There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud, when the day begins to break: As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday- For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. And you'll be there too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new year. It is the last new-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind, And the new-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney tops. I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor: Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: CONCLUSION. I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am; O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, O blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair! He showed me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin. Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in: I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd, I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me-I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them; it's mine!" And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done, And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado ? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 243.-CHARACTER OF BRUTUS. G. LONG. [WE extract a 'Character of Brutus' from the notes to the concluding volume of The Civil Wars of Rome,' a select translation of Plutarch, from which we have already borrowed. This character will startle many of our readers. But the acknowledged learning of Mr. Long ---one of the most distinguished scholars that have been sent forth from that great nursery of scholars, Trinity College, Cambridge--will satisfy the candid that this estimate of one of the great men of antiquity is not a hasty and unsupported theory.] Brutus had moderate abilities, with great industry and much learning: he had no merit as a general, but he had the courage of a soldier; he had the reputation of virtue, and he was free from many of the vices of his contemporarics: he was sober and temperate. Of enlarged political views he had none; there is not a sign of his being superior in this respect to the mass of his contemporaries. When the Civil War broke out, he joined Pompeius, though Pompeius had murdered his father. If he gave up his private enmity, as Plutarch says, for what he believed to be the better cause, the sacrifice was honourable; if there were other motives, and I believe there were, his choice of his party does him no credit. His conspiracy against Cæsar can only be justified by those, if there are such, who think that a usurper ought to be got rid of in any way. But if a man is to be murdered, one does not expect those to take a part in the act who, after being enemies, have received favours from him, and professed to be friends. The murderers should at least be a man's declared enemies who have just wrongs to avenge. Though Brutus was dissatisfied with things under Cæsar, he was not the first mover in the conspiracy. He was worked upon by others, who knew that his character and personal relation to Cæsar would in a measure sanctify the deed; and by their persuasion, not his own resolve, he became an assassin in the name of freedom, which meant the triumph of his party, and in the name of virtue, which meant nothing. The act was bad in Brutus as an act of treachery; and it was bad as an act of policy. It failed in its object, the success of a party, because the death of Cæsar was not enough; other victims were necessary, and Brutus would not have them. He put himself at the head of a plot, in which there was no plan: he dreamed of success and forgot the means. He mistook the circumstances of the times and the character of the men. His conduct after the murder was feeble and uncertain; and it was also as illegal as the usurpation of Cæsar. "He left Rome as Prætor without the permission of the Senate; he took possession of a province which, even according to Cicero's testimony, had been assigned to another; he arbitrarily passed beyond the boundaries of his province, and set his effigy on the coins." (Drumann.) He attacked the Bessi in order to give his soldiers booty, and he plundered Asia to get money for the conflict against Cæsar and Antonius, for the mastery of Rome and Italy. The means that he had at his disposal show that he robbed without measure and without mercy; and never was greater tyranny exercised over helpless people in the name of liberty, than the wretched inhabitants of Asia experienced from Brutus the Liberator' and Cassius 'the last of the Romans.' But all these great resources were thrown away in an ill-conceived and worse executed campaign. Temperance, industry, and unwillingness to shed blood, are noble qualities in a citizen and a soldier; and Brutus possessed them. But great wealth gotten by ill means is an eternal reproach; and the trade of money lending carried on in the names of others, with unrelenting greediness, is both avarice and hypocrisy. Cicero, the friend of Brutus, is the witness for his wealth, and for his unworthy means to increase it. Reflecting men in all ages have a philosophy. With the educated Greeks and Romans, philosophy was religion. The vulgar belief under whatever name it may be, is never the belief of those who have leisure for reflection. The vulgar rich and vulgar poor are immersed in sense; the man of reflection strives to emerge from it. To him the things which are seen arc only the shadows of the unseen; forms without substance, but the evidence of the substantial; "for the invisible things of God from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made." (Epistle to the Romans, i. 20). Brutus was from his youth up a student of philosophy, and well versed in the systems of the Greeks. Untiring industry and a strong memory had stored his mind with the thoughts of others, but he had not capacity enough to draw profit from his intellectual as he did from his golden treasures. His mind was a barren field on which no culture could raise an abundant crop. His wisdom was the thoughts of others, and he had ever ready in his mouth something that others had said. But to utter other men's wisdom is not enough; a man must make it his own by the labour of independent thought. Philosophy and superstition were blended in his mind, and they formed a chaos in his bewildered brain, as they always will do; and the product is "Gorgons and Hydras and Chimeras dire." In the still of night phantoms floated before his wasted strength and watchful eyes; perhaps the vision of him, the generous and the brave, who had saved the life of an enemy in battle, and fell by his hand in the midst of peace. Conscience was his tormentor, for truth was stronger than the illusions of a self-imputed virtue. Though Brutus had condemned Cato's death, he died by his own hand, not with the stubborn resolve of Cato, who would not yield to a usurper, but merely to escape from his enemies. A Roman might be pardoned for not choosing to become the prisoner of a Roman, but his grave should have been the battle-field, and the instrument should have been the hands of those who were fighting against the cause which he proclaimed to be righteous and just. Cato's son bettered his father's example: he died on the plain of Philippi in the ranks of the enemy. Brutus died without belief in the existence of that virtue which he had affected to follow: the triumph of a wrongful cause, as he conceived it, was a proof that virtue was an empty name. He forgot the transitory nature of all individual existences, and thought that justice perished with him. But a true philosopher does not make himself a central point, nor his own misfortunes a final catastrophe. He looks both backwards and forwards, to the past and the future, and views himself as a small link in the great chain of events which holds all things together. Brutus died in despair, with the courage, but not with the faith, of a martyr. When men talk of tyranny and rise against it, the name of Brutus is invoked; a mere name and nothing else. What single act is there in the man's life which promised the regeneration of his country and the freedom of mankind? Like other Romans, he only thought of maintaining the supremacy of Rome: his ideas were no larger than theirs; he had no sympathy for those whom Rome governed and oppressed. For his country, he had nothing to propose: its worn out political constitution he would maintain, not amend; indeed, amendment was impossible. |