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Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted

him.

Cas. I durst not!

Bru. No.

Cas. What? durst not tempt him?

Bru. For your life, you durst not.

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;

I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;

For I am armed so strong in honesty,

That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you

For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;
For I can raise no money by vile means;
Ye Gods! I had rather coin my heart,

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash,
By any indirection. I did send

To you for gold to pay my legions,

Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces!

Cas. I denied you not.

Bru. You did.

Cas. I did not:-he was but a fool

That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart;

A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,

But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not, till you practice them on me.
Cas. You love me not.

Bru. I do not like your faults.

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's eye would not, though they do

appear

As huge as high Olympus.

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come. Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius.

For Cassius is aweary of the world:

Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes. There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold:
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart;
Strike as thou didst at Cesar; for I know,

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better

Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

Bru. Sheathe your dagger:

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb,
That carries anger as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

Cas. Hath Cassius lived

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,

When grief or blood ill-tempered vexeth him?

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.
Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand
Bru. And my heart too.

Cas. O Brutus!

Bru. What's the matter?

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humor which my mother gave me,
Makes me forgetful?

Bru. Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

(MRS. HEMANS.)

Child, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze at eve
Call'd thy harvest-work to leave ;—
Pray!-Ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

Traveler, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea;—
Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

Warrior, that from battle won,
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain,
Weeping on his burial plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie;
Heaven's first star alike ye see,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

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Henry the Fourth, on his accession to the French throne, was opposed by a large part of his subjects, under the Duke of Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and Savoy, and, from the union of these several nations, their army was called the army of the league." In March, 1590, he gained a decisive victory over that party, at Ivry, a small town in France. Before the battle, he said to his troops, "My children, if you lose sight of your colors, rally to my white plume.—you will always find it in the path to honor and glory." His conduct was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his impetuous valor, and the leaguers underwent a total and bloody defeat. In the midst of the rout, Henry followed, crying, Save the French !" and his clemency added a number of the enemy to his own army.

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Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre.

Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance,

Through thy corn-fields green and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eye of all thy mourning daughters.

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who would thy

walls annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war;

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre!

*Pronounced E-vree.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long

array;

With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears!

There, rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land!

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand!

And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,

And good Coligni's* hoary hair, all dabbled with his blood;

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate

of war,

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant

crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord, the King!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall, and fall full well he

may,

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where you see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of war,

And be your oriflamme,† to-day, the helmet of Navarre."

* Coligni, (pronounced Co-leen-yee.) a venerable old man, was one of the victims in the massacre of St. Bartholomew. † Oriflamme, (pronounced or-ree-flam,) the French standard.

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