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SHAKESPEARE.

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You all do know this mantle: I remember To every Roman citizen he gives,
The first time ever Cæsar put it on ;

To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. 'T was on a summer's evening, in his tent;

2 Cir. Most noble Caesar! we'll revenge his That day he overcame the Nervii :

death. Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through : 3 Cir. O royal Cæsar ! See what a rent the envious Casca made :

Ant. Hear me with patience. Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed; CITIZENS. Peace, ho ! And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, Ant. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved

On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;

And to your heirs forever, - common pleasures, For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel: To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another? him !

i Cit. Never, never ! — Come away, away! This was the most unkindest cut of all ; We'll burn his body in the holy place, For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,

And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Take up the body. Quite vanquished him : then burst his mighty

heart;
And, in his mantle muflling up his face,

BEATRICE CENCI.
Even at the base of Pompey's statua,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
0, what a fall was there, my countrymen !

FROM

THE CENCI."

BEATRICE.

0, Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, My God! can it be possible I have Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. To die so suddenly ? So young to go O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground ! The dint of pity : these are gracious drops.

To be nailed down into a narrow place ; Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold | To see no more sweet sunshine ; hear no more Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here, Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. L'pon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost,

How fearful ! Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up

LUCRETIA.

Child, perhaps To such a sudden flood of mutiny.

It will be granted. We may all then live They that have done this deed are honorable ; –

To make these woes a tale for distant years ; What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, 0, what a thought! It gushes to my heart That made them do it ; – they are wise and Like the warm blood. honorable,

BEATR.

Yet both will soon be cold And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 0, trample out that thought! Worse than despair, I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ; Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope; I am no orator, as Brutus is ;

It is the only ill which can find place But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, Upon the giddy, sharp, and narrow hour That love my friend ; and that they know full | Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frost well

That it should spare the eldest flower of spring ; That gave me public leave to speak of him : Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er whose For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,

couch Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, Even now a city stands, fair, strong, and free; To stir men's blood : I only speak right on; Now stench and blackness yawns, like death. I tell you that which you yourselves do know; 0, plead Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb | With famine, or wind-walking pestilence, mouths,

Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man! And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus, Cruel, cold, formal man ! righteous in words, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony In deeds a Cain. No, mother, we must die, Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue

Since such is the reward of innocent lives,
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move Such the alleviation of worst wrongs.
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

And whilstourmurderers live, and hard, coldmen,

Smiling and slow, walk through a world of tears Here is the will, and under Cæsar's seal : | To death as to life's sleep, 't were just the grave

.

more:

Were some strange joy for us. Come, obscure O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Death,

Justice to break her sword ! – One more, one
And wind me in thine all-embracing arms !
Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom, Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And rock me to the sleep from which none wake. And love thee after :-one more, and this the last:

So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears : this sorrow 's heavenly:
It strikes, where it doth love.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY,

OTHELLO'S DESPAIR.

THE REMORSE.
FROM "OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

Behold, I have a weapon ;

A better never did itself sustain
THE LAMENTATION.

Upon a soldier's thigh : I have seen the day, 0, Now, forever

That, with this little arm and this good sword, Farewell the tranquil mind ! farewell content !

I have made my way through more impediments Farewell the pluméd troop, and the big wars,

Than twenty times your stop:-- but,O vain boast ! That make ambition virtue! O, farewell !

Who can control his fate? 't is not so now. Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, Be not afraid, though you do see me weaponed; The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,

Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, The royal banner, and all quality,

And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! Do you go back dismayed ? 't is a lost fear; And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats

Man but a rush against Othello's breast, The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit,

And he retires : — where should Othello go? Farewell! Othello's occupation 's gone !

Now, how dost thou look now? Oill-starred wench!

Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt, Had it pleased Heaven

This look of thine will hurl my soul fro heaven, To try me with affliction ; had he rained

And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl! All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head ;

Even like thy chastity. Steeped me poverty to the very lips ;

O cursed, cursed slave ! — Whip me, ye devils, Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes ;

From the possession of this heavenly sight! I should have found in some part of my soul

Blow me about in winds ! roast me in sulphur ! A drop of patience : but, alas, to make me A fixed figure, for the time of scorn

Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire !

O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead! Oh! Oh! Oh!
To point his slow unmoving finger at !
Yet could I bear that too; well, very well :

THE SUICIDE.
But there, where I have garnered up my heart,
Where either I must live, or bear no life,

Soft you ; a word or two, before you go.
The fountain from the which my current runs,

I have done the state some service, and they know Or else dries up; to be discarded thence !

it ;

No more of that. – I pray you, in your letters, THE MURDER.

When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,

Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate,

Nor set down aught in malice : then, must you Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars !It is the cause.

speak - Yet I 'll not shed her blood ; Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,

Of one that loved, not wisely, but too well ; And smooth as monumental alabaster.

Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought, Yet she must die, else she 'll betray more men.

Perplexed in the extreme ; of one, whose hand, Put out the light, and then — Put out the light! Richer than all his tribe ; of one, whose subdued

Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away, If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

eyes, I can again thy former light restore,

Albeit unused to the melting mood, Should I repent me: - but once put out thy light, Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,

Their medicinal gum. Set yon down this ; I know not where is that Promethean heat, That can thy light relume. When I have plucked Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk

And say, besides, that in Aleppo once, thy rose,

Beat a Venetian, and traduced the state, I cannot give it vital growth again,

I took by the throat the circumcised dog, It needs must wither:- I'll smell it on the tree.

And smote him thus. [Stabs himself. [Kissing her.

SHAKESPEARE

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.

And, long since then, of bloody men,

Whose deeds tradition saves ; And lonely folk cut off unseen,

And hid in sudden graves ; And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn ;

And murders done in caves ; And how the sprites of injured men

Shriek upward from the sod ;
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point

To show the burial clod ;
And unknown facts of guilty acts

Are seen in dreams from God.

T was in the prime of summer time,

An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school;
There were some that ran, and some that leapt

Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds

And souls untouched by sin ;
To a level mead they came, and there

They drave the wickets in :
Pleasantly shone the setting sun

Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,

And shouted as they ran,
Turning to mirth all things of earth

As only boyhood can;
But the usher sat remote from all,

A melancholy man!
His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze ;
For a burning thought was in his brow,

And his bosom ill at ease ;
So he leaned his head on his hands, and read

The book between his knees.
Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,

Nor ever glanced aside, -
For the peace of his soul he read that book

In the golden eventide ;
Much study had made him very lean,

And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome ;

With a fast and fervent grasp
He strained the dusky covers close,

And fixed the brazen hasp :
"O God! could I so close my mind,

And clasp it with a clasp !"
Then leaping on his feet upright,

Some moody turns he took,
Now up the mead, then down the mead,

And past a shady nook, –
And, lo ! he saw a little boy

That pored upon a book. “My gentle lad, what is 't you read,

Romance or fairy fable ?
Or is it some historic page,

Of kings and crowns unstable ?"
The young boy gave an upward glance,

It is “The Death of Abel.'” The usher took six hasty strides,

As smit with sudden pain,
Six hasty strides beyond the place,

Then slowly back again ;
And down he sat beside the lad,

And talked with him of Cain ;

He told how murderers walk the earth

Beneath the curse of Cain,
With crimson clouds before their eyes,

And flames about their brain ;
For blood has left upon their souls

Its everlasting stain ! “And well,” quoth he, “I know for truth

Their pangs must be extreme Woe, woe, unutterable woe!

Who spill life's sacred stream. For why? Methought, last night I wrought

A murder, in a dream !
“ One that had never done me wrong,

A feeble man and old ;
I led him to a lonely field, -

The moon shone clear and cold :
Now here, said I, this man shall die,

And I will have his gold !
“Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,

And one with a heavy stone,
One hurried gash with a hasty knife,

And then the deed was done :
There was nothing lying at my feet

But lifeless flesh and bone !
Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,

That could not do me ill ;
And yet I feared him all the more

For lying there so still :
There was a manhood in his look

That murder could not kill ! And, lo! the universal air

Seemed lit with ghastly flame,
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes

Were looking down in blame;
I took the dead man by his hand,

And called upon his name.
"O God! it made me quake to see

Such sense within the slain ;
But, when I touched the lifeless clay,

The blood gushed out amain !
For every clot a burning spot

Was scorching in my brain !

up

and ran ;

“My head was like an ardent coal,

My heart as solid ice;
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,

Was at the Devil's price.
A dozen times I groaned, — the dead

Had never groaned but twice.
“And now, from forth the frowning sky,

From the heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice, — the awful voice

Of the blood-avenging sprite : * Thou guilty man! take up thy dead,

And hide it from my sight!'
“ And I took the dreary body up,

And cast it in a stream,
The sluggish water black as ink,

The depth was so extreme :
My gentle boy, remember, this

Is nothing but a dream ! “Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,

And vanished in the pool ;
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,

And washed my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young,

That evening, in the school. O Heaven ! to think of their white souls,

And mine so black and grim !
I could not share in childish prayer,

Nor join in evening hymn ;
Like a devil of the pit I seemed,

'Mid holy cherubim !
“ And Peace went with them, one and all,

And each calm pillow spread ;
But Guilt was my grim chamberlain,

That lighted me to bed,
And drew my midnight curtains round

With fingers bloody red ! “ All night I lay in agony,

In anguish dark and deep ;
My fevered eyes I dared not close,

But stared aghast at Sleep;
For Sin had rendered unto her

The keys of hell to keep ! “All night I lay in agony,

From weary chime to chime;
With one besetting horrid hint

That racked me all the time,
A mighty yearning, like the first

Fierce impulse unto crime,
One stern tyrannic thought, that made

All other thoughts its slave! Stronger and stronger every pulse

Did that temptation crave, Still urging me to go and see

The dead man in his grave !

“Heavily I rose up, as soon

As light was in the sky,
And sought the black accurséd pool

With a wild, misgiving eye ;
And I saw the dead in the river-bed,

For the faithless stream was dry. “Merrily rose the lark, and shook

The dew-drop from its wing;
But I never marked its morning flight,

I never heard it sing,
For I was stooping once again

Under the horrid thing. “With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,

I took him
There was no time to dig a grave

Before the day began,
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,

I hid the murdered man !
“And all that day I read in school,

But my thought was otherwhere;
As soon as the midday task was done,

In secret I was there,
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,

And still the corse was bare !
“Then down I cast me on my face,

And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one

That earth refused to keep, —
Or land or sea, though he should be

Ten thousand fathoms deep.
“So wills the fierce avenging sprite,

Till blood for blood atones !
Ay, though he's buried in a cave,

And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh, –

The world shall see his bones!
O God ! that horrid, horrid dream

Besets me now awake!
Again — again, with dizzy brain,

The human life I take;
And my red right hand grows raging hot,

Like Cranmer's at the stake,
“And still no peace for the restless clay

Will wave or mould allow ;
The horrid thing pursues my soul,

It stands before me now !”
The fearful boy looked up, and saw

Huge drops upon his brow.
That very night, while gentle sleep

The urchin's eyelids kissed,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn

Through tlie cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between,

With gyves upon his wrist.

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THOMAS HOOD

PERSONAL POEMS.

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