which man is actually found from this ideal perfection. The ode breathes forth the inspiration of one who contemplates the excellence of his race, and it is exhibited in the ideal standards of virtue, or in the exploits of particular worthies. When the poet is inspired with the thought of the approximations which are made towards the character of perfect rectitude and worth, or of the sad deviations from that character, or of the conflict between virtue and the outward world, or of the triumph of the one over the other, he pours forth his feelings, sometimes in the form of the tale, sometimes in that of the drama now in the heroic, and again in the tragic verse. But he is always satisfied with the bare presentation of an ideal. He suggests no methods, and urges no motives for the attainment of this perfect excellence.

Eloquence does

In this respect he differs from the orator. not linger so long as poetry in the imaginative description of the faultless state. It presents a more exact analysis of the good desired, gives a more definite view of the necessity for struggling to reach it, and of the means and motives for overcoming the hinderances to its attainment. The poet simply aims at a vivid portraiture of ideal perfection; the orator strives to connect with this portraiture a realization of the imagined excellence. And eloquence is and does all that it can and should be and do, when it urges man onward in his endeavors to realize the perfectness of his being, to attain a complete harmony with himself and with the world out of himself. It must aim, therefore, at a complete illumination of the mind, at a purifying of the affections, at a proper stimulus of the will.

He is not truly eloquent who endeavors to persuade men by any motives, or to any deeds, which interfere, in any manner, with their intellectual or moral perfection. If the speeches, which are designed to cajole or delude men, contain some elements of genuine eloquence, they are still destitute of the higher elements- of the appropriate aim and spirit which impart an ennobling character to every sentence

that is uttered. Unless the orator have a lofty ideal of virtue always prominent before his mind, his eloquence must be misapplied, abused, imperfect, impure, and therefore not entitled to the name which is given to it by inconsiderate

men.

LESSON LXXXIII.

INFLECTIONS OF THE VOICE.

RULE II. Sentences beginning with an interrogative pronoun or adverb, or questions which cannot be answered by “yes” or “no,” generally close with the falling inflection.

EXAMPLES.

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy lìght?

Extract from "Paradise and the Peri."

MOORE.

Now, upon Syria's land of roses,
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon,

Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one, who looked from upper air
O'er all th' enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sunlight falls;
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls

Of ruined shrines, busy and bright
As they were all alive with light;
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons settling on the rocks,

With their rich, restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam

Of the warm west, as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span
Th' unclouded skies of Peristan !

And then, the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherds' ancient reed, with hum
Of the wild bees of Palestine,

Banqueting through the flowery vales; And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods so full of nightingales!

**

But nought can charm the luckless Peri;
Her soul is sad, her wings are weary!
Joyless she sees the Sun look down
On that great temple, once his own,*
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high
Like dials, which the wizard Time
Had raised to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie concealed,
Beneath those chambers of the sun,
Some amulet of gems, annealed
In upper fires, some tablet sealed

With the great name of Solomon, Which, spelled by her illumined eyes, May teach her where, beneath the moon, In earth or ocean, lies the boon,

The Temple of the Sun at Balbec.

The charm, that can restore, so soon,
An erring spirit to the skies!

Cheered by this hope, she bends her thither;
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of even,
In the rich west, begun to wither;
When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they ;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel flies,
That fluttered round the jasmine stems,
Like wingéd flowers or flying gems;
And near the boy, who, tired with play,
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and, on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount,
Impatient, fling him down to drink.

Then swift his haggard brow he turned
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath daybeam burned
Upon a brow more fierce than that,-
Sullenly fierce a mixture dire,

Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire!
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruined maid, the shrine profaned,
Oaths broken, and the threshold stained
With blood of guests! there written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing angel's pen,
Ere mercy weeps them out again!

Yet tranquil now that man of crime-
As if the balmy evening time
Softened his spirit-looked and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play;
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,

As torches, that have burned all night,
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But hark! the vesper-call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping th' eternal name of God

From Purity's own cherub mouth;
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again!
O, 'twas a sight, that heaven -
A scene, which might have well beguiled
Even haughty Eblis of a sigh

that child,

For glories lost, and peace gone by.

And how felt he the wretched man
Reclining there—while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,