Successful Recitations Part 1

Successful Recitations.

by Various.

PREFACE.

Many things go to the making of a successful recitation.

A clear aim and a simple style are among the first of these: the subtleties which make the charm of much of the best poetry are lost in all but the best platform work. The picturesque and the dramatic are also essential elements; pictures are the pleasures of the eyes, whether physical or mental, and incident is the very soul of interest.

The easiest, and therefore often the most successful, recitations are those which recite themselves; that is, recitations so charged with the picturesque or the dramatic elements that they command attention and excite interest in spite of poor elocution and even bad delivery.

The trouble with these is that they are usually soon recognized, and once recognized are soon done to death. There are pieces, too, which, depending upon the charm of novelty, are popular or successful for a time only, but there are also others which, vitalised by more enduring qualities, are things of beauty and a "joy for ever."

But after all it is not the Editor who determines what are and what are not successful recitations. It is time, the Editor of Editors, and the public, our worthy and approved good masters. It is the public that has made the selection which makes up the bulk of this volume, though the Editor has added a large number of new and less known pieces which he confidently offers for public approval. The majority of the pieces in the following pages _are_ successful recitations, the remainder can surely be made so.

A.H.M.

THE ROYAL RECITER.

PREFATORY.

True Patriotism is the outcome of National home-feeling and self-respect.

Home-feeling is born of the loving a.s.sociations and happy memories which belong to individual and National experience; self-respect is the result of a wise and modest contemplation of personal or National virtues.

The man who does not respect himself is not likely to command the respect of others. And the Nation which takes no pride in its history is not likely to make a history of which it can be proud.

But self-respect involves self-restraint, and no man who wishes to retain his own respect and to merit the respect of others would think of advertising his own virtues or bragging of his own deeds. Nor would any Nation wis.h.i.+ng to stand well in its own eyes and in the eyes of the world boast of its own conquests over weaker foes or shout itself hoa.r.s.e in the exuberance of vainglory.

Patriotism is not to be measured by ostentation any more than truth is to be estimated by volubility.

The history of England is full of incidents in which her children may well take an honest pride, and no one need be debarred from taking a pride in them because there are other incidents which fill them with a sense of shame. As a rule it will be found that the sources of pride belong to the people themselves, and that the sources of shame belong to their rulers. It would be difficult to find words strong enough to condemn the campaign of robbery and murder conducted by the Black Prince against the peaceful inhabitants of Southern France in 1356, but it would be still more difficult to do justice to the magnificent pluck and grit which enabled 8,000 Englishmen at Poitiers to put to flight no less than 60,000 of the chosen chivalry of France. The wire-pullers of state-craft have often worked with ign.o.ble aims, but those who suffer in the working out of political schemes often sanctify the service by their self-sacrifice. There is always Glory at the cannon's mouth.

In these days when the word Patriot is used both as a party badge and as a term of reproach, and when those who measure their patriotism by the standards of good feeling and self-respect are denied the right to the use of the term though they have an equal love for their country and take an equal pride in their country's honourable achievements, it seems necessary to define the word before one applies it to oneself or puts one's name to what may be called patriotic verse.

It is a bad day for any country when false standards of patriotism prevail, and at such times it is clearly the duty of intelligent patriotism to uphold true ones.

ALFRED H. MILES.

_October_, 1901.

JOHN BULL AND HIS ISLAND.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

There's a doughty little Island in the ocean,-- The dainty little darling of the free; That pulses with the patriots' emotion, And the palpitating music of the sea: She is first in her loyalty to duty; She is first in the annals of the brave; She is first in her chivalry and beauty, And first in the succour of the slave!

Then here's to the pride of the ocean!

Here's to the pearl of the sea!

Here's to the land of the heart and the hand That fight for the right of the free!

Here's to the spirit of duty, Bearing her banners along-- Peacefully furled in the van of the world Or waving and braving the wrong.

There's an open-hearted fellow in the Island, Who loves the little Island to the full; Who cultivates the lowland and the highland With a lover's loving care--John Bull His look is the welcome of a neighbour; His hand is the offer of a friend; His word is the liberty of labour; His blow the beginning of the end.

Then here's to the Lord of the Island; Highland and lowland and lea; And here's to the team--be it horse, be it steam-- He drives from the sea to the sea, Here's to his nod for the stranger; Here's to his grip for a friend; And here's to the hand, on the sea, or the land, Ever ready the right to defend.

There's a troop of trusty children from the Island Who've planted Englands up and down the sea; Who cultivate the lowland and the highland And fly the gallant colours of the free: Their hearts are as loyal as their mother's; Their hands are as ready as their sire's Their bond is a union of brothers,-- Who fear not a holocaust of fires!

Then here's to the Sons of the nation Flying the flag of the free; Holding the farm and the station, Keeping the Gates of the Sea; Handed and banded together, In Arts, and in Arms, and in Song, Father and son, united as one, Bearing her Banners along, Peacefully furled in the van of the world, Or waving and braving the wrong!

THE RED ROSE OF WAR.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

G.o.d hath gone forth in solemn might to shake The peoples of the earth, Through the long shadow and the fires that make New altar and new hearth!

And with the besom of red war He sweeps The sin and woe away, To purge with fountains from His ancient deeps The dust of old decay.

O not in anger but in Love He speaks From tempest round Him drawn, Unveiling thus the fair white mountain peaks Which tremble into dawn.

Not otherwise would Truth be all our own Unless by flood and flame, When the last word of Destiny is known-- G.o.d's fresh revealed Name.

For thence do windows burst in Heaven and light Breaks on our darkened lands, And sovereign Mercy may fulfil through night The Justice it demands.

Ah, not in evil but for endless good He bids the sluices run And death, to mould His blessed Brotherhood Which had not else begun.

For if the great Arch-builder comes to frame Yet broader empires, then He lays the stones in blood and splendid shame With glorious lives of men.

He takes our richest and requires the whole Nor is content with less, He cannot rear by a divided dole The walls of Righteousness.

And so He forms His grand foundations deep Not on our golden toys, But in the twilight where the mourners weep Of broken hearts and joys.

And He will only have the best or nought, A full and willing price, When the tall towers eternal are upwrought With tears and sacrifice.

Our sighs and prayers, the loveliness of loss, The pa.s.sion and the pain And sharpest nails of every n.o.ble cross, Were never borne in vain.

That fragrant faith the incense of His courts, Whereon this dim world thrives And hardly gains at length His peaceful ports, Is wrung from bruised lives.

Lo, when grim battle rages and is shed A dreadful crimson dew, G.o.d is at work and of the gallant dead He maketh man anew.

The hero courage, the endurance stout, The self-renouncing will, The shock of onset and the thunder shout That triumph over ill-- All wreak His purpose though at bitter cost And fas.h.i.+on forth His plan, While not a single sob or ache is lost Which in His Breath began.

Each act august, which bravely in despite Of suffering dared to be, Is one with the grand order infinite Which sets the kingdoms free.

The pleading wound, the piteous eye that opes Again to nought but pangs, Are jewels and sweet pledges of those hopes On which His empire hangs.

But if we travail in the furnace hot And feel its blasting ire, He learns with us the anguish of our lot And walketh in the fire.

He wills no waste, no burden is too much In the most bitter strife; Beneath the direst buffet is His touch, Who holds the pruning knife.

We are redeemed through sorrow, and the thorn That pierces is His kiss, As through the grave of grief we are re-born And out of the abyss.

The blood of nations is the precious seed Wherewith He plants our gates And from the victory of the virile deed Spring churches and new states.