And proudly neigh, my charger grey!-oh! thy chest is broad and ample!

Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

What boots old Europe's boasted fame, on which she builds reliance,

When the North shall launch its avalanche on her works of art and science?

Hath she not wept her cities swept by our hordes of trampling stallions,

And tower and arch crushed in the march of our barbarous

battalions?

Can we not wield our fathers' shield? the same war-hatchet handle?

Do our blades want length, or the reapers strength, for the harvest of the Vandal?

Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey, for thy chest is strong and ample;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

SECTION V.-THE DRAMA.

I.-BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.
(SHAKSPERE.)

William Shakspere was born at Stratford-on-Avon, Warwickshire, in 1564, and died in 1616. He has been deservedly called the "Prince of Dramatists."

Cas. THAT you have wronged me doth appear in this : You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella,

For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
Wherein my letters, praying on his side,
Because I knew the man, were slighted of.

Bru. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case.
Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear his comment.
Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm;
To sell and mart your offices for gold
To undeservers.

Cas. I an itching palm?

You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.

Cas. Chastisement!

Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for Justice' sake? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man in all this world, But for supporting robbers; shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honours

For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.

Cas. Brutus, bay not me,

I'll not endure it: you forget yourself,
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.

Bru. Go to; you're not, Cassius.
Cas. I am.

Bru. I say you are not.

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;

Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further.
Bru. Away, slight man!

Cas. Is't possible?

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.

Must I give way and room to your rash choler?

Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

Cas. O ye gods! ye gods! must I endure all this?

Bru. All this? ay, more: Fret till your proud heart break;

Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,

And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humour? By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.

Cas. Is it come to this?

Bru. You say you are a better soldier:

Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,

And it shall please me well. For mine own part,

I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cas. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus ;

I said, an elder soldier, not a better:

Did I say better?

Bru. If you did, I care not.

Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved

me.

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:
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 practise 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 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. Oh, 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 Cæsar; 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, dishonour shall be humour.
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 humour 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,