Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest, A shadow for the noontide hour, What plant we in the apple-tree? What plant we in the apple-tree? That fan the blue September sky; While children, wild with noisy glee, And when above this apple-tree The winter stars are quivering bright, Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the orange and the grape, As fair as they in tint and shape, The fruit of the apple-tree. The fruitage of this apple-tree 100 Each year shall give this apple-tree What shall the tasks of mercy be, "Who planted this old apple-tree?” Thus to some aged man will say ; And, gazing on its mossy stem, Born in the rude, but good old times; V I. THE DRUMMER'S BRIDE. Hollow-eyed and pale at the window of a jail, Through her soft disheveled hair, a maniac did stare, ₺ stare, stare! c To the tapping of a drum, of a drum ; To the pounding and the sounding of a drum ' d Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum' drum, drum, drum! a All the music of the sub-vocal M may be brought out in reading this selection. Begin alow in the narrative voice, with such action as will represent the jail to the audience on the right. b Slow and slightly aspirate. c Musical and measured. d Prolong the M The woman heaves a sigh, and a fire fills her eye. ΙΟΙ When she hears the distant drum, she cries f "Here they come! here they come !"' Then, clutching fast the grating, with eager, nervous waiting, See, she looks into the air, through her long and silky hair, For the echo of a drum, of a drum; For the cheering and the hearing of a drum! Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum! g And nearer, nearer, nearer, comes, more distinct and clearer, To the echo of a drum, of a drum; To the rapping, tapping, tapping of a drum ! Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum ! i Now she sees them, in the street, march along with dusty feet, 'Mid the clanging and the banging of a drum! Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum! So the pageant passes by, and the woman's flashing eye Hear!" she weeps and sobs as mild as a disappointed child Sobbing. He will never come, never come' Now nor ever, never, never, will he come With his drum, with his drum, with his drum! drum, drum, drum!" Still the drummer, up the street, beats his distant, dying beat, And she shouts, within her cell, m' Ha' they're marching down to hell, And the devils dance and wait at the open iron gate: Hark! it is the dying sound, as they march into the ground, To the sighing and the dying of the drum ! To the throbbing and the sobbing of the drum ! Of a drum. of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum !" sound in imitation of the drum, marching time. e Lower pitch slow movement, with feeling. f High pitch; personation, then narrative with gesture. Close the stanza as the first. prolonging the M element in the last line. g Repetitions require change of pitch. Increase on these words. h Shriek this personation: continue little lower pitch, but with animation; close this stanza more rapidly than the others; represent the soldiers marching past. i High pitch and animated. j Very high. k Low pitch; slow, with feeling. Close this line with tremor voice-and personation same-with much emotion. m Very loud, with action. n Low and slow, with vanishing sound, as if the drum sound was in the distance. 102 VII. THE BACHELOR'S CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks, Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends, Old armor, prints, pipes, china (all cracked,) Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; That praying-rug came from the Turcoman's camp; Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, 'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat, If chairs have but feelings in holding such charms, I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair. It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck and a smile on her face! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair. And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; Saint FANNY, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair- She comes from the past and revisits my room, What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, in the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle all the heavens, seem to twinkle Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells, golden bells, What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night how they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats |