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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.

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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.

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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-beloved Brutus stabb’d;

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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.
O, 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

Ι
The dint of pity ; these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you

when 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

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

Only this, and nothing more."

2. Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak

December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost

upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow ;-vainly had I sought

to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the

lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore

Nameless here for evermore. 3. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple

curtain Thrilld me—filled me with fantastic terrors never

felt before ; So that now to still the beating of my heart, I stood

repeating, 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber

doorSome late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;

This it is, and nothing more. 4. Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then

no longer, “Sir," said I, " or madam, truly your forgiveness I

implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you

came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my

chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you ;” here I open'd wide the door ;

Darkness there, and nothing more. 5. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there

wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared

to dream before;

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But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness

gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd

word “ Lenore !” This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word “ Lenore".

Merely this, and nothing more. 6. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within

me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than

before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my

window lattice; Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery

exploreLet

my heart be still a moment and this my ery explore ;

'Tis the wind, and nothing more !” 7. Open here I flung a shutter, when with many a flirt

and flutter In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days

of yore ;

Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant

stopp'd or stay'd he ; But with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my

chamber doorPerch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door

Perch'd and sat, and nothing more. 8. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into

smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance

it wore,

Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I

said, “ art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven wandering from

the nightly shore,

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