What more has she to dread, who reads thy looks,

And knows the most has come? Thy news! Is 't bondage? Stran. It is.

Emma. Thank Heaven, it is not death! Of one

Or two?

Stran. Of two.

Emma. A father and a son ?

Is 't not?

Stran. It is.

Emma. My husband and my son

Are in the tyrant's power! There's worse than that!
What's that is news to harrow parents' breasts,
The which the thought to only tell, 'twould seem,
Drives back the blood to thine ?-Thy news, I say!
Wouldst thou be merciful, this is not mercy !
Wast thou the mark, friend, of the bowman's aim,
Wouldst thou not have the fatal arrow speed,
Rather than watch it hanging in the string

Thou 'lt drive me mad! Let fly at once!

Melch. Thy news from Altorf, friend, whate'er it is! Stran. To save himself and child from certain death, Tell is to hit an apple, to be placed

Upon the stripling's head.

Melch. My child! my child!

Speak to me! Stranger, hast thou killed her?

Emma. No!

No, father.

I'm the wife of William Tell;

Oh, but to be a man! to have an arm

To fit a heart swelling with the sense of wrong!

Unnatural-insufferable wrong!

When makes the tyrant trial of his skill?

Stran. To-morrow.

Emma. Spirit of the lake and hill,

Inspire thy daughter! On the head of him

Who makes his pastime of a mother's pangs,

> Launch down thy vengeance by a mother's hand.

Know'st the signal when the hills shall rise? (To Melchtal.) Melch. Are they to rise?

Emma. I see thou knowest naught.

Stran. Something 's on foot! 'Twas only yesterday,
That, traveling from our canton, I espied

Slow toiling up a steep, a mountaineer
Of brawny limb, upon his back a load

Of faggots bound. Curious to see what end
Was worthy of such labor, after him
I took the cliff; and saw its lofty top
Receive his load, which went but to augment
A pile of many another.

Emma. 'Tis by fire!

Fire is the signal for the hills to rise! (Rushes out.)
Melch. Went she not forth?

Stran. She did-she's here again,

And brings with her a lighted brand.

Melch. My child,

What dost thou with a lighted brand?

(Re-enter EMMA with a brand.)

Emma. Prepare

To give the signal for the hills to rise!

Melch. Where are the faggots, child, for such a blaze?

Emma. I'll find the faggots, father. (Exit.)

Melch. She's gone

Agáin!

Stran. She is-I think into her chamber.

Emma. (Rushing in.)-Father, the pile is fired!

Melch. What pile, my child?

Emma. The joists and rafters of our cottage, father! Melch. Thou hast not fired thy cottage?-but thou hast !

Alas, I hear the crackling of the flames!

Emma. Say'st thou, alas! when I do say, thank Heaven? Father, this blaze will set the land a-blaze

With fire that shall preserve, and not destroy it.

Blaze on! BLAZE ON! O, may'st thou be a beacon
To light its sons enslaved to liberty!

How fast it spreads! A spirit 's in the fire:

It knows the work it does.--(Goes to the door, and opens it.) The land is free!

Yonder 's another blaze! Beyond that, shoots

Another up!--Anon will every hill

Redden with vengeance. Father, come!

Whate'er

Betides us, worse we're certain can't befall,

And better may! Oh, be it liberty—

Safe hearts and homes, husbands and children! Come,-
It spreads apace. Blaze on-blaze on—BLAZE ON! (Exeunt.)

EXERCISE XXVII.

THE INDIAN LAMENT.

HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT.

1. MAN'-I-TOU is the name of a kind of charm, or amulet,—a consecrated horn, or feather, or some such thing, worn by the Indians, as a remedy or preventive of disease or evil influence.

The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore,
As sweetly and gayly as ever before;

For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie,
And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly.
The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright,
And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light
As it ever reflected, or ever expressed,

When

my skies were the bluest, my dreams were the best.

The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night,
Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light,

And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track,

For they know that their mates are expecting them back.
Each bird and each beast, it is bless'd in degree:

All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me.

3.

I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair; (sl.) I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair;

4.

5.

6.

I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows,
And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes;
I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed,
For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead;
But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay;
The steel of the white man hath swept them away

This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore,
I will toss with disdain to the storm-beaten shore;
Its charms I no longer obey or invoke ;

Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke.

I will raise up my voice to the source of the light;
I will dream on the wings of the blue-bird at night;
I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves,
And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves ;
And will take a new Manitou,'-such as shall seem
To be kind and propitious in every dream.

O! then I shall banish these cankering sighs,
And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes;
I shall wash from my face every cloud-colored stain;
Red-red shall alone on my visage remain!

I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow;
By night and by day I will follow the foe;

Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor snows;
His blood can alone give my spirit repose.

They came to my cabin when heaven was black; I heard not their coming, I knew not their track ; But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees, They were people engendered beyond the big seas: (pl.) My wife and my children,-O, spare me the tale! For who is there left that is kin to GEEHALE !

EXERCISE XXVIII.

UNCLE ABEL AND LITTLE EDWARD.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

1. Were any of you born in New England, in the good old catechising, school-going, orderly times? If you were, you must remember my Uncle Abel; the most perpendicular, rectangular, upright, downright good man that ever labored six days and rested on the Sabbath.

2. You remember his hard, weather-beaten countenance,— where every line seemed to be drawn with a pen of iron and the point of a diamond; his considerate gray eyes, that moved over objects as if it were not best to be in a hurry about seeing; the circumspect opening and shutting of his mouth ;-his down-sitting and up-rising; all of which appeared to be performed with a conviction afore-thought,—in short, the whole ordering of his life and conversation, which was, according to the tenor of the military order" to the right-about faceforward-march !"

3. Now, if you supposed, from all this triangularism of exterior, that this good man had nothing kindly within, you were much mistaken. You often find the greenest grass under a snow-drift, and though my uncle's mind was not exactly of the flower-garden kind, still there was an abundance of wholesome and kindly vegetation there.

4. It is true, he seldom laughed, and never joked—himself; but no man had more weighty and serious conviction of what a good joke was in another; and when some exceeding witticism was dispensed in his presence, you might see Uncle Abel's face slowly relax into an expression of solemn satisfaction, and he would look at the author with a certain quiet wonder, as if it was astonishing how such a thing could ever come into a man's head.

5. Uncle Abel also had some relish for the fine arts; in proof whereof I might adduce the pleasure with which he gazed at the plates in his family Bible, the likeness whereof I