Eighth Reader Part 28

_Ant._ Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it; It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you.

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad.

'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; For, if you should, oh, what would come of it!

_Cit._ Read the will! we'll hear it, Antony!

You shall read the will! Caesar's will!

_Ant._ Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile?

I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it.

I fear I wrong the honorable men Whose daggers have stabbed Caesar. I do fear it.

_Cit._ They were traitors! honorable men!

_All._ The will! the testament!

_Ant._ You will compel me, then, to read the will?

Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will.

Shall I descend? And will you give me leave?

_All._ Come down.

_2 Citizen._ Descend. You shall have leave.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "You all do know this mantle."]

(_Antony comes down from the pulpit._)

_Ant._ If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

You all do know this mantle; I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on.

'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii.

Look! in this place, ran Ca.s.sius's dagger through; See what a rent the envious Casca made; Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed; And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel.-- Judge, O you G.o.ds, how dearly Caesar loved him!--

This was the most unkindest cut of all; For, when the n.o.ble Caesar saw him stab, Ingrat.i.tude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle m.u.f.fling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statua, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.

Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst b.l.o.o.d.y 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 when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.

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 are wise and honorable, 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 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 Caesar'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 Caesar that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 63: From "Julius Caesar" by William Shakespeare (1564-1616).]

SELECTIONS TO BE MEMORIZED

I. THE PRAYER PERFECT[64]

Dear Lord! kind Lord!

Gracious Lord! I pray Thou wilt look on all I love, Tenderly to-day!

Weed their hearts of weariness; Scatter every care Down a wake of angel-wings, Winnowing the air.

Bring unto the sorrowing All release from pain; Let the lips of laughter Overflow again; And with all the needy Oh, divide, I pray, This vast treasure of content That is mine to-day!

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 64: From "Rhymes of Childhood," by James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1890. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.]

II. BE JUST AND FEAR NOT[65]

Be just and fear not; Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy G.o.d's, and truth's.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 65: By William Shakespeare.]

III. IF I CAN LIVE[66]

If I can live To make some pale face brighter and to give A second l.u.s.ter to some tear-dimmed eye, Or e'en impart One throb of comfort to an aching heart, Or cheer some wayworn soul in pa.s.sing by; If I can lend A strong hand to the falling, or defend The right against one single envious strain, My life, though bare, Perhaps, of much that seemeth dear and fair To us of earth, will not have been in vain.

The purest joy, Most near to heaven, far from earth's alloy, Is bidding cloud give way to sun and shine; And 'twill be well If on that day of days the angels tell Of me, "She did her best for one of Thine."

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 66: Author unknown.]

IV. THE BUGLE SONG[67]

The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, dearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.