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Bru. What's the matter?
Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful?
Bru. Yes, Ca.s.sius; and, from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
Shakespeare: "Julius Caesar," IV. 3
RECESSIONAL
(1897)
G.o.d of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle-line, Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies; The captains and the kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe, Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard, All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word-- Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen.
Kipling
