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FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH.

This sycamore, oft musical with bees—
Such tents the patriarchs loved !-oh long unharmed
May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy
The small round basin which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may this spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a fairy's page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the fount.
Here twilight is and coolness; here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade;
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, pilgrim, here: here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale, or hum of murmuring bees!

Coleridge.

ORATION OF MARK ANTONY OVER THE BODY

OF CÆSAR.

FRIENDS, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is often interred with their bones ;
So let it be with Cæsar! The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cæsar was ambitious :
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest
(For Brutus is an honourable man;

ORATION OF MARK ANTONY.

173

So are they all, all honourable men)
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful, and just to me:
But Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious ?
When that the poor hath cried, Cæsar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff :
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see, that, on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition ?
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause;
What cause withholds

you

then to mourn for him ? O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason !—Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar, And I must pause till it comes back to me.

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But yesterday the word of Cæsar might Have stood against the world : now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters ! if I were dispos'd to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong,

and Cassius wrong, Who, you

all know, are honourable men :
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar;
I found it in his closet, 'tis his will ;-

174

THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL.

Let but the commons hear this testament
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read),
And they would go and kiss dear Cæsar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood,
Yea, beg a hair of him, for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto their issue.

Shakspeare.

THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL AND THE GRASSHOPPER'S

FEAST.

Come, take up your hats, and away

let us haste To the Butterfly's ball and the Grasshopper's feast : The trumpeter Gad-fly has summon'd the crew, And the revels are now only waiting for you; On the smooth shaven grass by the side of a wood, Beneath a broad oak, which for ages had stood, See the children of earth, and the tenants of air, To an ev'ning's amusement together repair; And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black, Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back, And there came the Gnat and the Dragon-fly too, And all their relations, green, orange, and blue; And there came the Moth, with her plumage of down, And the Hornet, with jacket of yellow and brown, Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring, But they promis'd, that ev'ning, to lay by their sting;

Then the sly little Dormouse peep'd out of his hole,
And led to the feast his blind cousin the Mole;
And the Snail, with her horns peeping out of her shell,
Came, fatigu'd with the distance, the length of an ell;

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A mushroom the table, and on it was spread
A water-dock leaf, which their table-cloth made,
The viands were various, to each of their taste,
And the Bee brought the honey to sweeten the feast ;
With steps more majestic the Snail did advance,
And he promis'd the gazers a minuet to dance;
But they all laughed so loud that he drew in his head,
And went, in his own little chamber, to bed;
Then, as ev'ning gave way to the shadows of night,
Their watchman, the Glow-worm, came out with his

light;
So home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no watchman is waiting for you or for me!

Roscoe.

AN EPICEDIUM,

He left his home with a bounding heart,

For the world was all before him; And felt it scarce a pain to part,

Such sun-bright beams came o'er him. He turned him to visions of future years,

The rainbow's hues were round him; And a father's bodings—a mother's tears.

Might not weigh with the hopes that crown'd them.

That mother's cheek is far paler now

Than when she last caress'd him :
There's an added gloom on that father's brow,

Since the hour when last he blessed him.
Oh! that all human hopes should prove

Like the flowers that will fade to-morrow;
And the cankering fears of anxious love

Ever end in ruth and sorrow.

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He left his home with a swelling sail,

Of fame and fortune dreaming-
With a spirit as free as the vernal gale,

Or the pennon above him streaming.
He hath reach'd his goal ;—by a distant wave,

'Neath a sultry sun, they've laid him; And stranger forms bent o'er his grave,

When the last sad rites were paid him.
He should have died in his own loved land,

With friends and kindred near him:
Not have withered thus on a foreign strand,

With nought, save heaven, to cheer him.
But what recks it now? Is his sleep less sound

In the port where the wild winds swept him, Than if home's green turf his grave had bound,

Or the hearts he loved had wept him ?

Then why repine ?. Can he feel the

rays
That pestilent sun sheds o'er him?
Or share the grief that may cloud the days

Of the friends who now deplore him ? :
No—his bark's at anchor-its sails are furled-

It hath 'scaped the storm's deep chiding;
And safe from the buffeting waves of the world,
In a haven of peace is riding.

Alaric Waits.

SONG.

“SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ;
Dream of battle-fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle’s enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

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