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Sounds seemed dropping from the skies,
Stifled whispers, smothered sighs,
And the breath of vernal gales,
And the voice of nightingales:
But the nightingales were mute,
Envious, when an unseen lute
Shaped the music of its chords
Into passion's thrilling words.
'Smile, lady, smile!-I will not set
Upon my brow the coronet,
Till thou wilt gather roses white,
To wear around its gems of light.
Smile, lady, smile!-I will not see
Rivers and Hastings bend the knee,
Till those bewitching lips of thine
Will bid me rise in bliss from mine.
Smile, lady, smile!-for who would win
A loveless throne through guilt and sin?
Or who would reign o'er vale and hill,
If woman's heart were rebel still?'
One jerk, and there a lady lay,

A lady wondrous fair;

But the rose of her lip had faded away,

And her cheek was as white and cold as clay,
And torn was her raven hair.

'Ah, ha!' said the fisher, in merry guise,
'Her gallant was hooked before;'
And the abbot heaved some piteous sighs,
For oft he had blessed those deep-blue eyes,
The eyes of Mistress Shore!

III.

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box.

Many the cunning sportsman tried,

Many he flung with a frown aside;

A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest,
A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest,
Jewels of lustre, robes of price,
Tomes of heresy, loaded dice,

And golden cups of the brightest wine

That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine.
There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre,
As he came at last to a bishop's mitre!
From top to toe the abbot shook

As the fisherman armed his golden hook;
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream or wakened thought.
Look how the fearful felon gazes

On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises,
When the lips are cracked and the jaws are dry
With the thirst which only in death shall die;
Mark the mariner's frenzied frown,

As the swaling wherry settles down,
When peril has numbed the sense and will,
Though the hand and the foot may struggle
still:

Wilder far was the abbot's glance,

Deeper far was the abbot's trance:
Fixed as a monument, still as air,

He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer;
But he signed-he knew not why or how-
The sign of the cross on his clammy brow.

IV.

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he stalked away with his iron box.

'Oh, ho! Oh, ho!

The cock doth crow;

It is time for the fisher to rise and go.

Fair luck to the abbot, fair luck to the shrine,

He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line;

Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south, The abbot will carry my hook in his mouth.

The abbot had preached for many years,
With as clear articulation

As ever was heard in the House of Peers
Against emancipation.

His words had made battalions quake,
Had roused the zeal of martyrs;
Had kept the court an hour awake,
And the king himself three-quarters.
But ever from that hour, 'tis said,

He stammered and he stuttered,

As if an axe went through his head
With every word he uttered.

He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban,
He stuttered drunk or dry,

And none but he and the fisherman

Could tell the reason why!

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LESSON 25.

RIP VAN WINKLE.

A TALE OF THE IMAGINATION.

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Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill Mountains. At their foot the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape.

In this same village there lived, many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was blessed with a termagant wife, under whose discipline he acquired the virtues of patience and long-suffering. He was a great favourite among all the children of the village. He assisted at their sports, made

their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts.

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labour. It could not be for the want of assiduity or perseverance, for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and as heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never even refuse to assist a neighbour in the roughest toil. Indeed, Rip was ready to attend to everybody's business but his own. He was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled disposition, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. No wonder that his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Rip's sole domestic adherent and companion in idleness was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master. The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, would flee to the door with yelping precipitation.

VAN WINKLE AT THE INN.

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper

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