See here: another wound--The fear of Death-- That blesséd consummation of this life, Which soothes all pain, makes good all loss, revives The weak, gives rest and peace, makes free the slave, Levels all past distinctions, and doth place The beggar on a footing with the king. O, poor Humanity! those who conspired To slay thee, through exceeding love for God, And for the glory of His mighty name, Smote at the very centre of thy peace, And damning doubts, like daggers’ thrusts, attest How zealously they aimed each cruel blow. And yet, this rent and bloody mantle is not thee. Slain, but not dead--thy spirit shall arise And face thy startled enemies again, As royal Cæsar’s ghost appeared to Brutus, In Sardis’ and Philippi’s tented plains. Thou royal heir to kingdoms yet unknown! A mightier than Cæsar is thy Friend. He stays the hand of Cassius, Brutus, all Who aim their weapons at thy life, and dulls Their daggers’ points against thy deathless soul. From every gaping wound of fear or doubt, Murder or malice, sorrow or despair, Thy spirit leaps as from a prison door. It laughs at death and daggers, as it flies To hold companionship with spirits blest; And having thus informed itself of life, The question then,--“To be, or not to be?”-- Is swallowed up in Immortality. LOVE. [Shakspeare.] O World! somewhat I have to say to thee. O sin-sick, heart-sick, soul-sick, love-sick World! So ailing art thou, both in part and particle, That solid truth thy stomach ill digests. Yet, since thou art my mother, I will love thee, And heedless of thy frowns, “will speak right on.”