3. The multitude of Angels, with a shout

Loud as from numbers without number, sweet
As from blest voices, uttering joy-Heaven rung
With jubilee, and loud hosannas filled
The eternal regions. Lowly reverent

Toward either throne they bow, and to the ground
With solemn adoration down they cast

Their crowns, inwove with amaranth and gold-
Immortal amaranth, a flower which once

In Paradise, fast by the Tree of Life,

Began to bloom, but, soon for Man's offense,

To Heaven removed where first it grew, there grows

And flowers aloft, shading the Fount of Life,

And where the River of Bliss through midst of Heaven Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream!

With these, that never fade, the Spirits elect

Bind their resplendent locks, inwreathed with beams.
Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright
Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shone,
Impurpled with celestial roses smiled.

Then, crowned again, their golden harps they took-
Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side
Like quivers hung; and with preamble sweet
Of charming symphony they introduce
Their sacred song, and waken raptures high:
No voice exempt, no voice but well could join
Melodious part; such concord is in Heaven.
"Concord."

JOHN MILTON.

4. From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
This universal frame began:

When Nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead!

Then cold and hot and moist and dry

In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony

This universal frame began:

From Harmony to Harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion can not Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly and so well.
What passion can not Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger
And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries "Hark! the foes come;

Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!"

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion

For the fair disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,

And trees uprooted left their place
Sequacious of the lyre:

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher
When to her organ vocal breath was given
An Angel heard, and straight appear'd-
Mistaking Earth for Heaven!

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blest above;

So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

"Song for Saint Cecilia's Day."

JOHN DRYDEN.

5. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild.
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize-

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away-
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their wo;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave, ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But in his duty, prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dism yed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;

E'en children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.

I

His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest;
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given-
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Tho round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
For, e'en tho vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. "The Village Preacher," in "The Deserted Village."

VOLUME OF TONE

Adequate volume of voice is necessary in order that the public speaker, when occasion demands, should be able to fulfil all requirements. A voice suited to conversation may be wholly unsatisfactory when used in a large hall. How many men, addressing an audience probably for the first time, have been startled and embarrassed by the thinness and strangeness of their own voice.

Proper development of volume of tone, together with a little experience in public speaking, should enable an average person to readily adapt his voice to any ordinary auditorium. His aim should be to be easily heard in all parts of a hall, without undue elevation of pitch or noticeable physical effort.

Volume of voice does not necessarily mean loudness but