ANTONY. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir

you up

To such a sudden flood of mutiny.

They that have done this deed are honourable;
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it;

honourable:

They are wise and

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:
I am no orator, as Brutus is;

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him;
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood: I only speak right on;

I tell you that, which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb

mouths,

And bid them speak for me: But, were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony

Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
1ST CITIZEN. We'll mutiny!

2ND CITIZEN.

We'll burn the house of Brutus.

1ST CITIZEN. Away then-come, seek the conspirators. ANTONY. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. CITIZENS. Peace, ho!

ANTONY. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what ;

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? 2ND 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.
(they raise the hearse)

1ST CITIZEN.

Go, fetch fire.-Pluck down benches3RD CITIZEN. Pluck down forms, windows, anything!

4TH CITIZEN. Come, brands, ho! firebrands!

1ST CITIZEN. To Brutus', to Cassius'; burn all!

Exeunt the CITIZENS, bearing CESAR'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 wildly stare :—
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eutsace 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 wring 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,