I looked at John's old garments worn,
I thought of all that John had borne,
Of poverty, and work, and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
Of seven hungry mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,
"Come, John," said I,
"We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep; " so walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.
First to the cradle lightly stepped,
Where Lillian, the baby, slept;
Her damp curls lay, like gold alight,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white;
Softly her father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said, "Not her."
We stooped beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamp-light shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so pitiful and fair.
I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek
A tear undried; ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby too," said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robby's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace;
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him,"
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.
Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son,
Turbulent, reckless, idle one,--
Could he be spared? "Nay, He who gave
Bids us befriend him to the grave;
Only a mother's heart can be
Patient enough for such as he;
And so," said John, "I would not dare
To send him from her bedside prayer.”"
Then stole we softly up above,
And knelt by Mary, child of love;
"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl, that lay
Across her cheek in willful way,
And shook his head: "Nay, love, not thee;
The while my heart beat audibly.
Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad,—
So like his father: "No, John, no;
I cannot, will not, let him go!"
And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not give one child away;
And afterward toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed;
Happy, in truth, that not one face
We missed from its accustomed place;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting them to ONE in Heaven.
MARC ANTONY'S ORATION.-SHAKESPEARE.
RIENDS, 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 oft interréd with their bones:
So let it be with Cæsar! Noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious:-
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it!
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest-
For Brutus is an honorable man!
So are they all! all honorable 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 honorable 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 have cried, Cæsar hath wept.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff!-
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honorable 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 honorable 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 come back to me.—
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 disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men!-
I will not do them wrong: I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honorable men !—
But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar,—
I found it in his closet,-'tis his will!
Let but the commons hear this testament,-
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,-
And they would go and kiss dead 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,
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on:
"Twas 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 curséd 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 ye 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 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 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, by traitors!——
Good friends! sweet friends! let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny!
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!
DREAMED a dream in the midst of my slumbers,
And as fast as I dreamed it was coined into numbers
My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre,
I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter.
It seemed that a law had been recently made
That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid;
And in order to make them all willing to marry,
The tax was as large as a man could well carry,
The bachelors grumbled, and said 'twere no use,
'Twas horrid injustice and shameful abuse,
And declared, that to save their own heart's blood from spilling, Of such a vile tax they would ne'er pay a shilling.
But the rulers determined their course to pursue,
So they set the old bachelors up at vendue;
A crier was sent through the town to and fro,
To rattle his bell and his trumpet to blow;
And to call out to all he might meet in the way,
"Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day!"
And presently all the old maids in the town,
Each one in her very best bonnet and gown,
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