THE WORLD FOR SALE

RALPH HOYT

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. - Ralph Hoyt, an Episcopal clergyman, was born in New York in 1810. He has written a few poems, the following being most frequently met with. He died in 1878.

T

HE world for sale! - Hang out the sign;

Call every traveler here to me;

Who'll buy this brave estate of mine,

And set me from earth's bondage free?

'Tis going! - yes, I mean to fling
The bauble from my soul away;
I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring;-
The world at auction here to-day!

It is a glorious thing to see,

Ah, it has cheated me so sore!
It is not what it seems to be:

For sale! It shall be mine no more.
Come, turn it o'er and view it well;

I would not have you purchase dear:
'Tis going! going! I must sell!

Who bids? Who'll buy the splendid tear?

Here's Wealth in glittering heaps of gold: -
Who bids? - but let me tell you fair,

A baser lot was never sold;

Who'll buy the heavy heaps of care?
And here, spread out in broad domain,
A goodly landscape all may trace;

Hall, cottage, tree, field, hill, and plain;

Who'll buy himself a burial place?

Here's Love, the dreary potent spell
That beauty flings around the heart;
I know its power, alas! too well;
'Tis going!-love and I must part!
Must part!

- What can I more with love?

All over the enchanter's reign;

Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove,

An hour of bliss,

And Friendship,

rarest gem of earth,

(Whoe'er hath found the jewel his?) Frail, fickle, false, and little worth, —

Who bids for friendship—as it is? 'Tis going! going! - Hear the call:

Once, twice, and thrice! - 'tis very low! 'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all,

But now the broken staff must go!

Fame! hold the brilliant meteor high;
How dazzling every gilded name!
Ye millions, now's the time to buy!

How much for fame? How much for fame?

Hear how it thunders! Would

you

On high Olympus far renown'd? Now purchase, and a world command!

stand

And be with a world's curses crown'd!

Sweet star of Hope! with ray to shine

In every sad foreboding breast,

Save this desponding one of mine,

Who bids for man's last friend and best?

Ah! were not mine a bankrupt life,

This treasure would my soul sustain;

But hope and I are now at strife,

Nor ever may unite again.

And Song! For sale my tuneless lute;
Sweet solace, mine no more to hold;
The chords that charmed my soul are mute,
I cannot wake the notes of old!

Or e'en were mine a wizard shell,
Could chain a world in rapture high;

Yet now a sad farewell! farewell!
Must on its last faint echoes die.

Ambition, Fashion, Show, and Pride,
I part from all forever now;
Grief, in an overwhelming tide,

Has taught my haughty heart to bow.
Poor heart! distracted, ah, so long,

And still its aching throb to bear; -
How broken, that was once so strong!
How heavy, once so free from care!

No more for me life's fitful dream;
Bright vision vanishing away!
My bark requires a deeper stream;
My sinking soul a surer stay.
By Death, stern sheriff, all bereft!
I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod;
The best of all I still have left,

My Faith, my Bible, and my God.

WARREN'S ADDRESS

JOHN PIERPONT

TAND! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?

Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle peal!

Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it, ye who will.

RIENZI'S ADDRESS

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD

NOTE TO THE PUPIL.- Mary Russell Mitford was born in Hampshire, England, in 1786. She began to write to aid her father who was pecuniarily embarrassed. Her best work is probably "Our Village,” a series of sketches of English country life. She died in 1855.

Friends!

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom.

We are slaves!

The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beams
Fall on a slave; not such as swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror led
To crimson glory and undying fame,—
But base, ignoble slaves! slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords

Rich in some dozen paltry villages;

Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great

In that strange spell, a name! Each hour, dark fraud,
Or open rapine, or protected murder,

Cries out against them. But this very day,

An honest man, my neighbor, there he stands,
Was struck, - struck like a dog, by one who wore

The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth,

He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor?-men, and wash not
The stain away in blood?

Such shames are common.

I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye,