You require a cook for your mutton and beef; I require a far better thing; A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and shirts – I look for a man and a king. A king for a beautiful realm called home, And a man that the maker, God, I am fair and young, but the rose will fade Will you love me then, 'mid the falling leaves, Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep launch my all on its tide? I may A loving woman finds heaven or hell On the day she is made a bride. I require all things that are grand and true, If you give this all, I would stake my life If you cannot do this a laundress and cook But a woman's heart and a woman's life THE TWO ROADS JEAN PAUL RICHTER NOTE TO THE PUPIL. — Richter, the celebrated German satirist, philosopher, and humorist, was born in Bavaria in 1763. He died in 1825. IT was New Year's night; and Von Arden, having fallen into an unquiet slumber, dreamed that he was an aged man standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes toward the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more helpless beings than himself now moved toward their certain goal the tomb. Already, as it seemed to him, he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort. The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; the other leading the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled. He looked toward the sky, and cried out in his agony, "Oh, days of my youth, return! Oh, my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, that I may choose the better way! But the days of his youth and his father had both passed away. He saw wandering lights floating away over dark marshes, and then disappear; these were the days of his wasted life He saw a star fall from heaven, and vanish in darkness: this was an emblem of himself; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck home to his heart. Then he remembered his early companions, who entered on life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and of labor, were now honored and happy on this New Year's night. The clock in the high church tower struck, and the sound falling on his ear, recalled his parents' early love for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up on his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look toward that heaven where his father dwelt; his darkened eyes dropped tears, and with one despairing effort he cried aloud, “Come back, my early days! come back!" And his youth did return; for all this was but a dream which visited his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young, his faults alone were real. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave. Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that, when years have passed, and your feet stumble on the dark mountain you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain: "Oh, youth, return! Oh, give me back my early days!" ALEXANDER'S FEAST JOHN DRYDEN NOTE TO THE PUPIL. Dryden was born in Northamptonshire, England, in 1631. In 1657 he went to London and devoted himself to literature and politics. He wrote critical essays, comedies, and tragedies. It was not until after he was fifty years old that he did his best work. A large part of the writings of Dryden are not now read. Scarcely any of his plays are now generally known. His descriptive powers are of the highest order. His portraits of his enemies are most remarkable. His meter is almost perfect, and his choice of words most effective and accurate. As a literary study you will do well to read Dryden largely and carefully. WAS at the royal feast for Persia won 'TWAS By Philip's warlike son, Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were plac'd around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound; The lovely Thais, by his side, Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserve the fair. Timotheus, plac'd on high Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touched the lyre; The trembling notes ascend the sky, The song began from Jove Who left his blissful seat above, (Such is the power of mighty love). And while he sought her snowy breast; Then round her slender waist he curled And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world. The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound, A present deity, they shout around; A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound. The monarch hears, Assumes the god, Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus, then the sweet musician sung, The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; He shows his honest face; Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain; Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. |