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ANTONY'S FUNERAL ORATION.

If you have tears, prepare to ned them now.
You all do know this mantle : I remember
The first time ever Cæsar pt it on:
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent;
That day he overcame the Nefvii:
Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through
See, what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd:
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark, how the blood of Cæsar follow'd it;
As rushing out of doors to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd 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 vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffing up bis face, ,
Even at the base Pompey's statue,
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 flourish'd over us. 'Julius Cæsar," — Act 111.

SHAKESPEARE. n,

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ndages,
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S OUT IF YOU ARE ILL and mail it to Dr.

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HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat

The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet

That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping ground

Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round,

The bivouac of the dead.

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No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells

upon

the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts

Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife

The warrior's dream alarms,
No braying horn or screaming fife

At the dawn shall call to arms.

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Their shivered swords are red with rust,

Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner trailed in dust,

Is now their martial shroud

ment

to

And plenteous funeral tears have washed

The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed,

Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,

The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the fearful cannonade,

The din and shout are past-
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,

Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that never more may feel

The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane

That sweeps its great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,

Came down the serried foe-
Who heard the thunder of the fray

Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day

Was victory or death.

Full many a mother's breath has swept

O'er Angostura's plain,
And long the pitying sky has wept

Above its moldered slain.
The raven's scream or eagle's flight,

Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone now wake each solemn height

That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the dark and bloody ground;

Ye must not slumber there,

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

191

Where stranger steps and tongues resound

Along the heedless air;
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be

your

fitter grave; She claims from war her richest spoil

The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the

gory

field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast

On many a bloody shield.
The sunshine of their native sky

Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred

eyes

and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!

Dear as the blood ye gave,
No impious footstep here shall tread

The herbage of your grave.
Nor shall your glory be forgot

While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot

Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone

In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished year

hath flown The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor Winter's blight

Nor Time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light

That gilds your glorious tomb,

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