. Delsarte recitation book and directory . ealed to him his life-work.—Editor.] f^\ MAN who art nursed by blind fortune,^-^^ And thinkest forever its joys to possess!The cries of the wretched importune, Thy heart is close shut to their tales of distress. CHORUS. Rich, heedless one, go; for thy heart is of stone;Sweet charitys promptings thou never hast pause and reflect—all on earth fades comes; oh, think well whilst thou may. When gayly thourt dancing, look yonder; For stealing away in the lamps brilliant lightA man old and ragged—oh, ponder,— Is starving and cold, a m
. Delsarte recitation book and directory . ealed to him his life-work.—Editor.] f^\ MAN who art nursed by blind fortune,^-^^ And thinkest forever its joys to possess!The cries of the wretched importune, Thy heart is close shut to their tales of distress. CHORUS. Rich, heedless one, go; for thy heart is of stone;Sweet charitys promptings thou never hast pause and reflect—all on earth fades comes; oh, think well whilst thou may. When gayly thourt dancing, look yonder; For stealing away in the lamps brilliant lightA man old and ragged—oh, ponder,— Is starving and cold, a most pitiful sight! That child oer his mothers grave bending. And offringall shivring his thin hands for alms. At dawn will to heaven be ascending. Thy fingers drop naught in his cold, trembling palms. Art is not., as is said., an imitation of nature. It elevates in idealizing her;it is the synthetic rapport of the scattered beauties of nature to a superiorand definite type.—Delsarte. DELS ARTE RECITATION BOOK. 71 < IMV* i^Ae^. Like him from great Nature proceeding All naked, in spite of thy poor, foolish pride; The tomb, toward which all life is leading,Will gather thy dust to his now despised side. The shade, that exquisite portion of art which is rather felt than expressed^is the characteristic sign of the perfectio7i of talent; it forms apart of thepersonality of the artist.—Arnaud. 72 DELS A R TE REGIT A TION BOOK. ABSOLUTION. E. Nesbit. Arranged by Elsie M. Wtlbor. nPHREE months had passed since she had knelt be-fore The grate of the confessional, and he,The priest, had wondered why she came no more To tell her sinless sins—the vanityWhose valid reason graced her simple dress, The prayers forgotten, or the untold beads— The little thoughtless words, the slight misdeeds,Which made the sum of her unrighteousness. She was the fairest maiden in his fold. With her sweet mouth and musical pure deep gray eyes, her hairs tempestuous gold, Her gracious,
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