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tion over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.
How still and peaceful is the grave,
Where,-life's vain tumults past, -
Receives us all at last!
The wicked there from troubling cease,
Their passions rage no more;
From all the toils he bore.
All, leveled by the hand of death,
Lie sleeping in the tomb,
To meet their final doom.
III. SERENITY, BEAUTY, LOVE.
The requirements are,
Third-High pitch. The pleasant effect produced by this combination was called by the Ancients, the “ Silvery tone.” The quietude and delicacy of this class of selections demand especial care in securing a pure, musical and effusive quality of voice. The more pure, gentle and continuous the tones can be made, the more effective and pleasant will be the results of the read ing
To secure high pitch let the voice ascend the musical scale four notes, beginning with the pitch of ordinary conversation.
SELECTIONS OF SERENITY, BEAUTY, LOVE.
The rising moon has hid the stars;
Lie on the landscape green,
And silver white the river gleams,
Had dropt her silver bow
On such a tranquil night as this,
When sleeping in the grove,
Like Dian's kiss unasked, unsought,
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
It comes, the beautiful, the free,
In silence and alone
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep,
And kisses the closed eyes
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
Are fraught with fear and pain,
No one is so accursed by fate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds,—as if with unseen wings,
And whispers, in its song,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE VALE OF CASHMERE. Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave, Its temples and grottos, and fountains as clear
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?
0, to see it at sunset,—when warm o'er the lake
Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws,
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes! -
shown, And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells,
Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells
Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing. Or to see it by moonlight,—when mellowly shines The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines; When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet From the cool shining walks where the young people meet. Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks, Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one Out of darkness, as they were just born of the sun. When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day, From his harem of night-flowers stealing away; And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over. When the east is as warm as the light of first hopes,
And day, with its banner of radiance unfurled, Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes,
Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world!
THE BELLS OF SHANDON.
With deep affection
Those Shandon bells,
Their magic spells.