And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept: Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But yesterday the word of Cæsar might Have stood against the world: now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men. I will not do them wrong: I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, But here's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar- Let but the commons hear this testament, And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds, Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, Unto their issue. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent- Look! In this place ran Cassius' dagger through: 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 ! Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny! They that have done this deed are honorable! What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it! They are wise and honorable, And will, no doubt, with reasons 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 love my 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 Brutus Antony, there were an Antony In every wound of Cæsar, that should move T HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY. O be or not to be;-that is the question: To sleep! perchance to dream; -ay, there's the rub; Must give us pause. There's the respect For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. HERE was a sound of revelry by night; THERI And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it? No: 't was but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is -- it is the cannon's opening roar! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated. Who could guess If evermore should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! they come! they come!" And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years: And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving if aught inanimate e'er grieves Over the unreturning brave - alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow, In its next verdure; when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low! Last noon beheld them full of lusty life; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife; The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, |