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MARCELLUS'S SPEECH TO THE MOB. WHEREFORE rejoice ? that Cæsar comes in triumph! What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels ? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things ! Oh you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome! Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft Have you climbed up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The live-long day with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome ; And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made a universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath his banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in his concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire ? And do you now cull out a holiday ? And do you now strew flowers in his way That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ?. Begone Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plagues That needs must light on this ingratitude.

FARE THEE WELL.
Fare thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well :
Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee

Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst know again :

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover

'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee

Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe

Though my many faults defaced me,

Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me,

To inflict a cureless wound ?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ;

Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not

Hearts can thus be torn away: Still thine own its life retaineth

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; . And the undying thought which paineth

Is-that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!"

Though his care she must forego ?

When her little hands shall press thee,

When her lip to thine is prest,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,

Think of him thy love had blessed !
Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may’st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,

All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;

Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now:
But 'tis done—all words are idle-

Words from me are vainer still ;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.-
Fare thee well!-thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted

More than this, I scarce can die.

PROCRASTINATION.

By nature's law, what may be, may be now; There's no prerogative in human hours. In human hearts what bolder thought can rise, Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn? Where is to-morrow? In another world.

For numbers this is certain; the reverse
Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps,
This peradventure, infamous for lies,
As on a rock of adamant, we build
Our mountain hopes; spin out eternal schemes,
As we the fatal sisters could out-spin,
And, big with life's futurities, expire.
Be wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled, :
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange ?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, “ That all men are about to live,”
For ever on the brink of being born. .
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel : and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;
At least, their own; their future selves applauds;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails;
That lodged in fate's, to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone ;
'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool;
And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,
And that through every stage : when young, indeed,
In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish, .
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,

Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same.

And why? Because he thinks himself immortal.
All men think all men mortal, but themselves;
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate
Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close; where past the shaft, no trace is found.
As from the wing no scar the sky retains ;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel;
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Ev'n with the tender tear which nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.

THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND.

“Ye have done it unto me."--Matt. xxv. 40.

A Poor wayfaring Man of grief
Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief,
That I could never answer, “ Nay :"
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came,
Yet was there something in his eye,
That won my love, I knew not why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered ;- not a word he spake;-
Just perishing for want of bread ;
I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,
And ate,—but gave me part again;
Mine was an Angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.'

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