Page 283 - The model orator, or, Young folks' speaker : containing the choicest recitations and readings from the best authors for schools, public entertainments, social gatherings, Sunday schools, etc. : including recitals in prose and verse ...
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them  that the  print  upon  the  stairs  at  school  is  not  divine  enough.
                       The  light  about the  head  is  shining  oil  me  as  I  go i ”
                         The golden  ripple  on  tile  wall  came  hack  again,  and  nothing  else
                       stirred  in  the  room.   The old,  old  fashion J   The  fashion  that came in
                       with  our  first  garments,  and  will  last  unchanged  until  oi;r race has run
                       its  course,  and  the  wide firmament  is  rolled  up  like a  scroll.   The old,
                       old fashion— Death  !
                         O,  thank  God,  all  who  see  it,  for that  older  fashion  yet,  of  immor­
                       tality !   And  look  upon  us,  angels  of young  children,  with regards not
                       quite  estranged,  when  the  swift  river bears  us to the  ocean !— 'Ch a r les
                       Dic k en s.

                                                DEATH  OP  HOPE.

                            D    O  you  know  what  it  is  when  the  clouds  creep  onwards,
                                   And  shadow  your  world you  know  not  why ;
                                   When  tears  seem  falling  amid  all  laughter,
                                   And  each  sound in  the  air seems  a  wailing  sigh,— <

                            When you  wake  at  morn  still  tired,  and  shudder
                              From  every hour  that  hurries  past,
                            And  pray without  cause  to  sleep  for  ever,
                              And  long for  each  night to  be the  last,—


                            When  you  know  that  the  world  has  naught  to  give  you,
                              Having plucked  the flowers  that fell  so  soon,
                            That hardly  lived  through  the  brief bright  morning,
                              And  you  feel  the breath  of the  coming  noon ?


                            Do  you  know  what  it  is,  when  your  heart  is  beating
                               Like  a  prisoner starved in  his  lonely  cell,
                            And  you  long to  Hoc  from  yourself so  weary,
                              A nd  the beaten  track  which  you  know  so  well ?


                            For you  see  that  your sun  is  surely  setting,
                               And  leaving your life for  evermore;
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