McGuffey's Fifth Eclectic Reader Part 20

7. The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. "Now,"

resumed the dial, "may I be allowed to inquire if that exertion is at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?" "Not in the least," replied the pendulum; "it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions."

8. "Very good," replied the dial; "but recollect that, although you may think of a million of strokes in an instant, you are required to execute but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in." "That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum. "Then I hope," resumed the dial plate, "that we shall all return to our duty immediately; for the maids will be in bed if we stand idling thus."

9. Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as if with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a red beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen, shining full upon the dial plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the matter.

10. When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the clock, he declared that his watch had gained half an hour in the night.

DEFINITIONS.--1. In'sti-tut-ed, commenced, began. Pro-test'ed, solemnly declared. 4. Cal'cu-lat-ing, reckoning, computing. 5. Pros'pect, antic.i.p.ation, that to which one looks forward. 6. Ha-rangue' (pro.

ha-rang'), speech. Il-lus'trate, to make clear, to exemplify. 7.

Ex-er'tion (pro. egz-er'shun), effort. 8. Ex'e-eute, to complete, to finish. Con-sid-er-a'tion, reason.

x.x.xIV. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

William Cullen Bryant (b. 1794, d. 1878) was born in c.u.mmington, Ma.s.s. He entered Williams College at the age of sixteen, but was honorably dismissed at the end of two years. At the age of twenty-one he was admitted to the bar, and practiced his profession successfully for nine years. In 1826 he removed to New York, and became connected with the "Evening Post"--a connection which continued to the time of his death. His residence for more than thirty of the last years of his life was at Roslyn, Long Island. He visited Europe several times; and in 1849 he continued his travels into Egypt and Syria, In all his poems, Mr. Bryant exhibits a remarkable love for, and a careful study of, nature. His language, both in prose and verse, is always chaste, correct, and elegant.

"Thanatopsis," perhaps the best known of all his poems, was written when he was but nineteen. His excellent translations of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" of Homer and some of his best poems, were written after he had pa.s.sed the age of seventy. He retained his powers and his activity till the close of his life.

1. The melancholy days are come, The saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, And meadows brown and sear.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove The autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, And to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, And from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood top calls the crow Through all the gloomy day.

2. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, That lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, A beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves; The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds With the fair and good of ours.

The rain is falling where they lie; But the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth The lovely ones again.

3. The windflower and the violet, They perished long ago, And the brier rose and the orchis died Amid the summer's glow; But on the hill, the golden-rod, And the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, In autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, As falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone From upland, glade, and glen,

4. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, As still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee From out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, Though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light The waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers Whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood And by the stream no more.

5. And then I think of one, who in Her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up And faded by my side.

In the cold, moist earth we laid her, When the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely Should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, Like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, Should perish with the flowers.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Wail'ing, lamenting, mourning. Sear, dry, withered. 3.

Glade, an open place in the forest. Glen, a valley, a dale. 4. Un-meet', improper, unfitting.

x.x.xV. THE THUNDERSTORM.

Washington Irving (b. 1783, d. 1859). This distinguished author, whose works have enriched American literature, was born in the city of New York.

He had an ordinary school education, and began his literary career at the age of nineteen, by writing for a paper published by his brother. His first book, "Salmagundi," was published in 1807. Two years later he published "Knickerbocker's History of New York." In 1815 he sailed for Europe, and remained abroad seventeen years, during which time he wrote several of his works. From 1842 to 1846 he was minister to Spain. The last years of his life were pa.s.sed at "Sunnyside," near Tarrytown, N.Y. He was never married. "The Life of Washington," his last work, was completed in the same year in which he died. Mr. Irving's works are characterized by humor, chaste sentiment, and elegance and correctness of expression. The following selection is from "Dolph" in "Bracehridge Hall."

1. In the second day of the voyage, they came to the Highlands. It was the latter part of a calm, sultry day, that they floated gently with the tide between these stern mountains. There was that perfect quiet which prevails over nature in the languor of summer heat. The turning of a plank, or the accidental falling of an oar, on deck, was echoed from the mountain side and reverberated along the sh.o.r.es; and, if by chance the captain gave a shout of command, there were airy tongues that mocked it from every cliff.

2. Dolph gazed about him, in mute delight and wonder, at these scenes of nature's magnificence. To the left, the Dunderberg reared its woody precipices, height over height, forest over forest, away into the deep summer sky. To the right, strutted forth the bold promontory of Antony's Nose, with a solitary eagle wheeling about it; while beyond, mountain succeeded to mountain, until they seemed to lock their arms together and confine this mighty rive in their embraces.

3. In the midst of this admiration, Dolph remarked a pile of bright, snowy clouds peering above the western heights. It was succeeded by another, and another, each seemingly pushing onward its predecessor, and towering, with dazzling brilliancy, in the deep blue atmosphere; and now muttering peals of thunder were faintly heard rolling behind the mountains. The river, hitherto still and gla.s.sy, reflecting pictures of the sky and land, now showed a dark ripple at a distance, as the wind came creeping up it. The fishhawks wheeled and screamed, and sought their nests on the high, dry trees; the crows flew clamorously to the crevices of the rocks; and all nature seemed conscious of the approaching thunder gust.

4. The clouds now rolled in volumes over the mountain tops; their summits still bright and snowy, but the lower parts of an inky blackness. The rain began to patter down in broad and scattered drops; the wind freshened, and curled up the waves; at length, it seemed as if the bellying clouds were torn open by the mountain tops, and complete torrents of rain came rattling down. The lightning leaped from cloud to cloud, and streamed quivering against the rocks, splitting and rending the stoutest forest trees. The thunder burst in tremendous explosions; the peals were echoed from mountain to mountain; they crashed upon Dunderberg, and then rolled up the long defile of the Highlands, each headland making a new echo, until old Bull Hill seemed to bellow back the storm.

5. For a time the scudding rack and mist and the sheeted rain almost hid the landscape from the sight. There was a fearful gloom, illumined still more fearfully by the streams of lightning which glittered among the raindrops. Never had Dolph beheld such an absolute warring of the elements; it seemed as if the storm was tearing and rending its way through the mountain defile, and had brought all the artillery of heaven into action.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Lan'guor (pro. lang'gwer), exhaustion of strength, dullness. 3. Re-marked', noticed, observed. Pred-e-ces'-sor, the one going immediately before. Clam'or-ous-ly, with a loud noise. 4. Bel'ly-ing, swelling out. De-file', a long, narrow pa.s.s. 5. Rack, thin, flying, broken clouds. El'e-ments, a term usually including fire, water, earth, and air.

NOTES.--1. The Highlands are a mountainous region in New York, bordering the Hudson River above Peekskill.

2. The Dunderberg and Antony's Nose are names of two peaks of the Highlands.

4. Bull Hill, also called Mt. Taurus, is 15 miles farther north.

x.x.xVI. APRIL DAY.

Caroline Anne Southey (b. 1786, d.1854), the second wife of Southey the poet, and better known as Caroline Bowles, was born near Lymington, Hampshire, England. Her first work, "Ellen Fitzarthur," a poem, was published in 1820; and for more than twenty years her writings were published anonymously. In 1839 she was married to Mr. Southey, and survived him over ten years. Her poetry is graceful in expression, and full of tenderness, though somewhat melancholy. The following extract first appeared in 1822 in a collection ent.i.tled, "The Widow's Tale, and other Poems."

1. All day the low-hung clouds have dropped Their garnered fullness down; All day that soft, gray mist hath wrapped Hill, valley, grove, and town.

2. There has not been a sound to-day To break the calm of nature; Nor motion, I might almost say, Of life or living creature;

3. Of waving bough, or warbling bird, Or cattle faintly lowing; I could have half believed I heard The leaves and blossoms growing.

4. I stood to hear--I love it well-- The rain's continuous sound; Small drops, but thick and fast they fell, Down straight into the ground.

5. For leafy thickness is not yet Earth's naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set With shoots of tender green.

6. Sure, since I looked, at early morn, Those honeysuckle buds Have swelled to double growth; that thorn Hath put forth larger studs.

7. That lilac's cleaving cones have burst, The milk-white flowers revealing; Even now upon my senses first Methinks their sweets are stealing.

8. The very earth, the steamy air, Is all with fragrance rife!

And grace and beauty everywhere Are flushing into life.

9. Down, down they come, those fruitful stores, Those earth-rejoicing drops!

A momentary deluge pours, Then thins, decreases, stops.

10. And ere the dimples on the stream Have circled out of sight, Lo! from the west a parting gleam Breaks forth of amber light.

11. But yet behold--abrupt and loud, Comes down the glittering rain; The farewell of a pa.s.sing cloud, The fringes of its train.