THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS.

ANONYMOUS.

[The following stirring poem is highly dramatic. The reader should, as far as possible, realize the feelings of the shepherd-parent as he sees "the youngest of his babes" borne in the iron-claws of the vulture high in mid air towards his golgotha of a nest. Much force of att.i.tude and gesture is not only admissable, but called for, as the agonized father leans forward following the flight of the vulture.]

I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more.

And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear, A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear: The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous.

But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:--

"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells; But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

"One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in G.o.d, I ne'er may hear again.

"I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care, But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air.

"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye!

His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry!

And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave, That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!

"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free, At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed: Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.

"The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew, A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view: But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight; 'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.

"All search was vain, and years had pa.s.sed; that child was ne'er forgot, When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached, He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!

"I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away; I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred, The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head."

That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers pa.s.sing by, Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.

And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

FALSTAFF'S BOASTING

SHAKESPEARE.

This scene will give a good chance to practise _variety_ of expression, both in words and action. Falstaff throws himself into all the att.i.tudes, and elevates and depresses his voice, as if he was actually engaged in the combat he describes--preserving the utmost gravity of face, until he finds that the Prince has really detected him. Then the "fat rogue" bursts into a jolly, unctuous laugh, and carries off the honors, after all:

_P. Henry._ What's the matter?

_Fal._ What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this morning.

_P. Hen._ Where is it, Jack? where is it?

_Fal._ Where is it? taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us.

_P. Hen._ What, a hundred, man?

_Fal._ I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four, through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw _ecce signum_. I never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards!--Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of darkness.

_P. Hen._ Speak, sirs: how was it?

_Gads._ We four set upon some dozen,--

_Fal._ Sixteen at least, my lord.

_Gads._ And bound them.

_Peto._ No, no, they were not bound.

_Fal._ You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.

_Gads._ As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us.

_Fal._ And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.

_P. Hen._ What, fought ye with them all?

_Fal._ All! I know not what ye call, all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legged creature.

_Poins._ Pray G.o.d, you have not murdered some of them.

_Fal._ Nay, that's past praying for, for I have peppered two of them: two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal,--if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.

Thou knowest my old ward;--here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me.--

_P. Hen._ What, four? thou said'st but two, even now.

_Fal._ Four, Hal; I told thee four.

_Poins._ Ay, ay, he said four.

_Fal._ These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

_P. Hen._ Seven? why, there were but four, even now.

_Fal._ In buckram.

_Poins._ Ay, four in buckram suits.

_Fal._ Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

_P. Hen._ Pr'ythee, let him alone; we shall have more anon.

_Fal._ Dost thou hear me, Hal?