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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.
Still for ever, fare thee well :
'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
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;
Wake us from a widowed bed.
When our child's first accents flow,
Though his care she must forego ?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is prest,
Think of him thy love had blessed !
Those thou never more may’st see,
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my madness none can know;
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Even my soul forsakes me now:
Words from me are vainer still ;
Force their way without the will.-
Torn from every nearer tie,
More than this, I scarce can die.
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
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ;
And why? Because he thinks himself immortal.
THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND.
“Ye have done it unto me."--Matt. xxv. 40.
A Poor wayfaring Man of grief