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MARULLUS TO THE ROMAN POPULAQE.
SHAKESPEARE. Wherefore rejoice that Cæsar comes in triumph ? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels ? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts--Fou cruel men of Rome Know ye not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climbed up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows-yea, to chimney-tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The life-long day, with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome; And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire ? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way, That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ? Begone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude!
"INTRA, MINTRA, OUTRA, OORN."
Ten small hands upon the spread,
Fifty fingers all in a line
“Intra, mintra, cutra, corn,
True, too true! Yet hold, dear friend;
Blind to our eyes that fiat goes,
The cordage all begins to crack;
And salt sea-breeze, there is no lack. The schooners creep along the coast;
A steamer's smoke outlines the sky; The larger sail an offing make,
The jolly pilot shouts “Good-by!" Then back to wife and friends and home
His boat stands shoreward on our lee; He soon will anchor in the bay,
While we are rushing out to sea. The sun has set--the stretch of shore
Now smaller, thinner seems to shrink, And, on the headland of the cape, .
The tower-light begins to blink.
Our captain speaks the destined course,
Then walks the deck with measured tread, And, as he scans alow, aloft,
The beacon stars gleam overhead. And we two by the taffrail stand;
Then, turning from the darkening skies, We touch each other's hands and lips,
And landward look with longing eyes. For, though we hope for brighter scenes,
And leave behind us hurt and wound, Our eyes still seek the lessening light
We're outward bound I we're outward bound!
INOIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.
.. ROBERT BROWNING.
A mile or so away,
Stood on our storming-day,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
Oppressive with its mind.
That soar to earth, may fall,
Waver at yonder wall"
A rider, bound on bound
Until he reached the mound.
And held himself erect
You hardly could suspect
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)-
Was all but shot in two.
We've got you Ratisbon!
And you'll be there anon
Where I, to heart's desire;
Soared up again like fire.
Softened itself, as sheathes
When her bruised eaglet breathes:
Touched to the quick, he said:
Smiling, the boy fell dead.
EDGAR A. POE.
How they tivkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
With a crystalline delight;
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
Bolls, bells, bells