The Peerless Speaker: Being a Compilation of the Choicest Recitations ...

[This strong production is one of the best by that writer of pieces expressly for recitation-MR. EUGENE J. HALL, of Chicago. Many of his selections are to be found in this FAVORITE series, and they are justly popular. Marcel is here abridged, yet the whole story is preserved. Impersonate the characters.]

A LOVELY little cottage stood beside the River Loire, With fragrant flowers and creeping vines about the open door,

Where all day long, with laugh or song, sweet as a distant bell,

Sat merry little Antoinette, the daughter of Marcel. Bright as the brilliant drops of rain descending from the skies

Through glorious sunshine, seemed her dark and tender, trustful eyes;

Red as the rainbow's crimson curve her smiling, sweet lips seemed;

And like the light carnation's glow her fair complexion gleamed.

The father loved his charming child. She made his

labor light;

She met him at the cottage door when he came home a

night;

She was his angel and his love; she was his pride and

pet;

And dear to him as God above seemed little Antoinette. She found upon his honest breast a warm and welcome place;

She loved to nestle in his arms and kiss his swarthy face. (13)

No work or care was hard to bear; she helped him when she smiled.

She filled his life with faith and hope, she led him like a child.

The wife and mother, while she stood and watched them when they met,

Grew almost jealous of his love for little Antoinette.

It made her heart feel young again to see her by his chair,

With pretty fingers stroke his beard and comb his grizzled hair.

And often on the quiet nights, when stars shone bright and clear,

The boatmen on the river paused her joyous songs to

hear;

And noble lords and ladies fair would stop before the

door

To look at little Antoinette, the lily of the Loire.

She bloomed to beauteous womanhood with form mora full and strong;

Men marveled at her loveliness, the splendor of her song. The village youth went sighing by; their love they dared not tell

To queenly little Antoinette, the daughter of Marcel.

One day upon the river's bank a handsome youth was found,

With garments torn, with mangled form, with many a bleeding wound.

Some unknown hand had struck him down; men found him where he fell,

And bore him tenderly into the cottage of Marcel.
His look was noble, and his form was faultless to be

hold

As perfect as a statue cast within a sculptor's mold; Like Raffaelle's face his visage seemed; his hands were small and white.

Dame Marguerite beheld his wounds, and fainted at the sight.

They laid him on a snowy bed within a sunlit room; He seemed like one already dead and ready for the tomb,

Yet from his faintly-beating heart the warm blood went and came

The life within him wavered like a feebly-flickering flame But still he lived-he breathed-he moved to Mar

guerite's surprise.

One morn he raised his handsome head and looked with open eyes

At lovely little Antoinette, who bent ab ve him there. At first he thought himself in Heaven, and her an Angel fair.

She nursed him till the fever left his wan and wasted

form;

She watched him till her trembling heart grew strangely fond and warm

Warm with that first great faith and love no woman can

forget.

Alas for generous Marcel and guileless Antoinette !

More sweet to little Antoinette the stranger's presence

grew;

She did not know it could not last, nor dream he was

untrue.

He walked with her in every dream-through flowery vales they trod;

His strong love seemed to lift her up and lead her near to God.

The blue-eyed little Antoinette was but a woman weak; Her heart beat wildly in her breast, the blood rushed to her cheek,

A tremor ran through all her frame, she gazed into his

eyes,

And felt a thousand-fold repaid for every sacrifice, Sometimes her tender, trustful eyes with tears of doubt were dim,

And she, half frightened by her thoughts, would closer cling to him;

« Forrige Fortsæt »

Bøger