Oldalképek
PDF
ePub

Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserv'd your loves?
Alas, you know not-I must tell you then
You have forgot the will I told you of.

2ND CITIZEN. Most true; the will;-let's stay and hear the will.

ANTONY.

Here is the will, and under Cæsar's seal.

(reading the scroll) To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man seventy-five drachmas.

2ND CITIZEN. Most noble Cæsar! We'll revenge his death.

ANTONY. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,

His private arbours, and new-planted orchards,
On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,
And to your heirs for ever,-common pleasures,
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.

Here was a Cæsar; when comes such another?
ND CITIZEN. Never, never;-Come, away, away:
We'll burn his body in the holy place,

And, with the brands, fire the traitors' houses!
Take up the body.

1ST CITIZEN.

(they raise the hearse)

Go, fetch fire.-Pluck down benchesRD CITIZEN. Pluck down forms, windows, anything!

LTH CITIZEN.

Come, brands, ho! firebrands!

IST CITIZEN. To Brutus'! to Cassius'! burn all!

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]

Away! go!

Exeunt the CITIZENS, bearing Cæsar's body with a great noise and tumult.

ANTONY (alone, and in a tone of exultation looking

after the rabble). Now let it work:- Mis

chief, thou art afoot

Take thou what course thou wilt.

SHAKSPERE.

THE ECHO SONG.

THE splendour falls on castle walls.
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill, or field, or river:

Our echoes roll from soul to soul.

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

A. TENNYSON.

THE DEATH OF MARMION.

WHEN, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion widely stare:-
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?

Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!

Redeem my pennon,-charge again!
Cry- Marmion to the rescue! '—Vain !
Last of my race on battle plain

That shout shall ne'er be heard again!—
Yet my last thought is England's :-fly,
To Dacre bear my signet-ring:

Tell him his squadrons up to bring.-
Fitz-Eustace, to lord Surrey hie;
Tunstall lies dead upon the field,

His life's-blood stains the spotless shield;
Edmund is down ;-my life is reft;-

The Admiral alone is left.

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,-
With Chester charge and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost.-
Must I bid twice ?—hence, varlets! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone—to die."-
They parted, and alone he lay;
Clare drew her from the sight away,

Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan.
And half he murmured,-"Is there none
Of all my halls have nurst,

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water, from the spring,

To slake my dying thirst!"-
O, woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish ring the brow
A ministering angel thou!-

Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran :

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.

She stooped her by the runnel's side,
But in abhorrence backward drew,
For, oozing from the mountain wide,

Where raged the war, a dark red tide
Was curdling in the streamlet blue.

Where shall she turn!-behold her mark

A little fountain-cell,

Where water, clear as diamond spark,
In a stone basin fell.

Above, some half-worn letters say,
"Brink weary pilgrim, drink, and pray
For the kind soul of Sybil Grey,
Who built this cross and well.”
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A Monk supporting Marmion's head;
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,

To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And as she stooped his brow to lave"Is it the hand of Clare," he said, "Or injured Constance, bathes my head!" Then as remembrance rose,— "Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!

I must redress her woes.

Short space, few words, are mine to spare.
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"-
"Alas!" she said, "the while,-

O think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal;
She died- -at Holy Isle."—

Lord Marmion started from the ground,

« ElőzőTovább »