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Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.

Widow and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our raid,
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;

Lennox and Leven-glen

Shake when they hear agen, “Roderich Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” 4. Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands !

Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green pine ! O! that the Rosebud that graces yon islands, Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine !

O that some seedling gem

Worthy such noble stem, Honoured and blessed in their shadow might grow!

Loud should Clan-Alpine then

Ring from her deepmost glen, “ Roderich Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe !”

SCOTT. Hail to the Chief !“This song is intended as an imitation

of the boat-songs of the Highlanders, which were usually composed in honour of a favourite chief. They are so adapted as to keep time with the sweep of the oars, and it is easy to distinguish those intended to be sung to the oars of a galley, where the stroke is lengthened and doubled, as it were, and those which were timed to the

rowers of an ordinary boat.”—SCOTT. Roderich Vich Alpine dhu.-Besides his ordinary name

and surname, every Highland chief had an epithet expressive of his patriarchal dignity as head of the clan, and which was common to all his predecessors and

But besides this title, which belonged to his office and dignity, the chieftain had usually another peculiar to himself, which distinguished him from the chieftains of the same race. This was sometimes derived from complexion, as dhu, black, or roy, red; sometimes from size, as beg, little, or more, large ; at other times from some peculiar exploit, or some peculiarity of habit or appearance. The line of the text therefore signifies, Black Roderich the descendant of Alpine.


Glen Fruin.—All the places mentioned in this stanza are

in the neighbourhood of Loch Lomond ; and the particular reference is to a noted conflict between the Macgregors and Colquhouns, which took place in Glen Fruin. The Colquhouns were almost extirpated in this

bloody engagement. Rosebud.—Helen, the Lady of the Lake.


BODY OF CÆSAR. 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 interréd with their bones; So let it be with Caesar! The noble Brutus Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious : If it were so, it were 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 ambitious; 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.
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 honourable men :
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable 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,
Unto their issue.




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-beloved Brutus stabb’d;

And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no.
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel :
Judge, O you gods ! how dearly Cæsar lov'd 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 muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statua,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
0, what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd 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, marr’d, as you see, with traitors.

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Good Friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
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 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 give 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.

SHAKESPEARE. Mark Antony's Oration.—This speech, one of the greatest of

Shakespeare's creations, is supposed to be delivered over the dead body of Julius Cæsar, who had been assassinated by several conspirators, the principal of whom were Cassius, Brutus, and Casca. The marvellous skill with which Antony turns popular fury against the conspirators

has been much admired. Lupercal.-A yearly festival observed at Rome, in honour

of Pan. Nervii. — A tribe in ancient Gaul. Cæsar gives an account

of his conquest of them in the second book of his Commentaries. The battle, in which they were defeated, was one of the most obstinately contested that Cæsar

ever fought. Statua=statue.

THE RAVEN. [EDGAR ALLAN POE, an American poet, born January 1811,

died 7th October 1849.] 1. Once upon a midnight dreary, while .I pondered,

weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten

lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there

came a tapping As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my cham

ber door. 6 "Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, “ tapping at my chamber door

Only this, and nothing more.”

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