the 
reader or speaker, who is master of his art, never 
forgets this grand rule, Ars est celare or tern. 

The student should be exercised in marking the 
pulsation and remission of as many of the following 
passages as may be necessary to make him tho- 
roughly acquainted with prosaic rhythmus ; he may 
then mark the cadences, which he will find to be 
very different from those of verse, with which he 
has been accustomed ; he should proceed and mark 
the pauses or rests, the quantity, the accents and, 
lastly, he should be taught to distinguish where the 
loud and soft, the jorte and piano, should be placed, 
with all their different shades of variety. By this 
mode of tuition, presuming always that he is com- 


pletely master of the preceding rules, he will be 
able easily to apply the jive accidents of language 
to the diversified, and constantly varying rhythmus 
of prose. He may also be occasionally required to 
point out the changes of time, whether common or 




y ) 

shall de 
A /. 

i j y 

Y Y 
7 / 

1 J 

\ \ \ 

/ \ 

;ain you no 


r in the 

A /. 

A .'. 


A .'. 

not do, 
A .'. 


^ to a 

stration of 

Y Y 
/ / 

what we 

A /. 


but r 



straight con 


should r 


) J 

duct you 

A .'. 


hill r 


side, r 


f ) x 



point you out 

r the i 

right r 

A .\ 


where I will 
A .\ 

x u 

path of a 
A /. 


noble " and 


borious, in 
A '7. " 

y y-i 

\ H \ 

A .*. 

Y Y 




cation ; " 



) \ 


deed, r 

at the T 

first as- 


A .*. 




cent, r 

X J 

green, r so 
A .'. 

but 1 " 


full of 
A .'. 

Y Y 
/ 7 

else so 
A .. 


smooth, r so 



{ i 



r and mel 

A .'. 

A .'. 


\- { 

di ous ~* 

sounds on 

A /. 

^ . 


J { 

every side, 

that the ^ 

/ * \ 



X { 

V | | 

/ // 


X t 

harp of "" 
A /. 

Orphe us 

A "/? 

was r 

not more n 
A /. 








Porticoes I which with I stood the as I sault of 
A /. I A ,\ I A .\l A .\ 

time r I more than I ten r J thousand years; r 
A I A .\ I A I A 

broken I columns of I different I lengths, r I ris- 

a;, I a:. I a-/. I a I a 

ing ] r at a con I siderable I distance 1 r with- 
/ I .\ .\ I A.*.-/. I A/. I 

in the I limits I r of the I same r I pile ; r I sculp- 
A I A/. I .\ -I A I A I A 

tured 1 portals, I through r I whose r I frowning 
I A .\ I A I A I A .\ 

arches the I wind r I passed with a I hollow 
A ' " I A I A .\ I A .\ 

murmuring; r I numberless 1 figures en I graven 
A /. I A /. I A/. I A/. 

r on the pi I lastersof 1 those 1 " I portals; I - and 
,\ /. I A/," I A I A/. I ,\ 

multitudes of I hiero I glyphics I r on the I dif- 
A--.-. I A-.-. I A .-. I .-. I A 


parts of the 
A .-. 



gave the 

traveller a I mournful I r and mag I nificent 
A .-. A .-. I .-. I A-.\ 


i I dea I r of the I pristine I grandeur of 
A .-. I .-. I A .-. A .-. 

this r I edifice. 
A I A- M 

Langhornes Soli/man and Almcna. 


Homer was the greater genius ; Virgil the bet- 
ter artist ; in the one, we must admire the man, in 
the other the work. Homer hurries us with a com- 
manding impetuosity ; Virgil leads us with an at- 
tractive majesty. Homer scatters with a generous 
profusion ; Virgil bestows with a careful magnifi- 
cence. Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches 
with a sudden overflow ; Virgil, like a river in its 
banks, with a constant stream. 

Pope's Preface to Homer. 


Something of a doubtful mist still hangs over 
these Highland traditions ; nor can it be entirely 
dispelled by the most ingenious researches of mo- 
dern criticism ; but, if we could, with safety, in- 
dulge the pleasing supposition that Fingal lived, 
and that Ossian sung, the striking contrast of the 
situation and manners of the contending nations, 
might amuse a philosophical mind. The parallel 
would be little to the advantage of the more civil- 


ized people, if we compared the unrelenting re- 
venge of Severus with the generous clemency of 
Fingal ; the timid and brutal conduct of Caracalla, 
with the bravery, the tenderness, the elegant ge- 
nius of Ossian ; the mercenary chiefs who, from 
motives of fear or interest, served under the impe- 
rial standard, with the free-born warriors who start- 
ed to arms at the voice of the king of Morven ; if, 
in a word, we contemplated the untutored Caledo- 
nians, glowing with the warm virtue of nature, and 
the degenerate Romans, polluted with the mean 
vices of wealth and slavery. 



It is well known that constitutions framed for 
the preservation of liberty, must consist of many 
parts ; and that senates, popular assemblies, courts 
of justice, magistrates of different orders, must com- 
bine to balance each other, while they exercise, 
sustain, or check, the executive power. If any part 
is struck out, the fabric must totter or fall ; if any 
member is remiss, the others must encroach. In 
assemblies constituted by men of different talents, 
habits, and apprehensions, it were something more 
than human that could make them agree in every 
point of importance : having different opinions and 
views, it were want of integrity to abstain from 
disputes ; our very praise of unanimity, therefore, 
is to be considered as a danger to liberty. We wi\sh 



for it at the hazard of taking in its place the re- 
missness of men grown indifferent to the public ; 
the venality of those who have sold the rights of 
their country ; or the servility of others, who give 
implicit obedience to a leader, by whom their minds 
are subdued. The love of the public, and respect 
to its laws, are the points on which mankind are 
bound to agree ; but if, in matters of controversy, 
the sense of any individual or party is invariably 
pursued, the cause of freedom is already betrayed. 

Ferguson's Hist, of Civ. Society- 


But how can these considerations consist with 
pride and insolence, which are repugnant to every 
social and virtuous sentiment ? Do you, proud 
man ! look back with complacency on the illustri- 
ous merits of your ancestors ! Show yourself wor- 
thy of them by imitating their virtues, and disgrace 
not the name which you bear by a conduct unbe- 
coming a man. Were your progenitors such as 
you are fond to represent them, be assured that if 
they rose from the grave, they would be ashamed 
of you. If they resembled yourself, you have no 
reason to boast of them, and wisdom will dictate to 
you to cultivate those manners which alone can dig- 
nify your family. Nothing can be conceived more 
inconsistent than to exult in illustrious ancestry, 
and to do what must disgrace it, than to mention 
with ostentation the distinguished merits of progeni- 


tors, and to exhibit a melancholy contrast to them 
in character. Will you maintain that, because your 
fathers were good and brave men, you are autho- 
thorised to abandon the pursuit of all that is de- 
cent and respectable ? For, to this sentiment, the 
pride of family, whenever it forms a characteristic 
feature, never fails to lead the mind. In a word, 
considered in its specific nature, and carried to its 
utmost extent, it lays down this maxim, " That 
" ancestry gives a right to dishonour and degrade 

After all, what is high birth ? Does it bestow a 
nature different from that of the rest of mankind ? 
Has not the man of ancient line human blood in 
his veins ? Does he not experience hunger and 
thirst ? Is he not subject to disease, to accidents, 
and to death ? and must not his body moulder in 
the grave, as well as that of the beggar ? Can he, 
or any of his race, " redeem his brother by any 
means, or give God a ransom for him ?" Go back 
only a few generations, of which the number is 
much smaller than you imagine it to be, and you 
arrive at Adam, the progenitor of us all. 

Browns Sermons- 

We sympathise even with the dead, and, overlook- 
ing what is of real importance in their situation, that 
awful futurity which awaits them, we are chiefly 
affected by those circumstances which strike our 


senses, but can have no influence upon their happi- 
ness. It is miserable, we think, to be deprived of 
the light of the sun ; to be shut out from life and 
conversation ; to be hid in the cold grave, a prey 
to corruption and the reptiles of the earth, to be no 
more thought of in this world, but to be obliterated 
in a little time, from the affections, and almost from 
the memory of their dearest friends and relations. 
Surely, we imagine, we can never feel too much 
for those who have suffered so dreadful a calamity. 
The tribute of our fellow-feelings seems doubly due 
to them now, when they are in danger of being for- 
got by every body ; and, by the vain honours which 
we pay to their memory, we endeavour, for our own 
misery, artificially to keep alive our melancholy re- 
membrance of their misfortune. That our sympa- 
thy can afford them no consolation, seems to be an 
addition to their calamity ; and to think that all that 
we can do is unavailing ; and that what alleviates 
all other distress, the regret, the love, and the la- 
mentation of their friends, can yield no comfort to 
them, serves only to exasperate the sense of their 

The happiness of the dead, however, most as- 
suredly is affected by none of these circumstances ; 
nor is it the thought of these things which can 
ever disturb the profound security of their repose. 
The idea of that dreary and endless melancholy 
which the fancy naturally ascribes to their condi- 
tion, arises altogether from our joining to the change 


which has been produced upon them, our own con- 
sciousness of that change, from our putting our- 
selves in their situation, and from our lodging, if I 
may be allowed to say so, our own living souls in 
their inanimated bodies, and thence conceiving 
what would be our emotions in this case. It is 
from this very illusion of the imagination, that the 
foresight of our own dissolution is so terrible to us, 
and that the idea of those circumstances, which 
undoubtedly, can give us no pain when we are dead, 
makes us miserable while we are alive. 

Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments- 

I consider a generous mind as the noblest work 
of the creation, and am persuaded, wherever it re- 
sides, no real merit can be wanting. It is, perhaps, 
the most singular of all the moral endowments ; T 
am sure at least, it is often imputed where it can- 
not justly be claimed. The meanest self-love, un- 
der some refined disguise, frequently passes upon 
common observers for this god-like principle ; and 
I have known many a popular action attributed to 
this motive, when it flowed from no higher a source 
than the suggestions of concealed vanity. Good- 
nature, as it hath many features in common witli 
this virtue, is usually mistaken for it ; the former, 
however, is but the effect, possibly, of a happy dis- 
position of the animal structure, or, as Dryden 
somewhere calls it, of a certain u milkiness of 


blood ;" whereas the latter is seated in the mind, 
and can never subsist where good sense and enlarged 
sentiments have no existence. It is entirely found- 
ed, indeed, upon justness of thought, which, per- 
haps, is the reason this virtue is so little the cha- 
racteristic of mankind in general. A man whose 
mind is warped by the selfish passions, or contract- 
ed by the narrow prejudices of sects or parties, 
if he does not want honesty, must undoubtedly 
want understanding. The same clouds that darken 
his intellectual views, obstruct his moral ones ; and 
his generosity is extremely circumscribed, because 
his reason is exceedingly limited. True generosity 
rises above the ordinary rules of social conduct, 
and flows with much too full a stream to be com- 
prehended within the precise marks of formal pre- 
cepts. It is a vigorous principle in the soul, which 
opens and expands ail her virtues far beyond those 
which are only the forced and unnatural produc- 
tions of a timid obedience. The man who is in- 
fluenced singly by motives of the latter kind, aims 
no higher than at certain authoritative standards ; 
without even attempting to reach those glorious 
elevations, which constitute the only true heroism 
of the social character. Religion, without this 
sovereign principle, degenerates into a slavish fear, 
and wisdom into a specious cunning ; learning is 
but the avarice of the mind, and wit its more pleas- 
ing kind of madness. In a word, generosity sanc- 
tifies every passion, and adds grace to every acquis 


sition of the soul ; and if it does not necessarily 
include, at least it reflects a lustre upon ^he whole 
circle of moral and intellectual qualities. 

Melmoth's Letters of Fiizosbornc* 

There is a kind of voice that speaks through the 
universe. The language of nature is that of de- 
light ; and even the parts incapable of admitting 
this delight, have yet the means of imparting it. 
Behold the sun ! The lustre which it spreads, and 
the beauties which it enables you to discover, kindle 
your admiration. The Indian views it with rapture. 
He feels gratitude for its bounty. He addresses 
the God of Fire with hvmns of praise, and songs of 
triumph. But in vain should he attempt to make 
that sun share his gratification. It heeds no pro- 
testations ; it feels no emotions : but that orb ad- 
ministers to the comfort of the devotee, and conveys 
animation and cheerfulness to millions. The struc- 
ture of the heavens manifests such design, and wis- 
dom, that some of the ancient philosophers suppos- 
ed man born only to view and admire them. The 
bounty displayed in the earth, equals the grandeur 
conspicuous in the heavens. There is no region in 
which the volume of instruction is not unfolded. 
In every climate is found proper food for the support 
of the inhabitants, and proper medicines for the 
removal of their diseases. And should every age 
even change its food, and its diseases, there would 


still be found in the world supplies sufficient for the 
inhabitant. So bountiful and provident is nature ! 
The distribution of oceans, seas, and rivers ; the 
variety of fields, meadows, and groves ; the luxu- 
riance of fruits, herbs, and flowers ; the return of 
spring, summer, autumn* and winter, not only re- 
gular in their approaches, but bringing with them 
presents, to make their return desirable ; the plea- 
sant vicissitudes of day and night ; all have a voice 
which, by telling man he is constantly receiving 
favours, reminds him he should be ready to bestow 

Dyer's Dissertation on Benevolence. 



Within the whole range, through which the ex- 
ercise of this valuable talent, the art of Reading is 
extended, Impressive reading will be found no 
where so requisite, as in delivering the Scriptures. 
Impressive reading, besides possessing the requisites 


of intelligible and correct reading, must, in addition, 
have the following, viz. expression of the voice, ex- 
pression of the countenance, direction of the eye, 
variety of manner, as to rapidity of delivery, and 
rhetorical pauses. 

The composition of the Sacred Oracles is of that 
original and various character, which demands 
every effort on his part, who is called upon to de- 
liver them for the instruction of others. 

Hardly is there a chapter, which does not con- 
tain something, which requires the m ost impressive 
reading ; as remonstrance, threatening, command, 
encouragement, sublime description, awful judg- 
ments. The narrative is interrupted by frequent, and 
often unexpected transitions ; by bold and unusual 
figures ; and by precepts of most extensive appli- 
cation and most admirable use. 

In the narrative, the reader should deliver him- 
self with a suitable simplicity and gravity of de- 
meanour. In the transitions, which are often ra- 
pid, he should manifest a quick conception, and by 
rhetorical pauses and suitable changes of voice, ex- 
press and render intelligible, the new matter or 
change of scene. In the figurative and sublime, 
which every where abound, his voice should be 
sonorous, and his countenance expressive of the 
elevation of his subject. In the precepts, he should 
deliver himself with judgment and discretion ; and 
when he repeats the words and precepts of our 
Lord himself, with more distinguished mildness, 



mingled with dignified authority* Such reading 
would be a perpetual and luminous commentary on 
the Sacred Writings ; and would convey more solid 
instruction than the most learned and brilliant ser- 



moses' song. Exod. chap. XV. 

3 r I will | sing | unto the I Lord, r 

...\ A.\ A-.\ A 

r For 

he hath 




gloriously ; 
A /. 
r The I horse and his | rider" 1 1 hath he ! thrown 

.\| A .\|a.\Ia .\| A/. 

into the 

A- !. 

sea r | 

A ! 


r The | Lord is my I strength and my 1 song, r 
# \| A .\'| A .VI A 

r And 1 he has be I come my, sal I vation : 

.\ I A/. I A .-.-I A/. 

He is I my r I God, r 
A/. I A I A 

r And I I will pre | pare him 1 a I ha bi I tation ; 

V. |A.\" I A / -I A/. I A/. 

r My I fathers' I God, r and I I will ex I alt him. I 

J.\A.\ I A .\ | AV.- I A /. I 


r The I Lord is a I man of I war ; r 
.'. I A .'. 1 A /. I A 

r The I Lord is his I name. r 
A - .'. A 



r and his 

host r 


Hath he I cast 
A .\ I A 

r I into the I Sea ; r I 
J A - .-. | A 

r His | chosen I captains I also 

A.. A .-. A.-. 

r Are I drown'd in the | Red r 

A .% A 

I sea. r I 
A I 

The I depths have | cover'd | them ; r 

A .% A.-. A 

They I sank into the 

bottom I as a 

A.-. A- 



r l 


r Thy I right hand, | O Lord, 1 
.-. I A .-. |A.-. I 

Is be 1 come r I glorious in I power: 

A '.*. 

A .*. 


Thy I right hand, I O Lord, 
.-. I A .-. I A .-. 

ifath r I dash'd in | pieces the I enemy. 

A A .-. A A- . 

And in the greatness of thine excellency, 
Thou hast overthrown them that rose up against 

thee ; 
Thou sentest forth thy wrath, 
Which consum'd them as a stubble. 


And with the blast of thy nostrils 
The waters were gather'd together : 
The floods stood upright as a heap, 
And the depths were congeaPd r in the midst of the 


The enemy said, I will pursue, 

I will overtake, 
I will divide the spoil : 
My lust shall be satisfied upon them, 

I will draw my sword, 
My hands shall destroy them. 



Thou didst blow with thy winds, 
The sea cover' d them : 
They sank as lead r in the mighty waters. 


Who is like unto thee, O Lord, amongst the gods ? 
Who is like thee, 
Glorious in holiness, 
Fearful in praises, 
Doing wonders ? 


Thou stretchedst out thy right hand, 
The earth 1 swallow 'd them. 


Thou, in thy mercy, 

Hast led the people which thou hast redeemed ; 

Thou hast guided them in thy strength, 

Unto thy holy habitation. 


The people shall hear, and be afraid : 
Sorrow shall take hold on the inhabitants of Palestina. 



Then the dukes of Edom shall be amaz'd ; 

The mighty men of Moab, 

Trembling shall take hold upon them $ 

All the inhabitants of Canaan shall melt away. 


Fear and dread 1 shall fall upon them ; 

By the greatness of thine arm, 

They shall be still as a stone ; 

Till the people pass over, O Lord, 

Till the people pass over, 

Which thou hast purchas'd. 


Thou shalt bring them in, 

And plant them in the mountain of thine inheritance , 

In the place, O Lord, 

Which thou hast made for thee to dwell in ; 

In the sanctuary, O Lord, 

Which thy hands have established. 

The Lord shall reign r for ever and ever. 



For the horse of Pharaoh went in, with his chariots, 

And with his horsemen into the sea, 

And the Lord brought again the waters of the sea 

upon them, 

But the children of Israel went on dry land, 

In ttie midst of the sea. 


Sing ye to the Lord, 

For he hath triumph'd gloriously, 
The horse and his rider 

Hath he thrown into the sea. 

2> Habakkuk) chap, iii. 

O Lord, I have heard thy speech, and was afraid. 
O Lord, revive thy work in the midst of the years. 
In the midst of the years made known j 
In wrath remember mercy. 
God came from Teman, 
And the Holy One from Mount Paran, 
His glory cover'd the heavens, 
And the earth was full of his praise. 
And his brightness was as the light, 
He had horns coming out of his hand., 


And there was the hiding of his power. 

Before him went the pestilence, 
And burning coals went forth at his feet. 
He stood and measured the earth : 
He beheld, and drove asunder the nations, 
And the everlasting mountains were scatter'd, 
The perpetual hills did bow : 
His ways are everlasting. 
I saw the tents of Cushan in affliction ; 
And the curtains of the land of Midian did tremble.- 
Although the fig-tree should not blossom ; 
Neither shall fruit be in the vines ; 
The labour of the olives shall fail, 
And the fields shall yield no meat ; 
The lock shall be cut off from the fold, 
And there shall be no herd in the stalls : 

Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, 
I will joy in the God of my salvation. 

3. Isaiah,, chap. i. 

Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth, 

For the Lord hath spoken : 
I have nourished and brought up children, 
And they have rebelled against me. 
The ox knoweth his owner, 
And the ass his master's crib ; 


But Israel doth not know, 
My people doth not consider. 

Ah sinful nation, 
A people laden with iniquity, 

A seed of evil doers ; 

Children that are corrupters ; 

They have forsaken the Lord ; 

They have provok'd the Holy One of Israel unto 

anger ; 

They are gone away backward. 

Hear the word of the Lord, 

Ye rulers of Sodom ; 

Give ear unto the law of our God, 

Ye people of Gomorrah. 

To what purpose is the multitude of your sacrifices 

unto me ? 

Saith the Lord : 

I am full of the burn'd offerings of rams, 

And the fat of fed beasts, 
And I delight not in the blood of bullocks, 
Or of lambs, 
Or of he-goats. 
When ye come to appear before me, 
Who hath requir'd this at your hand, 
To tread my courts ? 


Bring no more vain oblations, 

Incense is an abomination unto me ; 

The new-moons and sabbaths, 

The calling of assemblies 

I cannot away with ; 

It is iniquity, 

Even the solemn meeting. 

Your new-moons, 
And your appointed feasts, 

My soul hateth -, 

They are a trouble unto me, 

I am weary to bear them. 

And when you spread forth your hands, 

I will hide mine eyes from you ; 

Yea, when you make many prayers, 

I will not hear : 

Your hands are full of blood. 

Wash ye, make ye clean, 
Put away the evil of your doings from before mine 


Cease to do evil ; 

Learn to do well ; 

Seek judgment ; 

Relieve the oppress'd, 

Plead for the widow. 


Come now, let us reason together, 
saith the Lord ; 

Though your sins be as scarlet, 
They shall be white as snow ; 

Though they be red like crimson, 
They shall be as wool. 
If ye be willing and obedient, 
Ye shall eat the good of the land. 

But if ye refuse and rebel, 
Ye shall be devour'd with the sword ; 
For the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it, 

4. Matthew, Chap, v. 

And seeing the multitudes, 
He went up into a mountain ; 

And when he was set, 
His disciples came unto him ; 

And he open'd his mouth, 
And taught them, 
Saying j 
Blessed are the poor in spirit, 
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 
Blessed are they that mourn, 
For they shall be comforted. 
Blessed are the meek, 
For they shall inherit the earth. 


Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righ- 
For they shall be filled. 
Blessed are the merciful, 
For they shall obtain mercy. 
Blessed are the pure in heart, 
For they shall see God. 
Blessed are the peace-makers, 
For they shall be called the children of God. 
Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteous- 
ness' sake, 
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 
Blessed are ye when men shall revile you, 
And persecute you, 
And shall say all manner of evil against you, 
Falsely, for my sake. 
Rejoice and be exceeding glad, 
For great is your reward in heaven ; 
For so persecuted they the prophets who were be- 
fore you. 

Ye are the salt of the earth ; 

But if the salt have lost his savour, 

Wherewith shall it be salted ? 

It is thence good for nothing, 

But to be cast out, 

And trodden under feet of men. 


Ye are the light of the world : 
A city that is set on a hill 

Cannot be hid. 
Neither do men light a candle, 
And put it under a bushel ; 
But on a candlestick, 
And it giveth light unto all that are in the house. 
Let your light so shine before men, 
That they may see your good works, 
And glorify your Father who is in heaven. 


Thou shalt have no other gods before. me. 

Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, 
Or any likeness of any thing, 
That is in heaven above, 
Or that is in the earth beneath, 
Or that is in the water under the earth. 
Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, 
Nor serve them ; 
For I the Lord thy God, 
Am a jealous God, 


Visitingthe iniquities of the fathers upon thechildren, 
Unto the third and fourth generation 

Of them that hate me ; 

And shewing mercy 
Unto thousands of them that love me, 

And keep my commandments. 

Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God 

in vain ; 
For the Lord will not hold him guiltless, 
That taketh his name in vain. 


Remember the Sabbath day, 

To keep it holy, 
Six days shalt thou labour, 
And do all thy work. 
But the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy 

In it thou shalt not do any work, 
Thou, nor thy son, 
Nor thy daughter, 
Thy man-servant, 
Thy maid-servant, 
Nor thy cattle, 
Nor thy stranger that is within thy gates. 


For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, 
The sea, 
And all that in them is, 
And rested the seventh-day : 
Wherefore the Lord blessed the Sabbathday, 
And hallowed it. 

Honour thy father and thy mother ; 
That thy days may be long upon the land, 
Which the Lord thy God giveth thee. 

Thou shalt not kill. 

Thou shalt not commit adultery. 

Thou shalt not steal. 

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neigh- 


Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, 
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, 


Nor his man-servant, 
Nor his maid-servant, 

Nor his ox, 

Nor his ass, 
Nor any thing r that is thy neighbour's. 


r Our | Father | r who | art in | heaven, | 
Hallowed | be thy | name ; | 
r Thy | kingdom | come ; 
r Thy | will be J done in | earth ^ as | it is in | heaven. 
Give us this | day r our [ daily | bread ; [ 
r And for | give us our | debts, | 
r As | we for | give our | debtors. | 
r And | lead us | not in | to temp | tation, | 
But de | liver us from | evil : | 
r For | thine is the | kingdom, | 
r And the | power, | r and the | glory, | 
r For | ever. | A r | men. | 



Blest man ! whose steady soul, to vice 
No power can draw, no charms entice ^ 


Who shuns the paths, where, on each hand, 

Deluding pleasures tempting stand ; 

And hates bold sinners, who blaspheme 

The great Jehovah's awful name. 

God's righteous law, and holy word 

To him the sweetest joys aftbrd ; 

These still his sacred thirst allay, 

And feed his ravish'd soul by day j 

Revolving these, with new delight, 

He charms the silent hours by night. 

As trees that in rich meadows grow, 

O'er neighbouring streams their branches throw, 

For ever green ; and all the year, 

Loaden with smiling fruit appear : 

So this man flourishes, nor casts 

His fruit, nor fears untimely blasts ; 

While sinners, and their vain designs, 

Are tost like chaff, the sport of winds. 

When God, as righteous judge, shall come, 

To pass on man the final doom, 

They shall not stand before his face, 

Nor find among the just a place : 

The just, immortal joys attend, 

In which the ways of virtue end, 

While the smooth paths that sinners tread, 

To certain death and ruin lead. 




All r I people r I that on | earth do I dwell, r 

A I A .% I A /. J A .\ I A 

Sing to the | Lord r with I cheerful I voice. r 

A .\ A .\ A .% A 

| serve with 1 mirth, r his I praise r I forth r | tell, P 1 

I A /. I A .\ J A I A | A J 

Come r I r ye be I fore him I r and re I joice. 

A .\ A .\ .\ - A 

Know r | r that the I Lord r is | God in I deed ; - 
A .\ "I A .\| A/. I A 

r With | out our I aid r he I did us | make : - 

,\ A /. A /.A .% I A 

are his 1 flock, r he | doth us | feed, r | 

.-. J A ,\|A .\|A I 

r And I for his | sheep r he I doth us I take.- 

.\ A .-. A .\ A /. I A 

O r j enter I then his I gates with i praise, r 

A J A/. I A .\| A .\ | A 

r Ap I proach with I joy his I courts un | to, r 

.% I A /. I A .\ J A /. J A 

Praise, r 1 laud, r and I bless his I name 1 " I always, 

A J A .\ I A .-.| A I A/. 

r For r I it is | seemly I so to I do. I 

.'. | A.*. I A .'.I A.'.l A I 


l" For I why ? r the I Lord our I God, is I good, r 
.*. | A .*. I A .*. | A /. A 

r His I mercy | is r for I ever I sure ; r I 

/.| A/. I A .\|A.\| A I 

r His I truth r at I all times | firmly I stood, r 

/. I A /. I A .\ I A .\ I A 

r And I shall from I age to I age en I dure. r 

A .\ A .\ A .\ A 



What holy, what sincere delight, 

Religion does afford ! 
How sweet to a refined taste, 

Thy rich provision, Lord ! 

Honours let others chace, and feed 
Their starving souls with air ; 
Or guilty and polluted joy, 
With short delusion share. 

Let mine be more substantial bliss ! 

Be mine more solid food ! 
My heart to nobler heights aspires. 

And seeks the Eternal God. 


Let sons of earth, the dust of earth, 

Its glittering dust admire : 
Poor sordid minds pursue the gains, 

That suit a low desire. 

For me, my God let me possess ; 

This treasure shall suffice ; 
My glory this, my joy, my all ! 

All else I can despise. 

When on her high original 
My heaven-born soul reflects, 

With a becoming pride, the world 
Disdainful she rejects. 

Nor stoops to court these humble goods, 

So much beneath her state ; 
Such condescension is too low, 

And she herself too great. 



O r | God of I Bethel ! r by | whose r I hand r 

A I A .-. J A .-. I A I A 

Thy r | people I still are I fed ; r 

A A .-. A .-. A 


Who r | through this I weary | pilgrimage 

A I A .-.I A.-. I A : .-. 

Hast r | all our | fathers 1 led : r , 

A I A .-. I A .-. I A | 

r Our 1 vows, our | prayers, r we 1 now pre | sent r 

A .-. A .< I A .-. I A 

r Be 1 fore thy 1 throne of 1 grace ; r I 
.-. J A .'. J A .'. | A I 

God r I r of our I fathers ! I be the 1 God r 

A I - .-. I A .-. I A .-. I A 

r Of I their sue I ceeding 1 race, r 

A .-. A.-. A 

Through r | each per I plexing I path of I life, r 1 

A I A .-. I A.-. I A v| A I 

Our r | wandering | footsteps I guide; t 1 

A J A .-. I A .-. I A I 

Give us I each r I day our | daily | bread, r 

A .-. A A.-. I A.-. I A 

r And 1 raiment 1 fit pro I vide. r I 

.-. I A .-. I A .-. I A I 

O r 1 spread thy ) covering I wings a j round, r 

A I A .-. I A--*. I A .*. I A 

Till r I all our | wanderings 1 cease, r 

A J A .-. j A .'. I A 
r And | at our I Father's | lov'd a | bode, r 

A.. A.-. 

r Our | souls ar | rive in I peace. 

A .-. J A .-. I A 


Such r blessings I from thy I gracious I hand, 

A A.-. | A ,.J A ~| A 

r Our I humble I prayers im I plore ; 
I A .-. | A- .% J A 

r And I thou shalt I be our | chosen I God, 

> I A ... I A ... I A ... J 

r And | portion | ever I more. - 

A.-. A.-. A 



Naked as from the earth we came, 
And enter'd life at first; 

Naked we to the earth return, 
And mix with kindred dust. 

Whate'er we fondly call our own, 
Belongs to heaven's great Lord ; 

The blessings lent us for a day 
Are soon to be restor'd. 

'Tis God that lifts our comforts high, 
Or sinks them in the grave : 

He gives, and when he takes away, 
He takes but what he gave. 


Then, ever blessed be his name ! 

His goodness swell'd our store ; 
His justice but resum'd its own ; 

'Tis ours still to adore. 



How still and peaceful is the grave ? 

Where, life's vain tumults past, 
The appointed house, by Heaven's decree,, 

Receives us all at last. 

The wicked there from troubling cease j 
There passions rage no more ; 

And there the weary pilgrim rests 
From all the toils he bore. 

There rest the prisoners, now releas'd 

From slavery's sad abode ; 
No more they hear the oppressor's voice, 

Or dread the tyrant's rod. 

There servants, masters, small and great, 
Partake the same repose ; 


And there, in peace, the ashes mix 
Of those who once were foes. 

All levell'd by the hand of death, 

Lie sleeping in the tomb ; 
Till God in judgment calls them forth, 

To meet their final doom. 



Who can resist the Almighty arm 

That made the starry sky ? 
Or who elude the certain glance 

Of God's all-seeing eye ? 

From him no covering veils our crimes ; 

Hell opens to his sight j 
And all destruction's secret snares, 

Lie full disclos'd in sight. 

Firm on the boundless void of space 

He pois'd the steady pole ; 
And in the circle of his clouds, 

Bade secret waters roll. 


While Nature's universal frame 

Its Maker's power reveals ; 
His throne, remote from mortal eyes, 

An awful cloud conceals. 

From where the rising day ascends, 

To where it sets in night, 
He compasses the floods with bounds, 

And checks their threatening might. 

The pillars that support the sky 

Tremble at his rebuke ; 
Through all its caverns quakes the earth, 

As though its centre shook. 

He brings the waters from their beds, 

Although no tempest blows, 
And smites the kingdom of the proud, 

Without the hand of foes. 

With bright inhabitants above 

He fills the heavenly land ; 
And all the crooked serpent's breed, 

Dismay'd before him stand. 


Few of his works can we survey ; 

These few our skill transcend : 
But the full thunder of his power 

What heart can comprehend I 


Vi tal I spark of I heavenly 1 flame ! 

A/. I A /. I A -..! A 

Quit, r I O r | quit this I mortal I frame ! 

A I A | A .% I A .\ I A 

Trembling, I hoping,. I lingering, 1 flying ; 

A ,\ I A.'. I A--/. | A 

Oh the 1 pain, the I bliss of I dy ing ! 

A /. I A /. I A .\ I A .\ 

Cease, r I fond r I nature ! I cease thy | strife, r 

A I A | A /. | A .'. I A 

r And | let me I languish I in to I life. 

A .\ A" .\ A/. A 

Hark ! r I r they I whisper : I angels I say, 

A /. A .'. A 

Sis ter 


spi nt, | come a I way. 

A.\ A .\ A 

What is I this ab I sorbs me I quite, 

A .\ I A /. I A .*. I A 

Steals my I senses, I shuts my I sight, 
A .\ A A .\ A 


Drowns my | spi rit, I draws my | breath ? 

A .-. I A .-. I A .'. I A 
Tell me, my 1 soul ! r I r can I this be I death ? 

A .-.A - A.-. A 

r The I world re I cedes ; I r it disap [ pears ! 

A .-. | A 

Heaven I opens 1 r on my I eyes ! j r my I ears'" 

A .-. A .-. .-.A .-. A 

r With | sounds se I raphic 1 ring: 

.-. | A I A .-. I A 

Lend, I lend your I wings ! I I mount ! I I fly ! 

A A .-. A .\ A w \ I A 

O r I grave ! I where is thy 

A A A .-. 

victory ? 


O r 1 death r 1 where is thy | sting ? 

A A I A . 




This chapter contains many of the finest passages 
in the English language, and affords ample scope 
for exemplifying the scale of reading, which may 
be disposed thus ; 1. Intelligible, 2- Correct, 3. Im- 
pressive, 4. Rhetorical, 5. Dramatic, 6. Epic. 
Many of the pieces are peculiarly adapted as ex- 
ercises for the modulation and management of the 

As the voice is the organ of eloquence, and has 
the entire dominion over one sense, all that language 
and tones can effect to influence the understand- 
ing, and win the affection, must depend on the 
power of the voice addressed to the ear. To under- 
stand and to be able to manage the voice, there- 
fore, must be of the highest importance to the pub- 
lic speaker. 

The modulation of the voice consists in the pro- 
per management of its tones, so as to produce 
grateful melodies to the ear. Upon the modulation 


of the voice, depends that variety which is so pleas- 
ing, and so necessary to relieve and refresh the 
organs of the speaker, and the ears of the audience 
in a long oration. To regulate the various states 
of the voice, so as to produce that striking and 
beautiful variety, which always prevails in good 
reading and speaking, is one of the most important 
qualities of oratory, and, according to Quintilian, 
alone constitutes eloquent delivery. 

It may not be improper here, to state what is 
frequently confounded, the difference between loud 
and soft, and high and low tones. They are totally 
different. Piano and forte have no relation to pitch 
or key, but to force or want of force ; and when ap- 
plied to the voice, they relate to the body or volume 
which the speaker or singer gives out. We can, 
therefore, be very soft in a high note, and very 
loud in a low one. When w 7 e take a high pitch 
and give little force, we speak high and soft ; when 
we take a high pitch and give great force, we speak 
high and loud ; when we take a low pitch and give 
little force, we speak low and soft ; and when we 
give to the same pitch great force, we speak low 
and loud. 

Several pieces in this chapter being peculiarly 
adapted for Recitation, they are selected for the 
express purpose of exercising the student of oratory 
in that important part of public speaking. Gesture, 
which is too much neglected, though the language 
of nature* is a just and elegant adaptation of even 


part of the body, to the nature and import of the 
subject we are pronouncing ; it has always been 
considered as one of the most essential parts of 
oratory : Cicero says, its power is much greater 
than that of words. 

The different modes of public speaking, to each 
of which a different style of gesture is necessary, 
may be reduced to these three, admitting different 
sub-divisions according to the accuracy of discrimi- 
nation ; 1 . Colloquial 2. Rhetorical 3. Epic. 

Colloquial Gesture, when concerned in the higher 
scenes of polite life, requires principally simplicity 
and grace. Precision will follow of course. It may 
occasionally demand something of energy and va- 
riety, but never magnificence or boldness. Collo- 
quial gesture, which is at the opposite extreme from 
Epic, differs from it essentially in the manner of the 
arm. Instead of unfolding the whole of the orato- 
rical weapon as in tragedy* in description, and 
sometimes in the more vehement passages of ora- 
tory, the upper arm in colloquial gesture is barely 
detached from the side ; and the elbow instead of 
the shoulder becomes the principal centre of mo- 
tion ; hence the action must be short and less flow- 
ing in every respect This kind of gesture is ge- 
nerally used by persons who deliver their orations 
or lectures in a sitting posture; the arm is seldom 
extended altogether, and the action is made sharp 
and short by the hand, the fingers, and the wrist, 
with the assistance of the fore-arm alone. 


Rhetorical Gesture, requires principally energy, 
variety, simplicity, and precision. Grace is desir- 
able. Magnificence is rarely wanting, but may 
sometimes have place. Appropriate or significant 
gestures are seldom to be used ; yet propriety in a 
limited sense, should be observed. Boldness of 
gesture is inadmissable. Among the different 
classes of gestures, * those which suit best the ob- 
jects of oratory, are the commencing, the discrimi- 
nating, the suspending, and the emphatical ; and 
the qualities suited to those gestures, are principally 
energy, variety, simplicity, precision, and grace. 

The Epic, or Tragic stile of delivery, requires 
every natural and acquired power on the part of the 
speaker ; and in its perfection, is implied every ex- 
cellence of the highest class. The following dif- 
ferent qualities, which constitute the perfection of 
gesture, are all necessary in this species of public 
speaking, viz. Magnificence, Boldness, Energy, 
Variety, Simplicity, Grace, Propriety, Precision. 
The compositions which require Epic gestures in 
the delivery, are tragedy, epic poetry, lyric odes, 
and sublime description. 

These very general hints on gesture, are illustrat- 
ed and exemplified by the Author to his students, 
in a manner too minute to be explained here : 
and the various gestures proper for the Pulpit, the 

* See Orator, Vol. II. Outlines of Gesture. 


Bar, and the Senate, and also for the different 
parts of an Oration or Discourse, are particularly 
attended to, in the recitation of pieces selected as 
exercises for the student, according to the profes- 
sion he may have in view, in each of these kinds of 
Public speaking. 




Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, 
Where the rage of the vulture the love of the 
Now melt into sorrow now sadden to crime ? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever 


Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with 

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul * in her bloom j 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple in Ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine 
'Tis the clime of the East 'tis the land of the Sun 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell, 
Are the* hearts which they bear, and the tales which 

they tell. 




At the silence of midnight's contemplative hour, 

I have mus'd in a mournful mood, 
On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower 

Where the home of my forefathers stood. 
All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode, 

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree ; 

* The Rose. 


And traveled by few is the grass^cover'd road* 
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode. 
To his hills that encircle the sea. 

Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, 

By the dial-stone aged and green, 
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, 

To mark where a garden had been. 
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, 

All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew, 
From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace; 
For the night- weed and thorn overshadow'd the 

Where the flower of my forefathers grew. 

Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all 

That remains in this desolate heart ! 
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall ; 

But patience shall never depart ! 
Tho' the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, 

In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd, 
With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, 
Abandon my soul like a dream of the night, 

And leave but a desert behind. 

Behush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns 
When the faint and the feeble deplore ; 

Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems 
A thousand wild waves on the shore ! 


Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of dis- 

May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate ! 
Yea ! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain, 
Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again ; 

To bear is to conquer our fate. 




Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, 
Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls 
.Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound 
From many a jasper fount is heard around, 
Young Azim roams bewilder'd, nor can guess 
What means this maze of light and loneliness. 
Here, the way leads, o'er tesselated floors 
Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors, 
Where, rang'd in cassolets and silver urns, \ 
Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns ; 
And spicy rods, such as illume at night 
The bowers of Tibet, send forth odorous light, 
Like Peris' wands when pointing out the road 
For some pure Spirit to its bless'd abode ! 
And here, at once, the glittering saloon 
Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon - 7 
Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays 
In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays 


High as the enamelFd cupola, which towers 
All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers ; 
And the mosaic floor beneath shines through 
The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew, 
Like the wet, glistering shells, of every dye, 
That on the margin of the Red Sea lie. 

Here, too, he traces the kind visitings 

Of woman's love in those fair, living things 

Of land and wave, whose fate in bondage thrown 

For their weak loveliness is like her own ! 

On one side, gleaming with a sudden grace 

Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase 

In which it undulates, small fishes shine, 

Like golden ingots from a fairy mine ; 

While, on the other, lattic'd lightly in 

With odoriferous woods of Comorin, 

Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen ; 

Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between 

The crimson blossoms of the coral tree, 

In the warm isles of India's sunny sea : 

Mecca's blue sacred pigeon, and the thrush 

Of Hindostan, whose holy warblings gush, 

At evening, from the tall pagoda's top ; 

Those golden birds, that in the spice-time, drop 

About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food 

Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer 

flood ; 
And those that under Araby's soft sun 
Build their high nests of budding cinnamon. 

Moore* Lalla Rookh. 




" But live, my Azim ; Oh ! to call thee mine 

Thus once again ! my Azim dream divine ! 

Live if thou ever lov'dst me, if to meet 

Thy Zelica hereafter would be sweet, 

Oh live to pray for her to bend the knee 

Morning and night before that Deity, 

To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain, 

As thine are, Azim, never breath'd in vain, 

And pray that He may pardon her, may take 

Compassion on her soul, for thy dear sake, 

And, nought remembering but her love to thee, 

Make her all thine, all His, eternally ! 

Go to those happy fields, where first we twin'd 

Our youthful hearts together, every wind 

That meets thee there, fresh from the well-known 

Will bring the sweetness of these innocent hours 
Back to thy soul, that thou mayest feel again 
For thy poor Zelica as thou didst then. 
So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies 
To heaven, upon the morning's sunshine, rise 
With all love's earliest ardour, to the skies !" 

Time fleeted years on years had pass'd away, 
And few of those who, on that mournful day, 
Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see 
The maiden's death, and the youth's agony, 



Were living still when, by the rustic grave 

Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave, 

An aged man, w r ho had grown aged there 

By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer, 

For the last time knelt down and, tho' the shade 

Of death hung darkening over him, there play'd 

A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek, 

That brighten'd even Death like the last streak 

Of intense glory on the horizon's brim, 

When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim, 

His soul had seen a Vision, while he slept ; 

She for whose spirit he had pray'd and wept 

So many years, had come to him, all dress'd 

Jn angel smiles, and told him she was blest ! 

For this the old man breath'd his thanks, and died. 

And there, upon the banks of that lov'd tide, 

He and his Zelica sleep side by side. 

Moore's Lalla Rookh. 


Friend of the Brave ! in peril's darkest hour, 
Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power ; 
To thee the heart its trembling homage yields, 
On stormy floods, and carnage-cover'd fields, 
When front to front the banner'd hosts combine, 
Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. 
When all is still on Death's devoted sail, 
The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil - y 



As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high 
The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye 
Hails in his heart the triumphs yet to come, 
And hears the stormy music in the drum ! 

And such thy strength-inspiring aid, that bore 
The hardy Byron to his native shore 
In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep 
Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep, 
'Twas his to mourn Misfortune's rudest shock, 
Scourg'd by the winds and cradled on the rock, 
To wake each joyless morn, and search again 
The famish'd haunts of solitary men ; 
Whose race, unyielding as their native storm, 
Knows not a trace of Nature but the form : 
Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued, 
Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdu'd, 
Pierc'd the deep woods, and, hailing from afar, 
The moon's pale planet, and the northern star ; 
Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before, 
Hyaenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore ; 
Till, led by thee, o'er many a cliff sublime, 
He found a warmer world, a milder clime, 
A home to rest, a shelter to defend, 
Peace and repose, a Briton, and a friend. 




Nymph, we woo thee from the steeps 
That bend o'er Tyber's classic wave, 


Where Rome's dejected genius weeps 
In anguish o'er her Brutus' grave. 

We woo thee from the vine-wove bowers, 
That breathe and bloom o'er Arno's vale, 

Where, sunk at eve, on closing flowers, 
Thou lists the Tuscan shepherd's tale : 

<c Or, near some rich cathedral pile, 
Hearest the anthem- chorus roll, 

Soft-swelling through the darken'd aisle, 
The requiem of the parting soul : 

" Or from some antique minstrel's tomb, 
Thy harp, with many a wild rose twin'd, 

Sighing through the vesper gloom, 
Pours the slow dirge along the wind. 

" Nymph, we woo thee from a soil 

Sunk in slavery and shame ; 
Nymph, we hail thee to an isle, 

Dear to science, dear to fame ! 

" /Though Britain boasts no Handel's strains, 
No Titian's tints, no breathing stone, 

Yet Freedom loves her emerald plains, 
And Beauty calls the land her own. 

M There, there alone, Man's hallow'd form, 
In native grandeur, towers sublime, 


Bold, dark, and lonely as the storm, 

That, thundering, sweeps his northern clime ? 

" A mingled wonder mild and brave- 
Stern as the midnight ocean's roar, 

Yet softer than the murmuring wave, 
That dies along its mossy shore. 

" And Woman loveliest Woman ! there 
From roseate lip and diamond eye, 

Like the sweet eve-star, chaste and pure, 
Beams love, and peace, and purity. 

" Genius of Song ! our Spirit woos 

The potent magic of thy charms, 
And bids thee twine around our brows, 

The wreath of arts as well as arms." 

Queen of the soul-subduing art ! 

A generous people claim thy smile, 
Give thee the homage of the heart, 

And hail thee to the Western Isle. 



medora's song. 

Oh ! many a night on this lone couch resign'd, 
My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the 



And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy 

The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
Though soft it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge : 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star. 
And morning came and still thou wert afar ! 
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
And still I gazed and gazed and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears my truth my vow ! 
At length 'twas noon I hail'd and blest the mast 
That met my sight- it near'd Alas ! it past ! 
Another came Oh God ! 'twas thine at last ! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, 
My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 

Byron's Corsair. 


She rose she sprung she clung to his embrace, 
Till his heart heav'd beneath her hidden face. 
She dar'd not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
That downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 


Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
So full that feeling seem'd almost unfelt ! 
Hark peals the thunder of the signal gun ! 
It told 'twas sunset and he curs'd that sun. 
Again- again that form he madly pressed, 
Which mutely clasp'd imploringly caress'd ! 
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
One moment gazed as if to gaze no more 
Felt that for him earth held but her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead turn'd is Conrad gone? 

O'er every feature of that still pale face, 
Had sorrow nVd what time can ne'er erase : 
The tender blue of that large loving eye 
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy- 
Till Oh, how far ! it caught a glimpse of him 
And then it flow'd and, frenzied, seem'd to swim 
Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes, 

With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
" He's gone !" against her heart that hand is 

Convuls'd and quick then gently rais'd to Heaven; 
She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 
The white sail set she dared not look again. 

Byron s Corsair. 



One bound he made, and gained the sand- 
Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk ; 
Another falls but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave ; 
His boat appears not five oars' length 
His comrades strain with desperate strength- 
Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 
His feet the foremost breakers lave j 
His band are plunging in the bay, 
Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
Wet wild unwearied to the strand 
They struggle now they touch the land ! 
They come 'Tis but to add to slaughter 
His heart's best blood is on the water ! 

Escaped from shot unharmed by steel, 
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel 
Had Selim won betrayed beset 
To where the strand and billows met 
There as his last step left the land, 
And the last death-blow dealt his hand 


Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
That pause that fatal gaze he took 

Hath doomed his death or fix'd his chain 
Sad proof in peril and in pain 
How late will Lover's hope remain ! 
His back w T as to the dashing spray 
Behind but close his comrades lay 
When at the instant, hissed the ball, 
" So may the foes of Giaffir fall!" 
Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang ? 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang ? 
Too nearly deadly aimed to err 
'Tis thine Abdallah's Murderer ! 
The father slowly rued thy hate, 
The son hath found a quicker fate 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling, 
If aught his lips essayed to groan 
The rushing billows choaked the tone [" 

Byron's Bride qfAbydoi. 


Where the prime actors of the last year's scene, 
Their port so proud, their buskin and their plume ? 
How many sleep who kept the world awake 
With lustre and with noise ! Has Death proclaimed 


A truce, and hung his sated lance on high ? 
'Tis brandish'd still ; nor shall the present year 
Be more tenacious of her human leaf, 
Or spread of feeble life a thinner fall. 

But needless monuments to wake the thought : 
Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality, 
Though in a style more florid, full as plain 
As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs. 
What are our noblest ornaments but deaths 
Turn'd flatterers of life, in paint or marble, 
The well-stained canvass, or the featur'd stone ? 
Our fathers grace, or rather haunt, the scene : 
Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead. 

Profest diversions : cannot these escape ? 
Far from it : these present us with a shroud, 
And talk of death like garland o'er a grave. 
As some bold plunderers for buried wealth, 
We ransack tombs for pastime ; from the dust 
Call up the sleeping hero ; bid him tread 
The scene for our amusement ; how like gods 
We sit ; and, wrapped in immortality, 
Shed generous tears on wretches born to die ; 
Their fate deploring, to forget our own ! 
Where is the dust that has not been alive ? 
The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors : 
From human mould we reap our daily bread. 
The globe around earth's hollow surface shakes, 
And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons. 
O'er devastation we blind revels keep ; 
While buried towns support the dancer's heel. 


Nor man alone ; his breathing bust expires ; 
His tomb is mortal : empires die. Where, now, 
The Roman ? Greek ? They stalk an empty name : 
Yet few regard them in this useful light, 
Though half our learning is their epitaph. 
When down thy vale, unlocked by midnight thought, 
That loves to wander in thy sunless realms, 
O death, I stretch my view, what visions rise ! 
What triumphs, toils imperial, arts divine, 
In wither'd laurels, glide before my sight ! 
What lengths of far-famed ages, bellow'd high 
With human agitations, roll along 
In unsubstantial images of air ! 
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, 
Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause, 
With penitential aspect as they pass, 
All point at earth, and hiss at human pride, 
The wisdom of the wise and prancings of the great. 




Britons ! although our task is but to show 
The scenes and passions of fictitious wo, 
Think not we come this night without a part 
In that deep sorrow of the public heart ; 
Which, like a shade, hath darken'd every place, 
And moisten'd with a tear the manliest face. 
The bell is scarcely hush'd in Windsor's piles, 
That toll'd a requiem through the solemn aisles, 


For her, the Royal Flower, low laid in dust, 
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust. 
Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas ! 
That e'en these walls, ere many months should pass, 
(Which but return sad accents for her now,) 
Perhaps had witness'd her benignant brow, 
Cheer'd by the voice ye would have rais'd on high, 
In bursts of British love and loyalty : 
But Britain, now, thy chief, thy people mourn, 
And Claremont's house of love is left forlorn ; 
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt, 
The scutcheon glooms and Royalty hath felt 
A grief that every bosom feels its own 
The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown, 
The most belov'd and most devoted bride, 
Torn from an agonising husband's side, 
Who, long as Memory holds her seat, shall view 
That speechless, more than spoken, last adieu ! 
When the flx'd eye long look'd connubial faith, 
And beam'd affection in the trance of Death. 

Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld, 
As with the mourner's heart the anthem sweli'd, 
While torch succeeding torch illum'd each high 
And banner'd arch of England's chivalry 
The rich plum'd canopy the gorgeous pall 
The sacred march and sable-vested wall 
These were not rites of inexpressive show, 
But hallow'd as the types of real wo. 


Daughter of England ! for a nation's sighs, 
A nation's heart went with thy obsequies ; 
And oft shall Time revert a look of grief 
On thine existence, beautiful as brief. 

Fair Spirit ! send thy blessing from above, 
To realms where thou art canonized by love ; 
Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind 
The peace that angels lend to human kind, 
To us, who in thy lov'd remembrance feel 
A sorrowing, yet a soul-ennobling zeal, 
A loyalty that touches all the best 
And loftiest principles of England's breast ; 
Still may thy name speak comfort from the tomb, 
Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom 
They shall describe thy life, thy form pourtray ; 
But all the love that mourns thee swept away, 
'Tis not in language or expressive arts 
To paint ye feel it y Britons, in your breasts. 



< c Oh ! leave me, leave me, to my task ; 
My genius wakes I feel its flame ; 

* Mozart having been employed to compose a requiem for 
a Catholic Prince, applied himself to study with uncommon ar- 
dour but was visited with a presentiment that the requiem was 
for himself. Madame Mozart endeavonred to remove this con- 


Soon shall you have the notes you ask, 
A requiem worthy of my fame." 

80 spake divine Mozart and seized 

The pen, which taught whole choirs to ring ; 

The pen, which unborn thoughts released, 
And dealt out sweets to voice and string. 

But as he wrote, the vital spark 

By rapture's breath too bright was blown ; 
It blazed it sunk and boding dark 

Told him the requiem was his own. 

*Tis done convoke the band prepare the hall ; 
Spread forth the leaves, but also spread the pall : 
With sable scarfs yon organ must be hung ; 
In silent grief each harp and viol strung ; 
The fine-drawn bow shall speak to saddened ears, 
While he who moves it scarce can read, for tears ; 
And at each well-wrought close, the tuneful crowd 
Struggles with sighs, and longs to sob aloud. 
No second " Titus" now, shall try their art ; 
No new " Enchanted flute" shall soothe the heart. 
Hark ! how the discords jangle and complain ; 
But yon mute coffin speaks not back again. 

vietion, but soon after had to attend him on his death-bed, 
where he called for the score which he had been writing, and 
looked over it for the last time. It is one of his most celebrated 


Death loves not resonance, for he is dight 
In weeds, that drink up sound as well as light, 
And, anxious for those chords, which close the lay, 
Sits with his hour-glass grinning o'er his prey. 




From Chindara's warbling fount I come, 

Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell ; 
From Chindara's fount, my fairy home, 

Where in music, morn and night, I dwell. 
Where lutes in the air are heard about, 

And voices are singing the whole day long, 
And every sigh the heart breathes out 
Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song. 
Hither I come 
From my fairy home, 
And if there's a charm in Music's strain, 
1 swear by the breath 
Of that moonlight wreath, 
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 

For mine is the lay that lightly floats. 
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes, 
That fall as soft as snow in the sea, 
And melt in the heart as instantly ! 
And the passionate strain that, deeply going, 
Refines the bosom it trembles through, 


As the musk-wind, over the water blowing, 
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too I 

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway 
The Spirits of past Delight obey - 7 
Let but the tuneful talisman sound, 
And they come, like Genii, hovering round. 
And mine is the gentle song, that bears 

From soul to soul, the wishes of love, 
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs 

The cinnamon seed from grove to grove- 

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure 
The past, the present, and future of pleasure ; 
When Memory links the tone that is gone 

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear ; 
And Hope from a heavenly note flies on 

To a note more heavenly still that is near ! 

The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, 

Can as downy soft and as yielding be 

As his own white plume, that high amid death 

Through the field has shone yet moves with a 

And, oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten, 

When Music has reach'd her inward soul, 
Like the silent stars, that wink and listen 
While Heaven's eternal melodies roll ! 
So hither I come 
From my fairy home, 


And if there's a magic, in Music's strain, 

I swear by the breath 

Of that moonlight wreath, 
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 

Moon's Lalla Rookh. 


Come hither, come hither by night and by day, 
We linger in pleasures that never are gone ; 

Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away, n \ 
Another as sweet and as shining comes on. 

And the Love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth, 
To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss; 

And oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this. 

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh 
As the flower of the Amra just op'd by a bee ; 
And precious their tears as that rain from the sky, 

Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. 
Oh ! think what the kiss and the smile must be 
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss; 
And own if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this. 

Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow'd by love, 
Could draw down those angels of old from their 


Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above, 
And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have 
And, bless' d with the odour our goblet gives forth, 
What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss ? 
For oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this. 

There's a bliss beyond all that the Minstrel has told* 
When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie, 

With heart never changing and brow never cold, 
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die ! 

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth 

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss j 

And oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 

It is this, it is this. 

Moore's Lalla Raokh, 



Fly to the desert, fly with me, 
Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 
But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt 
Of tents with love, or thrones without ? 


Our rocks are rough, but smiling there 
The acacia waves her yellow hair, 
Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less 
For flowering in a wilderness. 

Our sands are bare, but down their slope 
The silvery-footed antelope, 
As gracefully and gaily springs 
As o'er the marble courts of Kings. 

Then come thy Arab maid will be 
The lov'd and alone acacia-tree, 
The antelope, whose feet shall bless 
With their light sound thy loneliness. 

O ! there are looks and tones that dart 
An instant sunshine thro' the heart, 
As if the soul that minute caught 
Some treasure it thro' life had sought ; 

As if the very lips and eyes 
Predestin'd to have all our sighs, 
And never be forgot again, 
Sparkl'd and spoke before us then ! 

So came thy every glance and tone, 
When first on me they breath'd and shone j 
New, as if brought from other spheres, 
Yet welcome as if lov'd for years ! 


Then fly with me, it' thou hast known 
No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
Should ever in thy heart be worn. 

Come, if the love thou hast for me 
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, 
Fresh as the fountain under ground, 
When first 'tis by the lapwing found. 

But if for me thou dost forsake 
Some other maid, and rudely break 
Her worshipp'd image from its base, 
To give to me the ruin'd place ; 

Then, fare thee well I'd rather make 
My bower upon some icy lake 
When thawing suns begin to shine, 
Than trust to love so false as thine ! 

Moore's Lalla Rookh. 


Well, honour is the subject of my story- 
I cannot tell, what you and other men 
Think of this life ; but, for my single self, 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 
In awe of such a thing as I myself. 


I was born free as Caesar ; so were you ; 
We both have fed as well ; and we can both 
Endure the winter's cold, as well as he : 
For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 
The troubled Tyber chafing with his shores, 
Caesar said to me Dar'st thou, Cassius, ?iow 
Leap in with me, into this angry flood. 
And swim to yonder point? Upon the word, 
Accoutred as I was, 1 plunged in, 
And bade him follow : so, indeed, he did. 
The torrent roar'd ; and we did buffet it 
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside, 
And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 
But, ere we could arrive the point propos'd, 
Caesar cry'd Help me, Cassius, or I sink. 
Then, as iEneas, our great ancestor, 
Did from the flames of Troy, upon his shoulders, 
The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tyber, 
Did I the tired Caesar. And this man 
Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 
A wretched creature, and must bend his body, 
If Caesar carelessly but nod at him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain ; 
And, when the fit was on him, I did mark 
How he did shake : 'tis true, this god did shake : 
His coward lips did from their colour fly, 
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, 
Did lose its lustre. I did hear him groan ! 
Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 

2 D 


Alas ! it cry'd, Give me some drink, Titinins ! 
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 
A man of such a feeble temper should 
So get the start of the majestic world, 
And bear the palm alone. 

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world 
Like a Colossus ; and we petty men 
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about 
To find ourselves dishonourable graves. 

Men at some times are masters of their fate : 
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 
But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
Brutus! and Caesar! What should be in that Caesar? 
Why should that name be sounded more than yours? 
Write them together. Yours is as fair a name. 
Sound them. It doth become the mouth as well. 
Weigh them. It is as heavy. Conjure with them. 
Brutus { will start a spirit as soon as Caesar ! 

Now, in the names of all the gods at once, 
Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, 
That he is grown so great ? Age, thou art sham'd ! 
Rome, thou hast lost thy breed of noble bloods ! 
When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome, 
That her wide walls encompass'd but one man ? 

O ! you and I have heard our fathers say 
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd 
" A whip-galFd slave'' to keep his state in Rome, 
As easily as a king. 




Once more unto the breach, dear friends ! once 

more ; 
Or close the wall up with our English dead. 
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man 
As modest stillness and humility : 
But, when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
Then imitate the action of the tiger : 
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage : 
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 
Let it pry through the portage of the head, 
Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it, 
As fearfully, as doth a galled rock 
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
SwilFd with the wild and wasteful ocean. 

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide ; 
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
To its full height ! Now, on, you noble English, 
Whose blood is set from fathers of war-proof ! 
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, 
Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought, 
And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument. 
Dishonour not vour mothers. Now attest 
That those whom you cali'd fathers did beget you ! 
Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 


And teach them how to war ! And you, good yeo- 
Whose limbs were made in England, shew us here 
The mettle of your pasture \ let us swear 
That you are worth your breeding : which I doubt 

not ; 
For there is none of you so mean and base, 
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 
I see you stand, like greyhounds in the slips, 
Straining upon the start. 

The game's afoot. 
Follow your spirit ; and, upon this charge, 
Cry God for Harry ! England ! and Saint George ! 

- Shakespeare' 



He scarce had ceas'd, when the superior fiend 
AVas moving toward the shore ; his ponderous shield 
(Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round) 
Behind him cast ; the broad circumference 
Hung on his shoulders, like the moon, whose orb, 
Thro' optic glass, the Tuscan artist views, 
At evening, from the top of Fiesole, 
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, 
Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe. 
His spear (to equal which the tallest pine 
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast 


Of some great admiral, were but a wand) 
He waik'd with to support uneasy steps 
Over the burning marl (not like those steps 
On heaven's azure !) and the torrid clime 
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire. 
Nathless he so endur'd, till on the beach 
Of that inflamed sea he stood, and call'd 
His legions, angel forms, who lay, intranc'd, 
Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks 
In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades, 
High over-arch'd, imbower ; or scatter'd sedge 
Afloat, when with fierce winds, Orion, arm'd, 
Hath vcx'd the Red Sea coast whose waves over- 
Busiris and his Memphian chivalry, 
While with perfidious hatred they pursu'd 
The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld, 
From the safe shore, their floating carcases 
And broken chariot wheels : so thick bestrown, 
Abject, and lost, lay these, covering the flood, 
Under amazement of their hideous change. 

He call'd so loud, that all the hollow deep 
Of hell resounded. 

" Princes! potentates! 
" Warriors ! the flower of heaven, once yours ; 

now lost, 
" If such astonishment as this can seize 
" Eternal spirits : or have ye chosen this place, 


After the toil of battle, to repose 
Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find 
To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven ? 
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn 
To adore the conqueror ? who now beholds 
Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood, 
With scatter'd arms and ensigns ; till, anon, 
His swift pursuers, from heaven-gates, discern 
The advantage, and, descending, tread us down. 
Thus drooping ; or, with linked thunderbolts, 
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf. 
Awake ! arise ! or be for ever fallen !" 




O thou ! that, with surpassing glory crown'd, 
Look'st, from thy sole dominion, like the god 
Of this new world ! at whose sight all the stars 
Hide their diminish'd heads ! to thee I call, 
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, 

Sun ! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, 
That bring to my remembrance from what state 

1 fell : how glorious once above thy sphere ! 
Till pride, and worse ambition threw me down. 
Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless King, 


Ah ! wherefore ? He deserv'd no such return 
Prom me, whom he created what 1 was 
In that bright eminence, and with his good 
Upbraided none : nor was his service hard. 
What could be less than to afford him praise, 
The easiest recompense ; and pay him thanks, 
How due ! Yet all his good prov'd ill in me, 
And wrought but malice. Lifted up so high, 
I disdain'd subjection, and thought one step higher 
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit 
The debt immense of endless gratitude, 
So burthensome, still paying, still to owe 
(Forgetful what from him I still receiv'd,) 
And understood not that a grateful mind 
By owing owes not \ but still pays, at once 
Indebted and discharg'd. What burden then r 

O had his powerful destiny ordain'd 
Me some inferior angel, I had stood 
Then happy ; no unbounded hope had rais'd 

Ambition. Yet, why not ? Some other power, 

As great, might have aspir'd, and me, tho' mean, 
Drawn to his part : but other powers as great 
Fell not, but stand, unshaken, from within 
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd. 

Hadst thou the same free will and power to 
stand ? 
Thou hadst. Whom hast thou then, or what to 


But heaven's free love, dealt equally to all ? 

Be then his love accurs'd,- since love, or hate, 

To me, alike, it deals eternal wo. 

Nay, curs'd be thou ; since, against His, thy will 

Chose freely what it now so justly rues. 

Me miserable ! which way shall I fly 
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ? 
Which way I fly is hell : myself am hell ; 
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep, 
Still threatening to devour me, opens wide, 
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 

O, then, at last relent. Is there no place 

Left for repentance ? none for pardon left ? 

None left but by submission ; and that word 
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame 
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduc'd 
With other promises, and other vaunts 
Than to submit : boasting I could subdue 
The Omnipotent. 

Ah me ! they little know 
How dearly I abide that boast so vain ; 
Under what torments inwardly I groan, 
While they adore me on the throne of hell ! 
With diadem and sceptre high advanc'd, 
The lower still I fall ; only supreme 
In misery : such joy Ambition finds. 


But say I could repent, and could obtain, 
By act of grace, my former state, how soon 
Would height recal high thoughts ? how soon unsay 
What feign'd submission swore ? Ease would recant 
Vows made in pain as violent and void : 
For never can true reconcilement grow 
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierc'd so deep; 
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse, 
And heavier fall : so should I purchase dear 
Short intermission bought with double smart. 
This knows my punisher : therefore as far 
From granting He, as I from begging peace. 

All hope excluded thus, behold, instead 
Of us, outcast, exil'd, his new delight, 
Mankind created ; and for him this world. 
So farewell hope ; and, with hope, farewell fear ; 
Farewell remorse : all good to me is lost ; 
Evil be thou my good : by thee, at least 
Divided empire with heaven's King I hold ; 
By thee, and more than half, perhaps, will reign ; 
As man, ere long, and this new world shall know. 




On Linden, when the sun was low, 
AH bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
2 E 


And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden shew'd another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
Each horseman drew his battle blade, 
And furious every charger neigh'd 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills, by thunder riven > 
Then flew the steed to battle driven ; 
And, rolling, like the bolts of heaven, 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet their fires shall glow 
On Linden's heights of crimson 'd snow, 
And bloodier still the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

The combat deepens ! On ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich i all thy banners wave > 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun, 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun. 


Where fiery Frank and furious Hun 

Shout in their sulphurous canopy ! 

Few, few shall part, where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding sheet ; 
And every sod beneath their feet 

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre ! 


There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill -, 
For his country he sigh'd, when, at twilight, re- 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion \ 
For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean, 
Where once, in the fervour of youth's warm emotion, 
He sung the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 

Sad is my fate ! (said the heart-broken stranger)- 
The wild-deer and wolf to a cover can flee ; 
But I have no refuge from famine and danger : 
A home and a country remain not to me. 
Never again in the green sunny bowers 
Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet 

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, 
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh. 


Erin ! my country ! tho' sad and forsaken, 
In dreams, I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 
But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, 
And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more. 

Oh ! cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 
Jn a mansion of peace, whence no perils can chase 

me ? 
Never again shall my brothers embrace me ! 
They died to defend me, or live to deplore. 

Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ? 
Sisters and sire, did ye mourn for its fall ? 
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ? 
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ! 

Ah ! my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure ! 
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure ? 
Tears, like the rain -drops, may fall without measure, 
But rapture and beauty they cannot recal. 

Yet, all its fond recollections suppressing, 
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw. 
Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing : 
Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, 
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean, 
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud, with devo- 
Erin, mavourin ! Erin go bragh ! 




These are thy glorious works Parent of good, 
Almighty ! thine this universal frame, 
Thus wonderous fair : thyself how wondrous then ! 
Unspeakable ! who sitt'st above these heavens, 
To us invisible ; or dimly seen 
In these thy lowest works : yet these declare 
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 

Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
Angels ! for ye behold him ; and, with songs, 
And choral symphonies, day without night, 
Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye, in heaven ; 
On earth, join all ye creatures, to extol 
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. 

Fairest of stars ! last in the train of night, 
If better thou belong not to the dawn, 
Sure pledge of day ! that crown'st the smiling morn 
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
Thou sun ! of this great world both eye and soul ! 
Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise 
In thy eternal course ; both when thou cliiruVst, 
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou 

Moon ! that now meet'st the orient sun, now flyest, 


With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb, that flies ; 

And ye five other wandering fires, that move 

In mystic dance, not without song, resound 

His praise,-; who out of darkness call'd up light. 

Air, and ye elements ! the eldest birth 

Of Nature's womb ; that, in quaternion, run 

Perpetual circle, multiform ; and mix, 

And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change 

Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 

Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise 

From hill or steaming lake, dusky, or grey, 

Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 

In honour to the world's great Author, rise ! 

Whether to deck, with clouds, the uncolour'd sky, 

Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 

Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 

His praise, ye winds ! that from four quarters blow, 

Breathe soft, or loud ! and wave your tops, ye pines ! 

With every plant, in sign of worship, wave. 

Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, 

Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise. 

Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds, 

That, singing, up to heaven's gate ascend, 

Bear on your wings, and in your notes, his praise. 

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 

The earth, and stately tread, or lowly fcreep ! 

Witness if I be silent, morn, or even, 

To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade, 

Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise 


Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still 
To give us only good : and, if the night 
Have gather'd ought of evil, or conceal' d, 
Disperse it, as now, light dispels the dark. 




These, as they change, Almighty Father ! these, 
Are but the varied God the rolling year 
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love : 
Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 
And every sense and every heart is joy. 
Then comes thy glory in the summer months, 
With light and heat refulgent : Then thy sun 
Shoots full perfection thro' the swelling year : 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
And oft, at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. 

Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfin'd, 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In Winter, awful Thou ! with clouds and storms 
Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest 

Majestic darkness i on the whirlwind's wing, 


Riding sublime, thou bid'st the world adore, 
And humblest Nature with thy northern blast. 

Mysterious round! What skill. what force divine, 
Deep-felt, in these appear ! a simple train ; 
Yet so delightful ! mix'd with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beneficence combin'd ; 
Shade, unperceiv'd, so softening into shade ; 
And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But, wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
Man marks not Thee j marks not the mighty hand, 
That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
Works in the secret deep; shoots steaming, thence, 
The fair profusion that overspreads the Spring ; 
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; 
Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 
And, as on earth the grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 

Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
In adoration join ; and, ardent raise 
One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales, 
Breathe soft, whose Spirit in yourfreshness breathes: 
Oh talk of Him, in solitary glooms, 
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe ! 

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heaven 


The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; 
And let me catch it as I muse along. 
Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound ; 
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
Along the vale ; and, thou, majestic main, 
(A secret world of wonders in thyself!) 
Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice 
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers 
In mingled clouds to Him ; whose sun exalts, 
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to Him \ 
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 
Ye that keep watch in heaven (as earth, asleep, 
Unconscious, lies) effuse your mildest beams, 
Ye constellations ! while your angels strike, 
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 

Great source of day ! best image here below 
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
From world to world, the vital ocean round, 
On Nature write, with every beam, His praise. 

The thunder rolls. Be hush'd the prostrate 
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 

Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks 

2 F 


Retain the sound ; the broad responsive low, 
Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns j 
And his unsuftering kingdom yet will come. 
Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, 
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. 
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, * 
(At once the head, the heart and tongue of all) 
Crown the great hymn ! in swarming cities vast, 
Assembled men ; ^to the deep organ join 
The long-resounding voice, -oft-breaking clear, 
At solemn pauses, thro' the swelling base ; 
And, as each mingling flame increases each, 
In one united ardour rise to heaven. 
Or, if you rather chuse the rural shade, 
And find a fane in every secret grove ; 
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 
Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. 





How much stress was laid upon pronunciation, 
or delivery, by the most eloquent of all orators, 


Demosthenes, appears from a noted saying of bis, 
related both by Cicero and Quinctilian ; when be- 
ing asked, What was the first point in oratory ? lie 
answered, Delivery ; and being asked, What was 
the second ? and afterwards, What was the third ? 
he still answered, Delivery. There is no wonder, 
that he should have rated this so high, and that for 
improving himself in it, he should have employed 
those assiduous and painful labours, which all the 
ancients take so much notice of; for, beyond 
doubt, nothing is of more importance, To super- 
ficial thinkers, the management of the voice and 
gesture, in public speaking, may appear to relate to 
decoration only, and to be one of the inferior arts 
of catching an audience. But this is far from be- 
ing the case. It is intimately connected with what 
is, or ought to be, the end of all public speaking, 
persuasion ; and therefore deserves the study of 
the most grave and serious speakers, as much as of 
those, whose only aim it is to please. 

For, let it be considered, whenever we address 
ourselves to others by w r ords, our intention certain- 
ly is to make some impression on those to whom 
we speak ; it is to convey to them our own ideas 
and emotions. Now the tone of our voice, our 
looks and gestures, interpret our ideas and emotions 
no less than words do ;. nay, the impression they 
make on others, is frequently much stronger than 
any that words can make. We often see that an 
expressive look, or a passionate cry, unaccompanied 


by words, conveys to others more forcible ideas, 
and rouses within them stronger passions, than can 
be communicated by the most eloquent discourse. 
The signification of our sentiments, made by tones 
and gestures, has this advantage above that made 
by words, that it is the language of nature. It is 
that method of interpreting our mind, which nature 
lias dictated to all, and which is understood by all ; 
whereas, words are only arbitrary, conventional 
symbols of our ideas ; and, by consequence, must 
make a more feeble impression. So true is this, 
that, to render words fully significant, they must, 
almost in every case, receive some aid from the 
manner of pronunciation and delivery j and he who, 
in speaking, should employ bare words, without en- 
forcing them by proper tones and accents, would 
leave us with a faint and indistinct impression, of- 
ten with a doubtful and ambiguous conception of 
what he had delivered. Nay, so close is the con- 
nection between certain sentiments and the proper 
manner of pronouncing them, that he who does not 
pronounce them after that manner, can never per- 
suade us, that he believes, or feels, the sentiments 



Upon the whole, as to the comparative merit of 
those two great princes of epic poetry, Homer and 


Virgil ; the former must, undoubtedly, be admitted 
to be the greater genius ; the latter, to be the more 
correct writer. Homer was an original in his art, 
and discovers both the beauties and the defects, 
which are to be expected in an original author, 
compared with those who succeed him ; more bold- 
ness, more nature and ease, more sublimity and 
force ; but greater irregularities and negligences in 
composition. Virgil has, all along, kept his eye 
upon Homer ; in many places, he has not so much 
imitated, as he has literally translated him. The 
description of the storm, for instance, in the first 
iEneid, and iEneas's speech upon that occasion, are 
translations from the fifth book of the Odyssey ; 
not to mention almost all the similies of Virgil, 
which are no other than copies of those of Homer. 
The pre-eminence in invention, therefore, must, 
beyond doubt, be ascribed to Homer. As to the 
pre-eminence in judgment, though many critics are 
disposed to give it to Virgil, yet, in my opinion, it 
hangs doubtful. In Homer, we discern all the Greek 
vivacity ; in Virgil, all the Roman stateliness. Ho. 
mer's imagination is by much the most rich and 
copious ; Virgil's the most chaste and correct. The 
strength of the former lies, in his power of warm- 
ing the fancy ; that of the latter, in his power of 
touching the heart. Homer's style is more simple 
and animated ; Virgil's more elegant and uniform. 
The first has, on many occasions, a sublimity to 
which the latter never attains ; but the latter, in 


return, never sinks below a certain degree of epic 
dignity, which cannot so clearly be pronounced of 
the former. Not, however, to detract from the ad- 
miration due to both these great poets, most of 
Homer's defects may reasonably be imputed, not 
to his genius, but to the manners of the age in which 
he lived ; and for the feeble passages of the JEneid, 
this excuse ought to be admitted, that the iEneid 
was left an unfinished work. 



The human genius, with the best assistance, and 
the finest examples, breaks forth but slowly ; and 
the greatest men have but gradually acquired a just 
taste, and chaste simple conceptions of beauty. At 
an immature age, the sense of beauty is weak and 
confused, and requires an excess of colouring to 
catch its attention. It then prefers extravagance 
and rant to justness, a gross false wit to the engag- 
ing light of nature, and the shewy, rich, and glar- 
ing, to the fine and amiable. This is the childhood 
of taste ; but, as the human genius strengthens and 
grows to maturity, if it be assisted by a happy edu- 
cation, the sense of universal beauty awakes ; it 
begins to be disgusted with the false and mis-shapen 
deceptions that pleased before, and rests with de- 


light on elegant simplicity, on pictures of easy 
beauty and unaffected grandeur. 

The progress of the fine arts, in the human mind, 
may be fixed at three remarkable degrees, from their 
foundation to the loftiest height. The basis is a 
sense of beauty and of the sublime, the second 
step we may call taste, and the last genius. 

A sense of the beautiful and of the great is uni- 
versal, which appears from the uniformity thereof 
in the most distant ages and nations. What was 
engaging and sublime in ancient Greece and Rome 
are so at this day \ and, as I observed before, there 
is not the least necessity of improvement or scienee, 
to discover the charms of a graceful or noble de- 
portment. There is a fine, but an ineffectual, light 
in the breast of man. After nightfall we have ad- 
mired the planet Venus ; the beauty and vivacity 
of her lustre, the immense distance from which we 
judged her beams issued, and the silence of the 
night, all concurred to strike us with an agreeable 
amazement. But she shone in distinguished beauty, 
without giving sufficient light to direct our steps, 
or shew us the objects around us. Thus, in unim- 
proved nature, the light of the mind is bright and 
useless. In utter barbarity, our prospect of it is 
still less fixed ; it appears, and then again seems 
wholly to vanish in the savage breast, like the same 
planet Venus, when she has but just raised her ori- 
ent beams to mariners above the waves, and is now 


descried, and now lost, through the swelling bil- 

The next step is taste, the subject of our inquiry, 
which consists in a distinct, unconfused knowledge 
of the great and beautiful. Although you see not 
many possessed of a good taste, yet the generality 
of mankind are capable of it. The very populace 
of Athens had acquired a good taste by habit and 
fine examples, so that a delicacy of judgement 
seemed natural to all who breathed the air of that 
elegant city : we find a manly and elevated sense 
distinguish the common people of Rome and of all 
the cities of Greece, while the level of mankind 
was preserved in those cities ; while the plebeians 
had a share in the government, and an utter sepa- 
ration was not made between them and the nobles 
by wealth and luxury. But, when once the com- 
mon people are rent asunder wholly from the great 
and opulent, and made subservient to the luxury of 
the latter ; then the taste of nature infallibly takes 
her flight from both parties. The poor, by a sordid 
habit, and an attention wholly confined to mean 
views, and the rich, by an attention to the change- 
able modes of fancy, and a vitiated preference for 
the rich and costly, lose the view of simple beauty 
and grandeur. It may seem a paradox, and yet I am 
firmly persuaded, that it w T ould be easier at this day 
to give a good taste to the young savages of Ame- 
rica, than to the noble youth of Europe. 

nius, the pride of man, as man is of the crea- 


tion, has been possessed but by few, even in the 
brightest ages. Men of superior genius, while they 
see the rest of mankind painfully struggling to com- 
prehend obvious truths, glance themselves through 
the most remote consequences, like lightningthrough 
a path that cannot be traced. They see the beau- 
ties of nature with life and warmth, and paint them 
forcibly without effort, as the morning sun does the 
scenes he rises upon ; and, in several instances, 
communicate to objects a morning freshness and 
unaccountable lustre, that is not seen in the crea- 
tion of nature. The poet, the statuary, the painter, 
have produced images that left nature far behind. 



Maria was in her twentieth year. To the beauty 
of her form, and excellency of her natural disposi- 
tion, a parent equally indulgent and attentive had 
done the fullest justice. To accomplish her per- 
son, and to cultivate her mind, every endeavour 
had been used ; and they had been attended with 
that success they commonly meet with, when not 
prevented by mistaken fondness, or untimely va- 
nity. Few young ladies have attracted more ad- 
miration none ever felt it less : With all the 
charms of beauty, and the polish of education, the 
plainest were not less affected, nor the most igno- 


rant less assuming. She died when every tongue 
was eloquent on her virtues, when every hope was 
ripening to reward them. 

It is by such private and domestic distresses, that 
the softer emotions of the heart are most strongly 
excited. The fall of more important personages 
is commonly distant from our observation ; but even 
where it happens under our more immediate notice, 
there is a mixture of other feelings by which our 
compassion is weakened. The eminently great, or 
extremely useful, leave behind them a train of in- 
terrupted views, and disappointed expectations, by 
which the distress is complicated beyond the sim- 
plicity of pity. But the death of one, who, like 
Maria, was to shed the influence of her virtues over 
the age of a father, and the childhood of her sisters, 
present to us a little view of family-afflictions, which 
every eye can perceive, and every heart can feel. 
On scenes of public sorrow, and national regret, wc 
gaze, as upon those gallery-pictures which strike us 
with wonder and admiration ; domestic calamity is 
like the miniature of a friend, which we wear in our 
bosoms, and keep for secret looks and solitary en- 

The last time I saw Maria, was in the midst of a 
crowded assembly of the fashionable and the gay, 
where she fixed all eyes by the gracefulness of her 
motion, and the native dignity of her mien ; yet so 
tempered was that superiority which they conferred 
with gentleness and modesty, that not a murmur 


was heard, either from the rivalship of beauty, or 
the envy of homeliness. From that scene the tran- 
sition was so violent, to the hearse and the pall, the 
grave and the sod, that once or twice my imagi- 
nation turned rebel to my senses ; I beheld the 
objects around me as the painting of a dream, and 
thought of Maria as living still. 

I was soon, however, recalled to the sad reality. 
The figure of her father bending over the grave of 
his darling child, the silent suffering composure in 
which his countenance was fixed ; the tears of his 
attendants, whose grief was capable of tears ; these 
gave me back the truth, and reminded me, that I 
should see her no more. There was a flow of sor- 
row with which I suffered myself to be borne along, 
with a kind of melancholy indulgence ; but when 
her father dropt the cord with which he had helped 
to lay his Maria in the earth, its sound on the coffin 
chilled my heart, and horror for a moment took 
place of pity. 

It was but for a moment He looked eagerly 

into the grave \ made one involuntary motion to 
stop the assistants who were throwing the earth 
into it ; then, suddenly recollecting himself, clasp- 
ed his hands together, threw up his eyes to heaven ; 
and then first I saw a few tears drop from them. 
I gave language to all this. It spoke a lesson of 
faith, of piety, and resignation. I went away sor- 
rowful, but my sorrow was neither ungentle nor 
unmanly ; cast on this world a glance, rather of pity 


than of enmity ; on the next a look of humbleness 
and hope. 

Such, I am persuaded, will commonly be the ef- 
fect of scenes like that I have described, on minds 
neither frigid nor unthinking ; for qf feelings like 
these, the gloom of a sceptic is as little susceptible 
as the levity of the giddy. There needs a certain 
pliancy of the mind, which society alone can give, 
though its vices often destroy, to render us capable 
of that gentle melancholy, which makes sorrow 
pleasant, and affliction useful. 

If the influence of such a call to thought, can 
only smother in its birth one allurement to evil, or 
confirm one wavering purpose to virtue, I shall not 
have unjustly commended that occasional indul- 
gence of pensiveness and sorrow, which will thus be 
rendered, not only one of the refinements, but one 
of the improvements of life. 

Mirror > 

Another brilliant example of tried fidelity, flashes 
upon my mind. When Lord Rawdon was in South 
Carolina, he had to send an express of great im- 
portance through a country filled with the enemy ; 
a Corporal of the 17th dragoons, of known courage 
and intelligence, was selected to escort it. They 
had not proceeded far, until they were fired upon 


'the Express killed and the Corporal wounded 
in the side. Careless of his wqund, he thought but 
of his duty he snatched the dispatch from the dy- 
ing man and rode on till, from the loss of blood, 
lie fell : when fearing the dispatch might be taken 
by the enemy, he thrust it into the wound, until it 
closed upon it ! He was found next day by a Bri- 
tish Patrole, with a benignant smile of conscious 
virtue on his countenance, with sufficient life re- 
maining to point to the fatal depository of his se- 
cret. In searching the wound, was found the cause 
of his death. For the surgeon declared that it was 
not in itself mortal, but rendered so by the irrita- 
tion of the paper. Thus fell the Patriot Soldier ! 

Cut off from glory's course! 

Which never mortal was to fond to run ; 

Unheard he fell ! 

In rank a Corporal, he was in mind, a Hero 
his name O'Lavery his country Ireland. Down 
was his county, and his parish Moira, in which a 
chaste monument records at once his fame, and 
the gratitude of his illustrious countryman, Lord 

While memory holds her seat, thy deed, O gener- 
ous Victim, shall be present to my mind ! I would 
not for worlds have lost thy name. How would it 
have lived in Greek or Roman story ! Nor the Spar- 
tan hero of Thermopylae, nor the Roman Curtius 


have in self-devotion gone before thee. Leonidas 
fought in the presence of a grateful country ; thou 
wert in a strange land, unseen Curtius had all 
Rome for his spectators ; the Corporal was alone 
in a desert. He adopted the sentiment, without 
knowing the language, and chose for his Epitaph, 




Sir, We have heard a great deal about parlia- 
mentary armies, and about an army continued from 
year to year- I always have been, Sir, and always 
shall be, against a standing army of any kind. To 
me it is a terrible thing ; whether under that of 
parliamentary or any other designation, a standing 
army is still a standing army, whatever name it be 
called by : they are a body of men distinct from the 
body of the people ; they are governed by different 
laws ; and blind obedience, and an entire submis- 
sion to the orders of their commanding officer, is 
their only principle. The nations around us, Sir, 
are already enslaved, and have been enslaved by 
those very means : by means of their standing ar- 
mies they have every one lost their liberties : it is 
indeed impossible that the liberties of the people 


can be preserved in any country where a numerous 
standing army is kept up. Shall we then take any 
of our measures from the examples of our neigh- 
bours ? No, Sir ; on the contrary, from their mis- 
fortunes we ought to learn to avoid those rocks up- 
on which they have split. 

It signifies nothing to tell me, that our army is 
commanded by such gentlemen as cannot be sup- 
posed to join in any measures for enslaving their 
country. It may be so ; I hope it is so ; I have a 
very good opinion of many gentlemen now in the 
army ; I believe they would not join in any such 
measures ; but their lives are uncertain, nor can 
we be sure how long they may be continued in com- 
mand ; they may all be dismissed in a moment, and 
proper tools of power put in their room. Besides, 
Sir, we know the passions of men, we know how dan- 
gerous it is to trust the best of men with too much 
power. Where was there a braver army than that 
under Julius Caesar ? Where was there ever an army 
that had served their country more faithfully? That 
army was commanded generally by the best citizens 
of Rome, by men of great fortune and figure in their 
country ; yet that army enslaved their country. 
The affections of the soldiers towards their coun- 
try, the honour and integrity of the under officers, 
are not to be depended on : by the military law, 
the administration of justice is so quick, and the 
punishment so severe, that neither officer nor sol- 
dier dares offer to dispute the orders of his supreme 


commander ; he must not consult his own inclina- 
tions : if an officer were commanded to pull his own 
father out of this house, he must do it ; he dares 
not disobey ; immediate death would be the sure 
consequence of the least grumbling. And if an 
officer were sent into the court of request, accom- 
panied by a body of musketeers with screwed bayo- 
nets, and with orders to tell us what we ought to 
do, and how we were to vote, I know what Would 
be the duty of this House ; 1 know it would be our 
duty to order the officer to be taken and hanged up 
at the door of the lobby ; but, Sir, I doubt much if 
such a spirit could be found in this house, or in any 
House of Commons that will ever be in England. 

Sir, I talk not of imaginary things ; I talk of 
what has happened to an English House of Com- 
mons, and from an English army : not only from 
an English army, but an army that was raised by 
that very House of Commons, an army that was 
paid by them, and an army that was commanded 
by generals appointed by them. Therefore do not 
let us vainly imagine, that an army raised and main- 
tained by authority of Parliament will always be 
submissive to them ; if an army be so numerous 
as to have it in their power to over-awe the Parlia- 
ment, they will be submissive as long as the Parlia- 
ment does nothing to disoblige their favourite ge- 
neral ; but when that case happens, I am afraid 
that in place of the Parliament's dismissing the ar- 
my, the army will dismiss the Parliament, as they 


have done heretofore. Nor does the legality or il- 
legality of that Parliament, or of that army alter 
the case ; for, with respect to that army, and ac- 
cording to their way of thinking, the Parliament 
dismissed by them was a legal Parliament; they 
were an army raised and maintained. according to 
law, and at first they were raised, as they imagin- 
ed, for the preservation of those liberties which 
they afterwards destroyed. 

It has been urged, Sir, that whoever is for the 
Protestant succession, must be for continuing the 
army : for that very reason, Sir, I am against con- 
tinuing the army. I know that neither the Pro- 
testant succession in his Majesty's most illustri- 
ous house, nor any succession, can ever be safe, 
as long as there is a standing army in the coun- 
try. Armies, Sir, have no regard to hereditary 
succession. The first two Caesars at Rome did 
pretty well, and found means to keep their armies 
in tolerable subjection, because the generals and of- 
ficers were all their own creatures. But how did it 
fare with their successors ? Was not every one of 
them named by the army, without any regard to . 
hereditary right, or to any right ? A cobler, a gar- 
dener, or any man who happened to raise himself 
in the army, and could gain their affections, was 
made emperor of the world. Was not every suc- 
ceeding emperor raised to the throne, or tumbled 
headlong into the dust, according to the mere whim 
or mad frenzy of the soldiers ? 

2 ii 


We are told this army is desired to be continued 
but for one year longer, or for a limited term of 
years. How absurd is this distinction ! Is there 
any army in the world continued for any term of 
years ? Does the most absolute monarch tell his 
army, that he is to continue them for %ny number 
of years, or any number of months ? How long 
have we already continued our army from year to 
year ? And if it thus continues, where will it differ 
from the standing armies of those countries which 
have already submitted their necks to the yoke ? 
We are now come to the Rubicon ; our army is now 
to be reduced, or it never will ; from his Majesty's* 
own mouth we are assured of a profound tranquil- 
lity abroad, we know there is one at home. If this 
is not a proper time, if these circumstances do not 
afford us a safe opportunity for reducing at least a 
part of our regular forces, we never can expect to 
see any reduction ; and this nation, already over- 
burdened with debts and taxes, must be loaded 
with the heavy charge of perpetually supporting a 
numerous standing army ; and remain for ever ex- 
posed to the danger of having its liberties and pri- 
vileges trampled upon by any future king or minis- 
try, who shall take it in their heads to do so, and 
shall take a proper care to model the army for that 



Sir, I was unwilling to interrupt the course of 
this debate while it was carried on with calmness 
and decency, by men who do not suffer the ardour 
of opposition to cloud their reason, or transport 
them to such expressions as the dignity of this As- 
sembly does not admit. I have hitherto deferred 
to answer the gentleman who declaimed against 
the bill with such fluency and rhetoric, and such 
vehemence of gesture, who charged the advocates 
for the expedients now proposed with having no 
regard to any interest but their own, and with 
making laws only to consume paper, and threaten- 
ed them with the defection of their adherents, and 
the loss of their influence, upon this new disco- 
very of their folly and their ignorance. 

Nor, Sir, do I now answer him for any other 
purpose, than to remind him, how little the cla- 
mour of rage and petulancy of invectives contri- 
bute to the purpose for which this Assembly is cal- 
led together ; how little the discovery of truth is 
promoted, and the security of the nation establish- 
ed by pompous diction and theatrical emotion. 

Formidable sounds, and furious declamation, 
confident assertions, and lofty periods, may affect 
the young and unexperienced, and, perhaps, the 
gentleman may have contracted his habits of ora- 
tory by conversing more with those of his own age 


than with such as have more opportunities of ac- 
quiring knowledge, and more successful methods 
of communicating their sentiments. 

If the heat of his temper, Sir, would suffer him 
to attend to those whose age and long acquaintance 
with business give them an indisputable right to 
deference and superiority, he would learn in time 
to reason rather than declaim, and to prefer just- 
ness of argument, and an accurate knowledge of 
facts, to sounding epithets and splendid superla- 
tives ; which may disturb the imagination for a 
moment, but leave no lasting impression on the 

He will learn, Sir, that to accuse and prove are 
very different ; and that reproaches, unsupported 
by evidence, affect only the character of him that 
utters them. Excursions of fancy and flights of 
oratory, are, indeed, pardonable in young men, 
in no other ; and it would surely contribute more, 
even to the purpose for which some gentlemen ap- 
pear to speak (that of depreciating the conduct of 
Administration,) to prove the inconveniences and 
injustice of this bill, than barely to assert them, 
with whatever magnificence of language, or ap- 
pearance of zeal, honesty or compassion. 

mr pitt's reply. 

Sir, The atrocious crime of being a young 
man, which the honourable gentleman has with 


such spirit and decency charged upon me, I shall 
neither attempt to palliate nor deny, but content 
myself with wishing that I may be one of those 
whose follies may cease with their youth, and not 
of that number who are ignorant in spite of expe- 

Whether youth can be attributed to any man as 
a reproach, I will not, Sir, assume the province 
of determining $ but surely age may become just- 
ly contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings 
have passed away without improvement, and vice 
appear to prevail when the passions have subsided. 
The wretch, that after having seen the consequen- 
ces of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, 
and whose age has only added obstinacy to stupi- 
dity, is surely the object either of abhorrence or 
contempt, and deserves not that his grey head 
should secure him from insults. 

Much more, Sir, is he to be abhorred, who, as he 
has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and 
become more wicked with less temptation who 
prostitutes himself for money which he cannot en- 
joy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin 
of his country. 

But youth, Sir, is not my only crime ; I have 
been accused of acting a theatrical part. A thea- 
trical part may either imply some peculiarities of 
gesture, or a dissimulation of my real sentiments, 
and the adoption of the opinions and language of 
another man. 


In the first sense, Sir, the charge is too trifling 
to be confuted, and deserves only to be mentioned 
that it may be despised. I am at liberty, like 
every other man, to use my own language ; and 
though I may, perhaps, have some ambition to 
please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself under 
any restraint, nor very solicitously copy his diction 
or his mien, however matured by age, or modelled 
by experience. 

But if any man shall, by charging me with thea- 
trical behaviour, imply that I utter any sentiments 
but my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and 
a villain ; nor shall any protection shelter him from 
the treatment which he deserves. I shall on such 
an occasion, without scruple, trample upon all those 
forms with which wealth and dignity entrench them- 
selves, nor shall any thing but age restrain my re- 
sentment : age, which always brings one privilege, 
that of being insolent and supercilious without, 

But with regard, Sir, to those whom 1 have of- 
fended, 1 am of opinion, that if I had acted a bor- 
rowed part, I should have avoided their censure ; 
the heat which offended them is the ardour of con- 
viction, and that zeal for the service of my coun- 
try, which neither hope nor fear shall influence me 
to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my 
liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public 
robbery. I will exert my endeavours, at whatever 
hazard, to repel the aggressor, and drag the thief 


to justice, whoever may protect him in his villany, 
and whoever may partake of his plunder. 



Religion elevates us above terrestrial objects. 
What is the object of all our occupations here be- 
low ? Follow men to the bar, to the council board, 
to the public or private assemblies, whenever they 
meet and hold intercourse together. Human in- 
terests, human views, projects often frivolous, al- 
ways limited, always perishable ; lo, these are the 
eternal subjects of our discussion and pursuit. 

Let eloquence exhaust its art, and paint these va- 
nities in deceitful colours ; let our inclinations con- 
cur with it in seducing us. Precarious, fleeting 
happiness ! Illusion of short duration ! I know not 
what secret languor moves along with us in this 
confined sphere. A sentiment of satiety and dis- 
gust attaches itself to the return of these vain ob- 
jects. We feel that we are not made to be always 
busied about this world; and that the pleasures 
which we here taste are only introductory to others. 
Our thoughts require subjects more vast to occupy 
them, our affections demand objects more noble to 
fix them. It is to religion that we must look for 
them. It is at the foot of the altars raised in our 


temples to its honour, that man, throwing aside the 
burden of human things, and extricating himself 
from cold occupations, from grovelling interests, 
and from puerile attachments, hears a voice which 
exalts, elevates, and rejoices the soul. 

All is magnificent in the objects of religion. All 
her views comport with the highest faculties of our 
nature. Her features awaken our most lively sen- 
sibility. Delicious sentiments mingle themselves 
with the grand thoughts which she inspires. She 
displays her celestial origin, her celestial destina- 
tion. It is not to small portions of time, a few 
years, a few generations, a few ages, that our spe- 
culations are here limited ; they embrace eternity. 
They are not finite beings like ourselves with whom 
we hold intercourse. It is with a Being who has 
for attributes, absolute perfection ; for limits, im- 
mensity itself. It is no longer the assemblage of 
a few objects frivolous, uncertain, and of dubious 
quality, that we seek. It is happiness complete, 
solid, perfect in its nature and infinite in duration 
like God himself. 


Politiano (in the preface to his Miscellanea) 
inveighing against those who affected to consider 
the study of polite letters as inconsistent with the 


performance of sacred functions, adduces Mariano 
as an illustrious instance of their union. " On this 
account," says he, to Lorenzo, " I cannot suffi- 
ciently admire your highly esteemed friend Ma- 
riano ; whose proficiency in theological studies, and 
whose eloquence and address, in his public dis- 
courses, leave him without a rival. The lessons which 
he inculcates, derive additional authority from his 
acknowledged disinterestedness, and from the se- 
verity of his private life : yet there is nothing mo- 
rose in his temper ; nothing unpleasingly austere ; 
nor does he think the charms of poetry, or the 
amusements and pursuits of elegant literature, be- 
low his attention." 

" I was lately induced to attend one of his 

lectures : rather, to say the truth, through curiosi- 
ty, than with the hope of being entertained. His 
appearance, however, interested me in his favour. 
His address was striking ; and his eye marked in- 
telligence. My expectations w T ere raised. He be- 
gan ; I was attentive : a clear voice select ex- 
pression elevated sentiment. He divides his sub- 
ject ; I perceive his distinctions : Nothing per- 
plexed ; nothing insipid ; nothing languid. He 
unfolds the web of his argument ; I am enthralled. 
He refutes the sophism ; I am freed. He intro- 
duces a pertinent narrative ; I am interested. He 
modulates his voice ; I am charmed. He is jocu- 
lar , I smile. He presses me with serious truths - 9 



I yield to their force. He addresses the pas- 
sions ; the tears glide down my cheeks. He 
raises his voice in anger j I tremble, and wish my- 
self away." 






' 1 

:SON, V 





This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 

on the date to which renewed. 

Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 


fgECTE* ^ W i ?'-m -n AM 

8 Mar 



REC'P M > 




nKES r DTD"^P"^^^"Si 

APR 18 1996 



LD 21A-50m-ll,'62 


General Library 

University of California 



Mm MMlwm 


1 ;.'" : l ' 



i., ';' 5: 







ills I