To listen to all that my lover said;

Oh, the whispering wind around us!

I am sure he knew when he held me fast,
That I must be all unwilling,

For I tried to go, and I would have passed,
As the night was come with its dew, at last,
And the sky with its stars was filling.

But he clasped me close when I would have fled,
And he made me hear his story,

And his soul came out from his lips and said-
How the stars crept out when the white moon led,
To listen to all that my lover said,

Oh, the moon and the stars in glory!

I know that the grass and the leaves will not tell; And I'm sure that the wind, precious rover, Will carry my secret so safely and well

That no being shall ever discover One word of the many that rapidly fell

From the eager lips of my lover;

And the moon and the stars that looked over

Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell

They wove round about us that night in the dell,
In the path through the dew-laden clover;
Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell,
As they fell from the lips of my lover.

HOMER GREENE.

ALONE.

I miss you, my darling, my darling,
The embers burn low on the hearth;
And still is the stir of the household,

And hushed is the voice of its mirth;

The rain plashes fast on the terrace,
The winds past the lattices moan;
The midnight chimes out from the minster,
And I am alone.

I want you, my darling, my darling;
I am tired with care and with fret;
I would nestle in silence beside you,
And all but your presence forget,
In the hush of the happiness given,
To those who through trusting have grown
To the fullness of love in contentment,
But I am alone.

I call you, my darling, my darling;
My voice echoes back on my heart;
I stretch my arms to you in longing,
And lo! they fall empty, apart.

I whisper the sweet words you taught me,
The words that we only have known,
Till the blank of the dumb air is bitter,
For I am alone.

I need you, my darling, my darling;
With its yearning my very heart aches;
The load that divides us weighs harder;
I shrink from the jar that it makeɛ.
Old sorrows rise up to beset me;
Old doubts make my spirit their own.

Oh, come through the darkness and save me,

For I am alone.

ROBERT J. BURDETTE.

SIXTEENTH STEP IN RENDERING.

MONOLOGUE.

Monologue is a Dramatic composition for a single performer. A Monologue is a play where only one character appears. The speech and action may imply or suggest other actors.

The speech and action should be governed by the principles of Dramatic Art. The Monologue may be given with scenery and costume, or without: the speaker may suggest both; he may use descriptive language.

QUEEN VASHTI'S LAMENT.

Is this all the love that he bore me, my husband, to publish my face

To the nobles of Media and Persia, whose hearts are besotted and base?

Did he think me a slave, me, Vashti, the Beautiful, me, Queen of queens,

To summon me thus for a show to the midst of his baccha

nal scenes?

I stand like an image of brass, I, Vashti, in the sight of such men!

No, sooner, a thousand times sooner, the mouth of the lioness' den.

Did he love me, or is he, too, though the King, but a brute like the rest!

But ever before,

and grace;

toward me he showed honor

He was King, I was Queen, and those nobles, he made them remember their place,

But now all is changed; I am vile, they are honored, they push me aside,

A butt for Memucan and Shethar and Meres, gone mad in their pride!

Shall I faint, shall 1 pine, shall I sicken and die for the loss of his love?

Not I; Iam queen of myself, though the stars fall from heaven above.

The stars! ha! the torment is there, for my light is put out

by a star,

That has dazzled the eyes of the King and his court and his captains of war.

He was lonely, they say, and he looked like a ghost, as he sat at his wine,

On the couch, where, of yore, by his side, his Beautiful used to recline;

But the King is a slave to his pride; to his oath and the laws of the Medes,

And he cannot call Vashti again, though his poor heart is wounded and bleeds.

So they sought through the land for a wife, while the King thought of me all the while

I can see him, this moment, with eyes that are lost for the loss of a smile,

Gazing dreamily on while each maiden is temptingly passed in review,

While the love in his heart is awake with the thought of a face that he knew!

Then she came, when his heart was grown weary with loving the dream of the past!

She is fair- I could curse her for that, if I thought that this passion would last!

But, e'en if it last, all the love is for me, and, through good and through ill,

The King will remember his Vashti, will think of his Beautiful still.

What is it? Oft as I lie awake and my pillow is wet with

tears

There comes- it came to me just now- a flash, then dis

appears;

A flash of thought that makes this life a re-enacted scene, That makes me dream what was will be, and what is now, has been.

And I, when age on age has rolled, shall sit on the royal throne,

And the King shall love his Vashti, his Beautiful, his own,
And for the joy of what has been and what again will be,
I'll try to bear this awful weight of lonely misery!
The star! Queen Esther! blazing light that burns into my

soul!

The star! the star! Oh! flickering light of life beyond

control!

O King! remember Vashti, thy Beautiful, thy own,

Who loved thee and will love thee still, when Esther's light

Said

you found it somewhere ( scold me! ) Was it prose or was it rhyme,