Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.

Why, friends, you go to do you know not what: Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves?

Alas, you know not: I must tell you, then: You have forgot the will I told you of.

Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal.

To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy five drachmas.

Hear me with patience.

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 Caesar! when comes such another?

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "Julius Caesar."_

[Ill.u.s.tration: DUKE OF WELLINGTON.]

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

A SELECTION.

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Now to glorious burial slowly borne, Followed by the brave of other lands, He, on whom from both her open hands Lavish Honor showered all her stars, And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn.

Yea, let all good things await Him who cares not to be great, But as he saves or serves the state.

Not once or twice in our rough island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory: He that walks it, only thirsting For the right, and learns to deaden Love of self, before his journey closes, He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden roses.

Not once or twice in our fair island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory: He, that ever following her commands, On with toil of heart and knees and hands, Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won His path upward, and prevailed, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled Are close upon the shining table lands To which our G.o.d himself is moon and sun, Such was he: his work is done, But while the races of mankind endure, Let his great example stand Colossal, seen of every land, And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure; Till in all lands and thro' all human story The path of duty be the way to glory: And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame For many and many an age proclaim At civic revel and pomp and game, And when the long-illumined cities flame, Their ever loyal iron leader's fame, With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, Eternal honor to his name.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration: JOHN MILTON.]

LONDON, 1802.

Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters! altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful G.o.dliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE CAVALIER.

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My truelove has mounted his steed, and away Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down,-- Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!

He has doffed the silk doublet the breastplate to bear, He has placed the steel cap o'er his long-flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,-- Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!

For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws; Her King is his leader, her church is his cause; His watchward is honor, his pay is renown,-- G.o.d strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall; But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town, That the spears of the North have encircled the crown.

There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!

Would you match the base Skippon, and Ma.s.sey, and Brown With the Barons of England, that fight for the crown?

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!

Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE.

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray; And as he was singing the tears down came, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars; Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd.

It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burthen that bows me down, Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; But till my last moments my words are the same-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!

ROBERT BURNS.

BOOT AND SADDLE.