Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up They that have done this deed are honorable; 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 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. THE HEART OF THE WAR.-HOLLAND. PEACE in the clover-scented air, And stars within the dome, Within, a murmur of low tones And sighs from hearts oppressed, Merging in prayer at last, that brings The balm of silent rest. I've closed a hard day's work, Marty— But he is sleeping sweetly now, With all our pretty brood; O Marty! I must tell you all I did not mean it should be so, I think about it when I work, And when I try to rest, And never more than when your head Is pillowed on my breast; For then I see the camp-fires blaze, Who turn their faces towards their homes I think about the dear, brave boys, Who pine for home and those they love, Till I am choked with tears. With shouts and cheers they marched away On glory's shining track, But, ah! how long, how long they stay! One sleeps beside the Tennessee, And some, struck down by fell disease, Ah, Marty! Marty! only think I hear their voices call: O, do not cling to me and cry, For it will break my heart; I'm sure you'd rather have me die You think that some should stay at home To care for those away; But still I'm helpless to decide If I should go or stay. For, Marty, all the soldiers love I cannot tell-I do not know Which way my duty lies, Or where the Lord would have me build My fire of sacrifice. I feel I know-I am not mean; To those who need it most. That which is fair and right; So, Marty, let us humbly kneel And pray to Heaven for light Peace in the clover-scented air, From whom all joy is flown, And weeps and prays alone! NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.-PIERPONT. "To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country, that would not be hard."-The Neighbors. O, NO, no-let me lie Not on a field of battle when I die! Let not the iron tread Of the mad war-horse crush my helméd head; That I have drawn against a brother's life, Thunders along, and tramples me beneath Or gory felloes of his cannons' wheels. From such a dying bed, Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red, The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings, O, never let my spirit take her flight! I know that beauty's eye Is all the brighter where the gay pennants fly, And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance: And people shouted till the welkin rung Who on the battle-field have found a grave: I know that o'er their bones Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. The one at Lexington upon the green |