bring the author? 4. Here the poet uses five eight-line stanzas to teach a lesson. 5. Study the poem to see how the poet develops the thoughts and brings out the feeling. 6. Where do you find the dominant thought expressed? The minor thoughts? 7. What passages are particularly emotional? 8. How is this indicated?

DECORATION DAY

We pray for the fond ones whose life-blood
On liberty's altar was shed;

And deck with green garlands and flowers
The graves of the patriot dead;

Who stood by the Union's proud banner,
With sabre and rifle in rest,

When her cause looked as gloomy and cheerless
As storm clouds blocked in the West;

Who marched thro' the red field of battle,
And breasted the brunt of the fight,
When the guns of Rebellion outrattled
Death-hail against Justice and right.

Weave, weave your gay garlands, young maidens, And make no distinction to-day,

"Twixt those who went down in the blue ranks

And those who fell under the gray.

REV. D. O. CROWLEY.

LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN

Ludwig van Beethoven, the Shakespeare of music, and the greatest composer of the nineteenth century, was born at Bonn on the Rhine, December 17, 1770. His father was a musician; and little Beethoven was compelled to learn music as though it were a task. He had an aversion to it because his friends sought to force it upon him. His father had sometimes to beat him before he would sit down to the piano. Yet when left to pursue it as a recreation he became absorbed in the art; and he began to compose music at an early age.

Almost at the beginning of what promised to be a most brilliant career, he became deaf. What greater misfortune could fall to the lot of a musician? Milton, the poet, could not see the beautiful scenes of nature, and Beethoven could but imperfectly hear the sweet strains with which he charmed the ears of the world. He sometimes could not hear the thunders of applause with which his own compositions were greeted.

He soon became as inwardly deaf to society as outwardly to the world of melodious sounds. He shunned rank, wealth, and pleasure. In his aloofness he seemed proud and cold; but instead, he carried within him a heart that hungered for affection.

When he found he must bid farewell to his hearing, he gave expression to these sad words: "As autumn leaves fall and wither, so are my hopes blighted. Almost as I came, I depart. How long have I been estranged from the echo of true joy! When, O, my God, when shall I feel it again in the temple of nature and man? Never!"

A very beautiful story is told in Vienna of Beethoven's early life. A friend has given us a touching version of it, in the form of a story, and we quote at some length from his manuscripts.

Some years ago I spent a few days in Bonn, the birthplace of Beethoven, and during my sojourn I made the acquaintance of an old musician, who once intimately knew the great composer.

"You know," said he, one day, "that Beethoven was born in a house on Rhine Street, but at the time I became acquainted with him, he lodged over a humble little shop. He was then very poor, so poor that he only went out to walk at night, because of the dilapidated state of his clothing. Nevertheless, he had a piano, pens, paper, ink, and books; and notwithstanding his privations, he spent some happy moments there. He was not yet deaf, and could enjoy the harmony of his own compositions.

"One evening I chanced to call, hoping to persuade him to take a walk, and return with me to supper.

I found him sitting at the window, by the moonlight, without fire or candle, his face concealed by his hands, and his whole frame shivering with cold. He came out with me, but was dark and despairing, and refused all consolation.

"I hate the world,' he said, with passion. 'No one understands me, or cares about me; I have genius, and am treated like a pariah. I have a heart, and no one to love. I am miserable!'

"I made no reply. It was useless to dispute with Beethoven. He did not cease complaining till we reëntered the city, and then he relapsed into a sad silence. We crossed a dark, narrow street near the gate of Coblentz. All at once he stopped.

"Hush!' said he; 'what is that?'

"Listening, I heard the faint tones of an old piano issuing from some house a little distance beyond. It was a plaintive melody in triple time, and the performer gave great tenderness of expression. Beethoven looked at me with sparkling eyes. 'It is taken from my Symphony in F,' he said; 'here is the house. Listen how well it is played!'

"The house was small and humble, and a light glimmered through the chinks of the shutters. He paused to listen. In the middle of the finale there was a sudden interruption, silence for a moment, then a stifled voice was heard.