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You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on ;

'T was on a summer's evening, in his tent;
That day he overcame the Nervii :-
Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through :
See what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this the well-belovéd Brutus stabbed;
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved
him!

This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished him then burst his mighty
heart;

And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statua,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
O, 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 you here,
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.

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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.

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To every Roman citizen he gives,

To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. 2 CIT. Most noble Cæsar!-we 'll revenge his death.

3 CIT. O royal Cæsar !

ANT. Hear me with patience.
CITIZENS. Peace, ho!

ANT. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,
His private arbors, and new-planted orchards,
On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,
And to your heirs forever, - common pleasures,
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another?
1 CIT. Never, never! Come away, away!
We'll burn his body in the holy place,
And with the brands fire the traitors' houses.
Take up the body.

BEATRICE.

SHAKESPEARE.

BEATRICE CENCI. FROM "THE CENCI." 0, My God! can it be possible I have To die so suddenly? So young to go Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground! To be nailed down into a narrow place; To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no more Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost, How fearful!

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It will be granted. We may all then live
To make these woes a tale for distant years;
O, what a thought! It gushes to my heart
Like the warm blood.

BEATR.
Yet both will soon be cold.
O, trample out that thought! Worse than despair,
Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope;
It is the only ill which can find place
Upon the giddy, sharp, and narrow hour
Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frost
That it should spare the eldest flower of spring;
Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er whose
couch

Even now a city stands, fair, strong, and free;
Now stench and blackness yawns, like death.
O, plead

With famine, or wind-walking pestilence,
Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man!
Cruel, cold, formal man! righteous in words,
In deeds a Cain. No, mother, we must die,
Since such is the reward of innocent lives,
Such the alleviation of worst wrongs.
And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men,
Smiling and slow, walk through a world of tears
To death as to life's sleep, 't were just the grave

Were some strange joy for us. Death,

Come, obscure | O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword! One more, one

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To try me with affliction; had he rained
All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head;
Steeped me in poverty to the very lips;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience: but, alas, to make me
A fixed figure, for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at !
Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there, where I have garnered up my heart,
Where either I must live, or bear no life,
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence !

THE MURDER.

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It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, -
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!-
It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she 'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then - Put out the light!
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me :· but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat,
That can thy light relume. When I have plucked
thy rose,

I cannot give it vital growth again,

It needs must wither:- I'll smell it on the tree. [Kissing her.

more:

Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after:-one more, and this the last:
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. 1 must weep,
But they are cruel tears: this sorrow's heavenly:
It strikes, where it doth love.

THE REMORSE.

Behold, I have a weapon;

A better never did itself sustain
Upon a soldier's thigh: I have seen the day,
That, with this little arm and this good sword,
I have made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop: - but, O vain boast!
Who can control his fate? 't is not so now. —

Be not afraid, though you do see me weaponed;
Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
Do you go back dismayed? 't is a lost fear;
Man but a rush against Othello's breast,
And he retires: - where should Othello go? —
Now, how dost thou look now? Oill-starred wench!
Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,

And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl?

Even like thy chastity.

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THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.

"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;

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"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!

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"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,

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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 the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist.

THOMAS HOOD.

PERSONAL POEMS.

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