Those evening bells, those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!
Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone:
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
2. Orotund quality, with fulness and power, varying middle and low pitch, moderate and quick movement, median and radical stress mixed.
With storm-daring pinion and sun-gazing eye
The gray forest eagle is king of the sky.
From the crag-grasping fir-top where morn hangs its wreath,
He views the mad waters white writhing beneath.
A fitful red glaring, a rumbling jar,
Proclaim the storm-demon still raging afar:
The black cloud strides upward, the lightning more red,
And the roll of the thunder more deep and more dread;
A thick pall of darkness is cast o'er the air;
And on bounds the blast with a howl from its lair.
The lightning darts zig-zag and forked through the gloom;
And the bolt launches o'er with crash, rattle, and boom:
The gray forest eagle—where, where has he sped?
Does he shrink to his eyrie, or shiver with dread?
Does the glare blind his eye? Has the terrible blast
On the wing of the sky-king a fear-fetter cast?
No, no! the brave eagle, he thinks not of fright:
The wrath of the tempest but rouses delight.
To the flash of the lightning his eye casts a gleam;
To the shriek of the wild blast he echoes his scream;
And with front like a warrior that speeds to the fray,
And a clapping of pinions, he's up and away.
Away—oh! away—soars the fearless and free;
What recks he the skies' strife? its monarch is he!
The lightning darts round him, undaunted his sight;
The blast sweeps against him, unwavered his flight:
High upward, still upward, he wheels, till his form
Is lost in the black scowling gloom of the storm.
3. Pure to orotund quality, gentle to moderate force, moderate movement, middle pitch, radical and median stress mixed. This contains many words that can be pronounced with a quality or variation suggesting their meaning.
Rhetoric as taught in our seminaries and by elocutionists is one thing: genuine, heart-thrilling, soul-stirring eloquence is a very different thing. The one is like the rose in wax, without odor; the other like the rose on its native bush, perfuming the atmosphere with the rich odors distilled from the dew of heaven.
The one is the finely-finished statue of a Cicero or Demosthenes, more perfect in its lineaments than the original, pleasing the eye, and enrapturing the imagination: the other is the living man, animated by intellectual power, rousing the deepest feelings of every heart, and electrifying every soul as with vivid lightning. The one is a picture of the passions all on fire: the other is the real conflagration, pouring out a volume of words that burn like liquid flames bursting from the crater of a volcano.
The one attracts the admiring gaze and tickles the fancy of an audience: the other sounds an alarm that vibrates through the tingling ears to the soul, and drives back the rushing blood upon the aching heart. The one falls upon the multitude like April showers glittering in the sunbeams, animating, and bringing nature into mellow life: the other rouses the same mass to deeds of noble daring, and imparts to it the terrific force of an avalanche.