. Home and school reciter; readings, declamations and plays, original compositions and choice selections of the best literature .. . Like the brass cannon; let the brow over-whelm it, As fearfully as doth a galled rock Overhang and jutty his confounded base, Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nos-tril wide, Hold hard the breath, and bend up everyspirit To his full height. Now on, you noblestEnglish, HARFLEUR. Whose blood is fetched from fathers ofwar-proof; Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn to evenfought, And sheathed
. Home and school reciter; readings, declamations and plays, original compositions and choice selections of the best literature .. . Like the brass cannon; let the brow over-whelm it, As fearfully as doth a galled rock Overhang and jutty his confounded base, Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nos-tril wide, Hold hard the breath, and bend up everyspirit To his full height. Now on, you noblestEnglish, HARFLEUR. Whose blood is fetched from fathers ofwar-proof; Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn to evenfought, And sheathed their swords for lack of ar-gument: Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war! And you, good yeomen,Whose limbs are made in England, show us hereThe mettle of your pasture; let us swearThat you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not:For there is none of you so mean and baseThat hath not noble luster in your eye;I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,Straining upon the start: the games a-foot;Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge,Cry, Heaven for Harry, England, and St. George. — ^V Treasure Trove-World Favorites This department includes those immortal writings that won favor throughout the world andare as popular to-day as when they were first written many years belong to Auld Lang Syne, and are old acquaint-ances that shall never be forgot. ^5* &5* C<7* PRESIDENT LINCOLNS FAVORITE POEM. The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. OH, why should the spirit of mortal beproud?Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,He passes from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,Be scattered around and together be laid;And the young and the old, and the low and the high,Shall moulder to dust and together shall die. The child that a mother
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