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Speak, Admiral, what shall I

Why say, “Sail on! sail on! and on!""

say?"

“My men grow mutinous day by day;

My men grow ghastly wan and weak.” The stout mate thought of home; a spray

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. “What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?” “Why, you shall say at break of day,

• Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'”

6

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,

Until at last the blanched mate said : “Why, now not even God would know

Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget

their

way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say

He said: 6 Sail on! sail on! and on!”

They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate:

“This mad sea shows its teeth to-night. He curls his lip, he lies in wait,

With lifted teeth, as if to bite !
Brave Admiral, say but one good word:

What shall we do when hope is gone ?
The words leapt as a leaping sword:

“ Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck

A light! A light! A light! A light! It

grew, a starlit flag unfurled !

It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn. He gained a world ; he gave that world Its grandest lesson : "On and on!

Joaquin Miller: Columbue.

7.

3. Somber and reflective The lost days of my life until to-day,

What were they, could I see them on the street

Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears of wheat
Sown once for food but trodden into clay ?
Or golden coins squandered and still to pay?

Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet?

Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat
The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway?

I do not see them here; but after death

God knows I know the faces I shall see,
Each one a murdered self, with low last breath.

“I am thyself, vhat hast thou done to me?”
"And I -- and I - thyself," (lo! each one saith)
“ And thou thyself to all eternity!"

Rossetti: Lost Days.

8. It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain,

but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies, and the rain fell upon my head — and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.

And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was crimson in color. And mine

eyes
fell

upon a huge gray rock which stood by the shore of the river, and was lighted by the light of the moon. And the rock was gray, and ghastly, and tall — and the rock was gray. Upon its front were characters

engraven in the stone ; and I walked through the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them. And I was going back into the morass, when the moon shone with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock, and upon the characters, and the characters were DESOLATION.

And I looked upward, and there stood a man upon the summit of the rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the actions of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and was wrapped up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his figure were indistinct — but his features were the features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his

eye

wild with care; and, in the few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, and weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.

And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low, unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude ; — but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock.

Poe: Silence - A Fable.

9. Aumerle. Where is the duke my father with his power? King Richard. No matter where; of comfort no man

speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let's choose executors, and talk of wills ;
And yet not so,

for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death,
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings:
How some have been depos'd, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d,
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king

Keeps Death his court, and there the antic site,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing hiin a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear’d, and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life
Were brass impregnable; and humour'd thus
Conies at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and — farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty;
For you have but mistook me all this while :
I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends : subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king ?

Shakespeare: Richard II, III, ii.

10.

4. Genial and exultant Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; and called out, in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice :

“ Yo ho, there! Ebenezer ! Dick!”

Scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-'prentice.

“ Dick Wilkins, to be sure!” said Scrooge to the Ghost. “ Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick! Dear, dear!”

“Yo ho, my boys !” said Fezziwig. “No more work tonight. Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up," cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands, “ before a man can say

Jack Robinson !
You would n't believe how those two fellows went at it!
They charged into the street with the shutters

- one, two, three — had 'em up in their places — four, five, six – barred 'em and pinned 'em — seven, eight, nine — and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race horses.

“Hilli-ho!” cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk with wonderful agility. “ Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here!"

Clear away! There was nothing they would n't have cleared away, or could n't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast, substantial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin, the baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particular friend, the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once ; hands half round and back again the other way; lown the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them! When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, “Well done!” and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. But, scorning rest, upon his reappearance he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet, as

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