such were the Algerines, when, in solemn conclave after listening to a speech not unlike that of the Senator from South Carolina, they resolved to continue the slavery of white Christians, and to extend it to the countrymen of Washington! (Aye, sir, extend it! And in this same dreary catalogue, faithful history must record all who now, in an enlightened age, and in a land of boasted freedom, stand up, in perversion of the Constitution, and in denial of immortal truth, to fasten a new shackle upon their fellow-man. (If the Senator wishes to see fanatics, let him look round among his own associates-let him look at himself." elf.

THE following poem can not fail to kindle an undivided interest, when delivered with the oratorical skill which the subject commands, and which will be displayed by the orator, who is skilled in delivery. It seems, the hearer could be made to see sturdy soldiers, lying in groups along the trenches, humming some old love lay; while the tears, despite of pride, could be seen furrowing their smokebegrimed faces.

f

THE SONG OF THE CAMP.

A CRIMEAN INCIDENT.

"GIVE us a Song!" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay grim and threatening, under;

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said:

"We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,

Below the smoking cannon

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory;

Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong-
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak
Yet, as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While Crimean valleys learned

How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,
With scream of shot, and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars.

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory:
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Ah, soldiers! to your honored rest
Your truth and valor bearing;
The bravest are the tenderest-

The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

DESCRIPTIVE poetry, of all others, is the most naturally adapted to recitation. Still, there must be no little judgment exercised, in selecting pieces of this class, which are well adapted for oratorical representation. They must be of a character to admit a display of the different branches of action, as well as a scope for modulation. We consider a choice descriptive poem a drama, as it wereevery part of which one person is enabled to represent.

The following poetry of Mrs. Hemans, although something known as a recitation, will be found worthy of a place with later productions:

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire;
"I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train,
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!-Oh! break my father's chain.'

"Rise, rise! e'en now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day,
Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way."
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, With one that 'midst them stately rode, as leader in the land :

"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see.”

His dark eye flashed-his proud breast heaved-his cheeks' hue came and went

He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there dismounting

bent

A lowly knee to earth he bent; his father's hand he took
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirits shook?

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed:—but who could paint that gaze!

They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze:— They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood: For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then :
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown,
He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,
"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now-
My king is false! my hope betrayed! My father-oh! the worth,
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!

"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet!

I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met !Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then;-for thee my fields

were won;

And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!”

Then starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's

rein,

Amidst the pale and 'wildered looks of all the courtier train;
And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,
And sternly set them face to face- the king before the dead; —

--

"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?

Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-give answer, where are they?

-If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay;

"Into these glassy eyes put light-be still! keep down thine ireBid these white lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire:Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was

shed

Thou canst not!-and a king?-his dust be mountains on thy head!"

He loosed the steed-his slack hand fell upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad

place;

His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain-
His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain.

SPEECH OF THE IRISH PATRIOT, MEAGHER, WHEN ABOUT TO HEAR THE SENTENCE OF DEATH PRONOUNCED UPON HIM.

WE must pronounce this short speech, a specimen of true eloquence. It was the high impulse of Liberty, undismayed by even the sight of death, which called it forth; and under circumstances that would have shaken any heart, not devoted to the welfare of its country. It is well adapted for an oratorical exercise.

It is my intention to say a few words. I desire that the last act of a proceeding which has occupied so much of the public time, should be of short duration; nor have I the indelicate wish to close the dreary ceremony of state prosecution with a vain display of words. Did I fear that, hereafter, when I shall be no more, the country I have tried to serve would think ill of me, I might, indeed, avail myself of this solemn moment, to vindicate my sentiments and my conduct. But I have no such fear. The country will judge of these sentiments and that conduct in a light, I think, far different from that in which the jury by which I have been convicted have viewed them; and, perhaps, the sentence you, my lords, are about to pronounce, will be remembered only as the severe and solemn attestation of my rectitude and truth. Whatever may be the language in which that sentence will be spoken, I know that my fate will meet with sympathy, and that my memory will be honored. In speaking

thus, accuse me not, my lords, of indecorus. presumption. To the efforts I have made for what I conceived to be a just and noble cause, I ascribe no vain importantance; nor do I claim for them any high reward. But it so happens, and it will ever so happen, that they, who have tried to serve their country, no matter how weak their efforts may have been, are sure to receive the thanks and blesof its people. With the country, then, I leave my memory, my sentiments, and acts, proudly feeling that they require no vindication from me this day. A jury of my countrymen, it is true, have found me guilty of the crime for which I was indicted. For this, I entertain not the slightest feeling against them, influenced, as they must have been, by the charge of the Lord Chief Justice, they, perhaps, could have returned no other verdict. What of that charge? Any strong observations upon it, I sincerely feel, would ill befit the solemnity of this scene; but I would earnestly beseech of you, my lord-you who preside upon that bench-when the prejudices and the passions of this hour have passed away, to appeal to your own conscience and ask of it was your charge, as it ought to have been, impartial and indifferent, between the subject and the crown? My lords, you may deem this language unbecoming in me, and, perchance, it may seal my fate; but I am here to speak the truth, whatever it may cost. I am here to regret nothing that I have ever done to retract nothing that I have ever said. I am not here to crave, with lying lip, the life I consecrate to the liberty of my country. Far from it. Even here. here, where the thief, the libertine, the murderer, have left their footprints in the dust-here, in this spot, where the shadow of death surrounds me, and from which I see an early grave in an unanointed soil, open to receive

me

even here, encircled by these terrors, that hope which beckoned me to the perilous sea on which I have been wrecked, still consoles, animates, and enraptures me. No; I do not despair of my poor old country-her peace, her liberty, her glory. For that country, I can now do no more than bid her hope. To lift this island up to make her a benefactor of humanity, instead of what she is, the meanest beggar in the world - to restore to her her native powers, and her ancient constitution - this has been my ambition, and this ambition has been my crime. Judged by the law of England, I know this crime entails the penalty of death. But the history of Ireland explains my crime and justifies it. Judged by that history, I am no criminal-judged by that history, the treason of which I am convicted looses all its guilt, is sanctified as a duty will be enobled as a sacrifice. With these sentiments, my lords, I await the sentence of the Court. Having done what I feel to be my duty, having spoken now as I did on every occasion of my short life, what I felt to be the truth, I now bid farewell to the country of my birth, my passion and my death-that country whose misfortunes have invoked my sympathies-whose factions I sought to still-whose intellect I promoted to a lofty aim-whose freedom has been my fatal dream. I offer to that country, as as a pledge of the love I bear her, and the simplicity with which I thought, and spoke, and