LITMIR.BIZ

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said and done to Cicero.

       Here is a man large minded and sincere,

       Active, a lover, conscious of his place,

       Knowing his power, no reverence for the past,

       Save what the past deserved, who made the task

       What could be done and did it—seized the power

       Of rulership and did not put it by

       As Shakespeare clothes him with pretence of doing.

       For what was kingship to him? empty name!

       He who had mastered Asia, Africa,

       Egypt, Hispania, after twenty years

       Of cyclic dreams and labor—king indeed!

       A name! when sovereign power was nothing new.

       He’s fifty-six, and knows the human breed,

       Sees man as body hiding a canal

       For passing food along, a little brain

       That watches, loves, attends the said canal.

       He’s been imperator at least two years—

       King in good sooth! He knows he is not valued,

       That he’s misprized and hated, is compelled

       To use whom he distrusts, despises too.

       Why, what was life to him with such contempt

       Of all this dirty world, this eagle set

       Amid a flock of vultures, cow-birds, bats?

       His ladder was not lowliness, but genius.

       Read of his capture in Bithynia,

       When he was just a stripling by Cilician

       Pirates whom he treated like his slaves,

       And told them to their face when he was ransomed

       He’d have them crucified. He did it, too.

       His ransom came at last, he was released,

       And set to work at once to keep his word;

       Fitted some ships out, captured every one

       And crucified them all at Pergamos.

       Not lowliness his ladder, but the strength

       That steps on shoulders, fit for steps alone.

       So on this top-most rung he did not scan

       The base degrees by which he did ascend,

       But sickened rather at a world whose heights

       Are not worth reaching. So it was he went

       Unarmed and unprotected to the Senate,

       Knowing that death is noble, being nature,

       And scorning fear. Why, he had lived enough.

       The night before he dined with Lepidus,

       To whom he said the death that is not seen,

       Is not expected, is the best. But look,

       Here in this play he’s shown a weak old man,

       Propped up with stays and royal robes, to amble,

       Trembling and babbling to his coronation;

       And to the going, driven by the fear

       That he would be thought coward if he failed.

       Who was to think so? Cassius, whom he cowed,

       And whipped against strong odds, this Brutus, too,

       There at Pharsalus! Faith, I’d like to know

       What Francis Bacon thinks of this.

      My friend,

       Seeing the Rome that Cæsar took, we turn

       To what he did with what he took. This Rome

       At Cæsar’s birth was governed by the people

       In name alone, in fact the Senate ruled,

       And money ruled the Senate. Rank and file

       Was made of peasants, tradesmen, manumitted

       Slaves and soldiers—these the populares,

       Who made our Cæsar’s uncle Marius

       Chief magistrate six times. This was the party

       That Cæsar joined and wrought for to the last.

       He fought the aristocracy all his life.

       His heart was democratic and his head

       Patrician—was ambitious from the first,

       As Shakespeare is ambitious, gifted by

       The Muses, must work out his vision or

       Rot down with gifts neglected; so this Cæsar

       Gifted to rule must rule—but what’s the dream?

       To use his power for democratic weal,

       Bring order, justice in a rotten state,

       And carry on the work of Marius,

       His democratic uncle. Now behold,

       He’s fifty when he reaches sovereign power;

       Few years are left in which he may achieve

       His democratic ideas, for he sought

       No gain in power, but chance to do his work,

       Fulfill his genius. Well, he takes the Senate

       And breaks its aristocracy, then frees

       The groaning debtors; reduces the congestion

       Of stifled Italy, founds colonies,

       Helps agriculture, executes the laws.

       Crime skulks before him, luxury he checks.

       The franchise is enlarged, he codifies

       The Roman laws, and founds a money system;

       Collects a library, and takes a census;

       Reforms the calendar, and thus bestrode

       The world with work accomplished. Round his legs

       All other men must peer; and envy, hatred

       Were serpents at his heels, whose poison reached

       His heart at last. He was the tower of Pharos,

       That lighted all the world.

      Now who was Brutus?

       Cæsar forgave this Brutus seven times seven,

       Forgave him for Pharsalia, all his acts

       Of constant opposition. Who was Brutus?

       A simple, honest soul? A heart of hate,

       Bred by his uncle Cato! Was he gentle?

       Look what he did to Salamis! Besieged

       Its senate house and starved the senators

       To force compliance with a loan to them

       At 48 per cent! This is the man

       Whom Shakespeare makes to say he’d rather be

       A villager than to report himself

       A son of Rome under these hard conditions,

       Which Cæsar wrought! Who thought or called them hard?

       Brutus or Shakespeare? Is it Plutarch, maybe,

       Whom Shakespeare follows, all against the grain

       Of truth so long revealed?

       Do you not see

       Matter in plenty for our Shakespeare’s hand,

       To show a sovereign genius and its work

       Pursued by mad-dogs, bitten to its death,

       Its plans thrown into chaos? Is there clay

       Wherewith

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