might neither suffer injury nor fear injury.

"You honored him as your father; you loved him as your benefactor; you made him chief of the state, not being curious of titles, but regarding the most which you could give as less than he had deserved at your hands. To you he was Consul; to the army he was Imperator; to the enemies of his country Dictator. In sum he was Pater Patric.

"And this your father lies dead-dead, not by disease or age, not by war or visitation of God, but here at home, by conspiracy within your own walls, slain in the Senate house, the warrior unarmed, the peacemaker naked to his foes, the righteous judge in the seat of judgment. He whom no foreign enemy could hurt has been killed by his fellow countrymen - he, who had so often shown mercy, by those whom he had spared.

66

Where, Cæsar, is your love for mankind? Where is the sacredness of your life? Where are your laws? Here you lie mur

dered here in the Forum, through which

so often you marched in triumph, wreathed with garlands; here upon the rostra from which you were wont to address your people. Alas for your gray hairs dabbled in blood! Alas for this lacerated robe in which you were dressed for the sacrifice!"

Antony's words, as he well knew, were a declaration of irreconcilable war against the murderers. As his impassioned language did its work, the multitude rose in fury. When the people were in such a mood, Rome was no place for the conspirators and they were obliged to flee. It was not Cæsar who had overthrown the constitution. It was the leaders themselves who had done it by their incapacity, their selfishness, their baseness. Cæsar had been but the reluctant instrument of the power that metes out to men the inevitable penalties of their own misdeeds. They had dreamed that the constitution was a living force which would revive of itself as soon as Cæsar was gone. They did not know that it was dead already, and that they had themselves destroyed it.

JAMES A. FROUDE. Adapted.

MARCO BOZZARIS

AT midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet ring: Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king;

As wild his thoughts, as gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Platea's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there,

With arm to strike and soul to dare,

As quick, as far as they.

An hour pass'd on the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;

He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!

He woke -to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and saber stroke,

And death shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike- till the last armed foe expires; Strike - for your altars and your fires; Strike for the green graves of your sires; God- and your native land!"

They fought-like brave men, long and well;

They piled that ground with Moslem

slain;

They conquer'd

but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their loud hurrah,
And the red field was won;