Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
O, now you weep; and, I perceive you feel
The dint of pity:-these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look ye here!
Here is himself-marred, as you see, by traitors.

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of inutiny.

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 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,
And underneath, in dim repose,
A plain New England home.

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—
The evening chores are done;
And you are weary with the house,
And with the little one.

But he is sleeping sweetly now,

With all our pretty brood;
So come and sit upon my knee,
And it will do me good.

O Marty! I must tell you all
The trouble in my heart,"
And you must do the best you can
To take and bear your part.
You've seen the shadow on my face,
You've felt it day and night;
For it has filled our little home,
And banished all its light.

I did not mean it should be so,
And yet I might have known
That hearts that live as close as ours
Can never keep their own.
But we are fallen on evil times,
And, do whate'er I may,
My heart grows sad about the war,
And sadder every day.

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,
And sleeping men around,

Who turn their faces towards their homes
And dream upon the ground.

I think about the dear, brave boys,
My mates in other years,

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!
How few of them come back!

One sleeps beside the Tennessee,
And one beside the James,
And one fought on a gallant ship,
And perished in its flames.

And some, struck down by fell disease,
Are breathing out their life;
And others, maimed by cruel wounds,
Have left the deadly strife.

Ah, Marty! Marty! only think
Of all the boys have done
And suffered in this weary war!
Brave heroes, every one!
O, often, often in the night,

I hear their voices call:
"Come on and help us! Is it right
That we should bear it all?"

O, do not cling to me and cry,

For it will break my heart;

I'm sure you'd rather have me die
Than not to bear my part.

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
And all are loved again;
And I am loved, and love perhaps
No more than other men.

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;
And though I seem to boast,
I'm sure that I would give my life

To those who need it most.
Perhaps the Spirit will reveal

That which is fair and right; So, Marty, let us humbly kneel And pray to Heaven for light

Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And, underneath, in dim repose,
A plain New England home.
Within, a widow in her weeds,

From whom all joy is flown,
Who kneels among her sleeping babes,

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;
Nor let the reeking knife,

That I have drawn against a brother's life,
Be in my hand when death

Thunders along, and tramples me beneath
His heavy squadron's heels,

Or gory felloes of his cannons' wheels.

From such a dying bed,

Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red,
And the bald eagle brings

The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings,
To sparkle in my sight,

O, never let my spirit take her flight!

I know that beauty's eye

Is all the brighter where the gay pennants fly,
And brazen helmets dance,

And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance:
I know that bards have sung,

And people shouted till the welkin rung
In honor of the brave

Who on the battle-field have found a grave:

I know that o'er their bones

Have grateful hands piled monumental stones.
Some of these piles I've seen :

The one at Lexington upon the green