"You all do know this mantle.""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 rememberThe 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's dagger through;See what a rent the envious Casca made;Through this, the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed;And, as he plucked his cursèd steel away,Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,As rushing out of doors, to be resolvedIf Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel.—Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!—This was the most unkindest cut of all;For, when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,Quite vanquished 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.Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.Oh, now you weep, and I perceive you feelThe dint of pity; these are gracious drops.Kind souls, What! weep you when you but beholdOur Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you upTo 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 wellThat 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 Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus,And Brutus Antony, there were an AntonyWould ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongueIn every wound of Cæsar that should moveThe stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
Ant.If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.You all do know this mantle; I rememberThe 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's dagger through;See what a rent the envious Casca made;Through this, the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed;And, as he plucked his cursèd steel away,Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,As rushing out of doors, to be resolvedIf Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel.—Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!—
This was the most unkindest cut of all;For, when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,Quite vanquished 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.
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.Oh, now you weep, and I perceive you feelThe dint of pity; these are gracious drops.Kind souls, What! weep you when you but beholdOur Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you upTo 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 wellThat 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 Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus,And Brutus Antony, there were an AntonyWould ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongueIn every wound of Cæsar that should moveThe stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
FOOTNOTE:[63]From "Julius Cæsar" by William Shakespeare (1564-1616).
[63]From "Julius Cæsar" by William Shakespeare (1564-1616).
[63]From "Julius Cæsar" by William Shakespeare (1564-1616).
Dear Lord! kind Lord!Gracious Lord! I prayThou wilt look on all I love,Tenderly to-day!Weed their hearts of weariness;Scatter every careDown a wake of angel-wings,Winnowing the air.Bring unto the sorrowingAll release from pain;Let the lips of laughterOverflow again;And with all the needyOh, divide, I pray,This vast treasure of contentThat is mine to-day!
Dear Lord! kind Lord!Gracious Lord! I prayThou wilt look on all I love,Tenderly to-day!Weed their hearts of weariness;Scatter every careDown a wake of angel-wings,Winnowing the air.
Bring unto the sorrowingAll release from pain;Let the lips of laughterOverflow again;And with all the needyOh, divide, I pray,This vast treasure of contentThat is mine to-day!
Be just and fear not;Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,Thy God's, and truth's.
Be just and fear not;Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,Thy God's, and truth's.
If I can liveTo make some pale face brighter and to giveA second luster to some tear-dimmed eye,Or e'en impartOne throb of comfort to an aching heart,Or cheer some wayworn soul in passing by;If I can lendA strong hand to the falling, or defendThe right against one single envious strain,My life, though bare,Perhaps, of much that seemeth dear and fairTo 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 wellIf on that day of days the angels tellOf me, "She did her best for one of Thine."
If I can liveTo make some pale face brighter and to giveA second luster to some tear-dimmed eye,Or e'en impartOne throb of comfort to an aching heart,Or cheer some wayworn soul in passing by;If I can lendA strong hand to the falling, or defendThe right against one single envious strain,My life, though bare,Perhaps, of much that seemeth dear and fairTo 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 wellIf on that day of days the angels tellOf me, "She did her best for one of Thine."
The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd 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.
The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd 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 scarThe 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.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, dearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe 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.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations.
Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God.
Thou turns man to destruction; and sayest, Return, ye children of men.
For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night.
Thou carried them away as with a flood; they are as a sleep: in the morning they are like grass which groweth up.
In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth.
For we are consumed by thine anger, and by thy wrath are we troubled.
Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.
For all our days are passed away in thy wrath; we spend our years as a tale that is told.
The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
Who knoweth the power of thine anger? even according to thy fear, so is thy wrath.
So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom....
Oh, satisfy us early with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days....
Let thy work appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto their children.
God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle line—Beneath Whose awful Hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!
God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle line—Beneath Whose awful Hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God 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,A humble and a contrite heart.God 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 yesterdayIs 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 looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles useOr lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!For heathen heart that puts her trustIn 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!
The tumult and the shouting dies—The captains and the kings depart—Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,A humble and a contrite heart.God 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 yesterdayIs 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 looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles useOr lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trustIn 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.
FOOTNOTES:[64]From "Rhymes of Childhood," by James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1890. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.[65]By William Shakespeare.[66]Author unknown.[67]By Alfred Tennyson.[68]By Rudyard Kipling.
[64]From "Rhymes of Childhood," by James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1890. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.
[64]From "Rhymes of Childhood," by James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1890. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.
[65]By William Shakespeare.
[65]By William Shakespeare.
[66]Author unknown.
[66]Author unknown.
[67]By Alfred Tennyson.
[67]By Alfred Tennyson.
[68]By Rudyard Kipling.
[68]By Rudyard Kipling.
Ad i ron'dacksÆ tō'li aAg a mem'nonA lon'zoA mē'li aAn a tō'li aAn'to nyA pol'loAr'gīveAr'thurAssisi (äs sē zē)As sy̆r'i aBar'ba raBa vā'ri aBer'linBevagno (ba vän'yo)Bœtia (be ō'shĭ a)Bo'na parteBozzaris (bo zăr'is)Brit'ta nyBru'tusBun'yanBur'gun dyBysshe (bĭsh)Ca'dizCal e do'ni aCa thay'Cau'dleCharn'woodChat ta hoo'cheeChis̝'wickCol i sē'umCop'per fieldCōv'er leyCrēa'kleCris'saDā'naDăn'ubeDăv'en portDelftDomitian (do mĭsh'i an)Eb en ē'zerEspañola (ĕs pan yō'la)Eu'tawFer nan'doFĕz'zĭ wigFran'cisGal i lē'oGet'tys burgGib'sonGuä nä hă'nïHab'er shamHā'manHäm'elinHar'le quinHĕl'lasHel'les pontHu'bertJa māi'caJe mī'maJohn'sonJuana (hwä'na)Knick'erbock erLa niēr'Lannes (län)Leg'hornLocks'leyLor raine'Mag ne'si aMăr'i onMas'sa soitMĭcih'ael masMon'mouthMont calm'Mon te bel'loMont göm'er yNa pō'le onNeed'woodNich'o lasNin'e vehOr'e gonO res'tēsPal'lasPhœ'busPinzon (pēn thōn')Pla tæ'aPo to'macPro vence' (-văns)Răph'a elRăt'is bonRieti (rē ĕ'tē)Rog'erRouen (rōō än')Sa'lemSan'chezSan Sal va dor'San tee'Sar a to'gaSed'leyShel'leySpoun'cerTō'bitTō'phetTul'lĭ verTȳreUm'bră aVăl'en tīneWake' fieldYs̝'a bel
(Place of birth in parentheses. Title of one noted book in italics. Title of most famous poem in quotation marks.)
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Columbus, Christopher.The discoverer of America. (Genoa, Italy.) Spain. 1446(?)-1506.
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Dickens, Charles.English novelist.David Copperfield.(Portsmouth.) London. 1812-1870.
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