But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life's fair spring
And boyhood's bloss'ming hour.

Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,

To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.

The Sun.

Byron.

Most glorious orb! that wert a worship ere

The mystery of thy making was revealed!

Thou earliest minister of th' Almighty,

Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd

Themselves in orizons! Thou material god!

And representative of th' Unknown,

Who chose thee for his shadow!

Thou chief star

Centre of many stars, which makest our earth
Endurable, and temperest the lives

And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!
Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes
And those that dwell in them! for near or far
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,
Even as our outward aspects;-thou dost rise-
And shine and set in glory.

Anthony's Funeral Oration.

Shakespeare.

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 oft interrèd with their bones:
So let it be with Cæsar.
Hath told-you Cæsar was ambitious:

The noble Brutus

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 ;

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 have cried, Cæsar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitous;
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.

S

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.

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 ;

'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-belovèd 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 ye gods! how dearly Cæsar loved him!

This, this was the 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 muffling-up his face,

Even at the base of Pompey's statue,

Which all-the-while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.

Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!

Then I and you and all-of-us fell down,

Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.

Oh 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, marr'd-as-you-see by traitors.

Good friends, sweet friends, let-me-not stir-you up sudden flow of mutiny.

To any

They that have done this deed are honourable:

What private griefs they have, alas! I know-not,
That made them do it; they are wise and honourable,
And will no-doubt with-reason answer you.

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;—
I am no orator as Brutus is;

But, as ye know me all, a plain blunt man

That loves 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 Anthony, there were an Anthony
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.

The Soldier's Dream.

Campbell.

OUR bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on-the-ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that-night on my pallet of straw
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At-the-dead-of-the-night a sweet vision I saw;
And, twice, ere the cock-crow I dreamt it again.

Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far had I roam'd on a desolate track,
Till autumn and sunshine arose on the way
To the home-of-my-fathers that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung:

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From-my-home-and-my-weeping-friends never to part;
My little ones kiss'd-me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

"Stay, stay with us! rest! thou art weary and worn!
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in-my-dreaming-ear melted away!