35. ANTONY'S ORATION OVER CÆSAR'S BODY.-Shakspeare.

1. 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 interred with their bones:
So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cæsar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answer'd it.

2. Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honorable man ;
So are they all; all honorable men,)
Come I to speak at Cæsar's funeral.,
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honorable man.

3. 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 honorable man.

Was this ambition?

4. You all did see, that on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse.
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke;
But here I am to speak what I do know.

5. 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.

6. 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 dispos'd to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men:
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honorable men.

7. 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.

8. 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,
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it.

9. This was the most unkindest cut of all ;
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms,
Quite vanquished 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 full.

10. 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.

feel

O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you
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.

11. 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;
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it; they were wise and honorable,
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you.

12. 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 gave me public leave to speak of him.

13. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor 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.

Marcus Antony, a brave and unprincipled Roman, who, for the purpose of elevating himself to power, procured a public funeral for Cæsar, in favor of whom, the above oration which he made, so much inflamed the popu lace against the conspirators, that they were obliged to leave the city, or fall into the hands of the other members of the triumvirate. He after wards went to Egypt, where through love to Queen Cleopatra, he termi nated his own existence, 30 years before Christ.

The oration is highly rhetorical. A portion of it requires a high key, some parts of it a low, others, a middle key. The reader or declaimer must both understand its sentiments and feel as if they were his own He should imagine himself to be delivering a discourse at the funeral of a beloved friend who had been murdered. The pathetic portion of the speech, requires quantity, slow time, and rhetorical pauses. What is said of it, in the chapter on Irony, particularly of the epithet, “honorable men,”

which Antony repeatedly applies to Cæsar's murderers, renders it unnecessary to prolong this note. There is no better piece in our language, for an elocutionary exercise.

36. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.-Wolfe.

1. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse o'er the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

2. We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the trembling moonbeams' misty light,
And our lantern dimly burning.

3. No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

4. Few and short were the prayers we said—
We spoke not a word of sorrow

But steadfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead,
And bitterly thought of the morrow.

5. We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lowly pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we, far away o'er the billow.

6. Lightly they'll speak of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where his comrades have laid him.

7. Not the half of our heavy task was done
When the bell toll'd the hour for retiring;
And we knew by the distant, random gun,
That the foe was then suddenly firing.

8. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory; We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone, But left him alone-in his glory.

The "Burial of Sir John Moore" requires a low key, slow time, and long quantity.

37. LAST WORDS OF ROBERT EMMET.

1. If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and cares of those who were dear to them in this transi

tory life, O, ever dear and venerated shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny upon the conduct of your suffering son and see if I have, even for a moment, deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was your care to instil into my youthful mind, and for which I am now to offer up my life.

2. My lords, you seem impatient for the sacrifice-the blood which you seek, is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your victim; it circulates warmly and unruffled, through the channels which God created for noble purposes, but which you are bent to destroy for purposes so grievous, that they cry to heaven. Be yet patient! I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my cold and silent grave-my lamp of life is nearly extinguished-my race is run-the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom!

3. I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world, it is the charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives, dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other men, can do justice to my character. When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written.

The above extract is the concluding part of the speech of Robert Emmet, Esq., a distinguished Irish orator and patriot, before Lord Norbury of England, on an indictment for high treason. He was condemned before