III. HAMLET ON SEEING THE SKULL OF YORICK.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him', Horatio'; a fellow of infinite jest', of most excellent fancy`. He hath borne me on his back' a thousand times'; and now', how abhorred my imagination is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed', I know not how oft'. Where be your gibes', now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment`, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one', now, to mock your own grinning"? quite chop-fallen'? Now get you to my lady's chamber', and tell her, let her paint an inch thick`, to this favor she must come'; make her laugh at that`.

IV. DESCRIPTION OF A BATTLE.

Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight`, while fiercer grew
Around, the battle yell.

The border slogan rent the sky',

A Home! a Gordon! was the cry';
Loud' were the clanging blows';

Advanced', forced back',-now low',-now high',

The pennon sunk'-and rose';

As bends the bark's mast in the gale',

When rent are rigging', shrouds', and sail',

It wavered 'mid the foes'.

The war, that for a space did fail',

Now trebly thundering swelled the gale`,
And Stanley! was the cry;

A light on Marmion's visage spread',
And fired his glazing eye:-

With dying hand', above his head',

He shook the fragment of his blade',

And shouted',—“ Victory`!

Charge, Chester', charge! On', Stanley', on!”-
Were the last words of Marmion.

V. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

For the inflections and emphasis in this selection, let the pupil be guided by his own judgment.

A chieftain to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle
This dark and stormy water?"

"Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight
"I'll go, my chief-I'm ready:

It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:

And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.”

By this, the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder grew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left the stormy land,
A stormy sea before her;

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed, amid the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed through storm and shade
His child he did discover;

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried, in grief, "Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter! O, my daughter!"

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild, went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

-Thomas Campbell.

1. It is told of Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, that, as he was seated one day in his private room, a written petition was brought to him with the request that it should be immediately read. The King had just re