At church, in silks and satins new, But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver But now her wealth and finery fled, Her doctors found, when she was dead- Let us lament in sorrow sore; For Kent-street well may say, That, had she lived a twelvemonth more- 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. 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. Not far advanced was morning day, The train from out the castle drew, While in Tantallon's towers I staid, Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And "This to me," he said, Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near, Lord Angus, thou-hast-lied!" On the Earl's cheek, the flush of rage Fierce he broke forth; "And dar'st thou then The Douglas in his hall? And hop'st thou thence unscathed to go? Up drawbridge, grooms,-what, warder, ho! Lord Marmion turned,-well was his need,- Like arrow through the archway sprung; Not lighter does the swallow skim And when Lord Marmion reached his band 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: 93.-GOD KNOWETH. MARY A. BRIDGMAN. I know not what shall befall me, I see not a step before me, But the past is still in God's keeping, And what looks dark in the distance For perhaps the dreariest future The Lord may sweeten the waters Or, if Marah must be Marah, He will stand beside the brink. It may be He has waiting |