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And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it.
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,

Great Cæsar fell.
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
Oh, now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity. These are gracious drops.
Kind souls! What, weep you,


you but behold Our Cæsar's vesture wounded ? Look


here. Here is himself, marred, as you see, by traitors.

1st Citizen. O piteous spectacle ! 2d Citizen. O noble Cæsar!

3d Citizen. We will be revenged ! Revenge ! about, Seek, — burn, — fire, — kill, — slay ! - let not a trai

tor live. Antony. 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,
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you.
I came 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 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

And bid them speak for me. And 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.


FromJulius Cæsar."


And what is so rare as a day in June ?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,

And groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun,

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world and she to her nest In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a rippling cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing

That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing —
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing !
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving ;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for the grass to be green or skies to be blue -

'Tis the natural way of living; Who knows whither the clouds have fled ?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burned-out craters healed with snow.



1. He who speaks honestly cares not, needs not care, though his words be preserved to remotest time. The dishonest speaker, not he only who purposely utters falsehoods, but he who does not purposely, and with sincere heart, utter Truth, and Truth alone; who babbles he knows not what, and has clapped no bridle on his tongue, but lets it run racket, ejecting chatter and futility, — is among the most indisputable malefactors omitted, or inserted, in the Criminal Calendar.

2. To him that will well consider it, idle speaking is precisely the beginning of all Hollowness, Halfness, Infidelity (want of Faithfulness); the genial atmosphere in which rank weeds of every kind attain the mastery over noble fruits in man's life, and utterly choke them out: one of the most crying maladies of these days, and to be testified against, and in all ways to the uttermost withstood.

3. Wise, of a wisdom far beyond our shallow depth, was that old precept: “Watch thy tongue; out of it are the issues of Life!” Man is properly an incarnated word: the word that he speaks is the man himself. Were eyes put into our head, that we might see, or that we might fancy, and plausibly pretend, we had seen? Was the tongue suspended there, that

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