High.

"The Hielanders! Oh! dinna ye hear

The slogan far awa?

The McGregor's? Oh! I ken it weel;
It's the grandest o' them a'!

"God bless the bonny Hielanders!

We're saved! we're saved!" she cried;

Med. O. And fell on her knees, and thanks to God
Flowed forth like a full flood-tide

A.

Along the battery-line her cry

Had fallen among the men,

And they started back; - they were there to die;
But was life so near them then?

They listened for life: the rattling fire
Far off, and the far-off roar

Low o. Were all; and the colonel shook his head,
And they turned to their guns once more.

High. But Jessie said, "The slogan's done;
But winna ye hear it noo?

The Campbells are comin'! It's nae a dream;
Our succors hae broken through!”

Low. We heard the roar and the rattle afar,
But the pipes we could not hear;

Med.

Low.

Med.

So the men plied their work of hopeless war,
And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it made its way,-
A shrilling, ceaseless sound:

It was no noise from the strife afar,
Or the sappers under ground.

High. It was the pipes of the Highlanders!
And now they played Auld Lang Syne;
It came to our men like the voice of God,
And they shouted along the line.

A.

And they wept, and shook one another's hands,
And the women sobbed in a crowd;

And every one knelt down where he stood
And we all thanked God aloud.

Med. O. That happy time, when we welcomed them,
Our men put Jessie first;

And the general gave her his hand, and cheers
Like a storm from the soldiers burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartans streamed,
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears
As the pipers played Auld Lang Syne.

89. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.-Alfred Tennyson Explosive O., medium pitch, poetic monotone.

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Charge," was the captain's cry;

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them,

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well;

Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd:

Plunged in the battery-smoke,
Right thro' the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reel'd from the sabre-stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honor the charge they made'
Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!

90. THE BUGLE SONG.-Alfred Tennyson.

Effusive P. and O., medium and high pitch.

The splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story;

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh, hark! Oh, hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!

Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

91. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.-Alexander Pope. Explosive O.

Vital spark of heavenly flame,

Quit, Oh, quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh, the pain, the bliss, of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper; angels say
Sister Spirit, come away;

What is this absorbs me quite,—
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, soul! can this be death?

(AO) The world recedes,—it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring.

Lend, lend your wings! I mount, I fly!

O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

92. THE BURIAL OF MOSES.-Mrs. C. F. Alexander. Idem, low pitch.

By Nebo's lonely mountain, on this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab, there lies a lonely grave;
But no man dug that sepulchre, and no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod, and laid the dead man there

That was the grandest funeral that ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the tramping, or saw the train go forth;
Noiselessly as the daylight comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek grows into the great sun,

Noiselessly as the spring-time her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills open their thousand leaves,—
So, without sound of music, or voice of them that wept,

Silently down from the mountain crown the great procession swept.

Lo! when the warrior dieth, his comrades in the war,

With arms reversed, and muffled drum, follow the funeral car.
They show the banners taken, they tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed, while peals the minute-gun.

Amid the noblest of the land men lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honored place with costly marble dressed.

In the great minster transept, where lights like glories fall,

And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings, along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior that ever buckled sword;

This the most gifted poet that ever breathed a word;

And never earth's philosopher traced, with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage, as he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor, the hill-side for his pall;

To lie in state while angels wait with stars for tapers tall;
And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, over his bier to wave;
And God's own hand, in that lonely land, to lay him in the grave?

Oh, lonely tomb in Moab's land, Oh, dark Beth-peor's hill,
Speak to these curious hearts of ours, and teach them to be still.
God hath his mysteries of Grace - ways that we cannot tell;
He hides them deep, like the secret sleep of him he loved so well.

226. Slow Movement: Descriptions of Natural Scenery. Natural and Effusive P. and O., passing often, especially in the latter portions of the extracts, into Expulsive 0.

Medium pitch.

93. THE SKY.-John Ruskin.

Not | long | agó | I was slowly || descénding || the carriage road || after you leave | Albano. It had been wild | weather when I left | Rõme, || and áll | acróss | the Campâgna || the clouds | were sweeping | in sulphurous | blúe, | with a clap of thunder | or two, | and breaking | gleams of