Page images
PDF
EPUB

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew-

But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver
By twenty beaux, or more;
The king himself has followed her-
When she has walked before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all,

Her doctors found, when she was dead-
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore;

For Kent-street well may say,

That, had she lived a twelvemonth more-
She had not died to-day.

90.-BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CÆSAR.

SHAKSPEARE.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you inay the better judge. If there be any in this assembly-any dear friend of Cæsar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Cæsar was no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Cæsar less but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune; honor, for his valor; and death, for his ambition! Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.

None?

Then none have I offended. to Cæsar than you shall do to Brutus.

I have done no more

The question of his

death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth—as which of you shall not? With this I depart,-that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

91.—OUR DUTY TO THE REPUBLIC.
JOSEPH STORY.

The Old World has already revealed to us, in its unsealed books, the beginning and end of all its own marvelous struggles in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece,

"The land of scholars and the nurse of arms,"

where sister republics, in fair procession, chanted the praises of liberty and the gods,-where and what is she? For two thousand years the oppressor has ground her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery. The fragments of her columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruins. She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were united at Thermopylæ and Marathon, and the tide of her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of her own people. The man of Macedonia did not the work of destruction. It was already done, by her own corruptions, banishments and dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the rising and the setting sun,-where and what is she? The Eternal City yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in her decline, venerable in the majesty of religion, and calm as in the composure of death. The malaria has but traveled in the paths worn by her destroyers. More than eighteen centuries have mourned over the loss of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals before Cæsar had crossed the Rubicon; and Brutus did not restore her health by the deep probings of the Senate chamber. The Goths, and Vandals, and Huns, the swarms of the North, completed only what was already begun at home. Romans betrayed Rome. The legions were bought and sold; but the people offered the tribute-money.

We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last experiment of self-government by the people. We have begun it under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. We are in the vigor of youth. Our growth has never been checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been enfeebled by the vices or luxuries of the Old World. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning,-simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government and to self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us and any formidable foe. Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many products, and many means of independence. The government is mild. The press is free. Religion is free. Knowledge reaches, or may reach, every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented? What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary than for the people to preserve what they have themselves created? Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceans. fused itself into the life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France and the low lands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of Germany and the North; and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days. Can it be that America, under such circumstances, can betray herself? Can it be that she is to be added to the catalogue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is: They were, but they are not? Forbid it, my countrymen ! Forbid it, heaven!

It has in

92.-MARMION AND DOUGLAS.
WALTER SCOTT.

Not far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array,
To Surrey's camp to ride;
He had safe conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide.

The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:
"Though something I might 'plain," he said,
"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by the king's behest,

While in Tantallon's towers I staid,
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble Earl, receive my hand."
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:
"My manors, halls, and towers shall still
Be open at my sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation stone;
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall, in friendly grasp,
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire;

And "This to me," he said,
"And 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And first I tell thee, haughty peer,
He who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
And Douglas, more, I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,

Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
And if thou said'st that I'm not peer
To any Lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou-hast-lied!"

On the Earl's cheek, the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:

Fierce he broke forth; "And dar'st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

And hop'st thou thence unscathed to go?
No, by St. Bryde of Bothwell, no!

Up drawbridge, grooms,-what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."

Lord Marmion turned,-well was his need,-
And dashed the rowels in his steed,

Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, grazed his plume.
The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembles on the rise:

Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim;

And when Lord Marmion reached his band
He halts and turns with clinched hand,

And shout of loud defiance pours,

And shakes his gauntlet at the towers.

"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!" But soon he reined his fury's pace:

"A royal messenger he came,

Though most unworthy of the name:
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas' blood;
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him, too," he cried;
"Bold he can speak, and fairly ride;
I warrant him a warrior tried."
With this, his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle walls.

93.-GOD KNOWETH.

MARY A. BRIDGMAN.

I know not what shall befall me,
God hangs a mist o'er my eyes,
And so, each step in my onward path,
He makes new scenes to rise,
And every joy He sends me
Comes as a sweet surprise.

I see not a step before me,
As I tread on another year;

But the past is still in God's keeping,
The future His mercy will clear;

And what looks dark in the distance
May brighten as I draw near.

For perhaps the dreariest future
Has less bitter than I think;

The Lord may sweeten the waters
Before I stoop to drink;

Or, if Marah must be Marah,

He will stand beside the brink.

It may be He has waiting
For the coming of my feet
Some gift of such rare blessedness
Some joy so strangely sweet,
That my lips shall only tremble
With the thoughts I cannot speak.

« PreviousContinue »