Than I will wrong such honourable men!
But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar
I found it in his closet-'tis his will!
Let but the commons hear his testament.
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,
And they will go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory;
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle?
The first time ever Cæsar put it on:
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent
That day he overcame the Nervii !
Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through!
See what a rent the envious Casca made!
Through this-the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd!
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow'd it!.
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel!.
Judge, O ye gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This, this was the unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms,
Quite vanquish'd him. Then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up
Even at the base of Pompey's statue
Which all the while ran blood,-great Cæsar fell!
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down ;
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us!
Oh, now you weep, and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops!
Kind souls! what! weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded?-look you here!
Here is himself-marr'd, as you see, by traitors!
Good friends! sweet friends! let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny!
They that have done this deed are honourable !
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it: they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts!
I am no orator, as Brutus is,
But as you know me all, a plain, blunt man,
That loves his friend—and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood: I only speak right on!
I tell you that which you yourselves do know ;
Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb
mouths,
And bid them speak for me! But were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny!
140. THE FAME OF HORATIUS COCLES. [From LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME.]
THEY gave him of the corn land,
That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen
Could plough from morn till night:
And they made a molten image,
And set it up on high,
And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.
It stands in the Comitium,
Plain for all folk to see,
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one knee;
And underneath is written,
In letters all in gold,
How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.
And in the nights of winter,
When the cold north winds blow,
And the loud howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest's din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet within;
When the oldest cask is open'd,
And the largest lamp is lit;
When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
And the kid turns on the spit;
When young and old in circle
Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows;
When the goodman mends his armour,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom;
With weeping and with laughter,
Still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge,
In the brave days of old!
141. GOD THE ONLY COMFORTER.
THOU! who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe!
When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too!-
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom,
One Peace-branch from above?
Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!
HE lark has sung his carol in the sky;
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound;
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.
A few short years and then these sounds shall hail
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.
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