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He' who hath bent him o'er the dead,

Ere the first day of death is fled,

The first dark day of nothingness,

The last' of danger and distress

(Before decay's effacing fingers'

Have swept the lines' where beauty lingers),

And marked the mild' angelic air,

The rapture of repose that's there,

The fixed, yet tender traits' that streak

The languor of the placid cheek,

A'nd—but for that sad Bhroflded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now;

A'nd' but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him' it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these, and these alone,
Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
The first, last look' by death revealed!

Such is the aspect of this shore;
• 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more I

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,

We start, for soul is wanting there.

Hers' is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite' with parting breath;

But beauty, with that fearful bloom,

That hue' which haunts it to the tomb,

Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo' hovering round decay, The farewell beam of feeling' past away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more' its cherished earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land' from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom's home, or Glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this' is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave:
Say, is not this Thermopylae?
These waters blue' that round you luvc,
Oh, servile offspring of the free—
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis!
These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires,
And he who in the strife expires,
Will add to theirs a name of feaij
That tyranny' shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons' a hope, a fame,
They, too, will rather die than shame;
For Freedom's battle, once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled 6ft, is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it, many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusky darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,
Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those' that cannot die I
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough—no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! self-abasementl paved the way
To villain-bonds' and despot-sway.


The grave of those we loved—what a place for meditation! There it is' that we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us—almost unheeded—in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is' that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn' awful tenderness, of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs—its noiseless attendance —its mute watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling, oh, how thrilling! pressure of the hand. The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us, even from the threshold of existence! The faint, faltering accents, struggling iu death' to give one more assurance of affection!

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and there' meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience, for every past benefit unrequited—every past endearment unregarded—of that departed being, who can never, never, never return, to be soothed by thy contrition! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent,—if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom' that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy loudness, or thy truth,—if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee,—if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang' to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet,—then be sure' that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure' that thou wilt lie down, sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear—more deep, more bitter, because unheard, and unavailing.

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take -warning' by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth' be more faithful and affectionate' in the discharge of thy duties to the living.

Washington Irving.

Mark Antony's Oration Over The Dead Body Op Cmsxr.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.

I come to bury Caesar, 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 Cajsar! Noble Brutus'

Hath told you' Caesar was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously' hath Caesar answered it.

Here, under leave of Brutus' and the rest—

For Brutus' is an honourable man,

So are they all, all honourable men—

Come I to speak' in Caesar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to mo;

But Brutus says' he was ambitious;

And Brutus' is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,

Whose ransoms' did the general coffers fill;

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?

When' that the poor have cried, Ctesar' hath wept;

Ambition' should be made of sterner stuff;

Yet Brutus says' he was ambitious;

And Brutus' is an honourable man.

You all did see that, on the Lupercal,

I thrice presented him' a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice' refuse. Was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says' he was ambitious;

And, sure, he is an honourable man.

I speak not' to disprove what Brutus spoke,

But here' I am to speak' what I do know.

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 Caesar,
And I must pause' till it come back to me.


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 I in this place' ran Cassius' 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' Bo unkindly knocked or no.

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel:

Judge, oh you gods! how dearly Caesar loved him!

This' was the most unkfndest cut of all;

For when the noble Caesar' 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 statue,

Which all the while ran Wood, great Caesar' fell.

O, what a fall was there, my countrymen I

Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down;

Whilst bloody treason' flourished over us.

O, 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, by traitors.

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