Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserv'd your loves? 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, Here was a Cæsar; when comes such another? And, with the brands, fire the traitors' houses! 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! 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. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 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, A. TENNYSON. THE DEATH OF MARMION. WHEN, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare! Redeem my pennon,-charge again! That shout shall ne'er be heard again!— Tell him his squadrons up to bring.- His life's-blood stains the spotless shield; The Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,- Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan. Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring To slake my dying thirst!"- By the light quivering aspen made; Scarce were the piteous accents said, Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; She stooped her by the runnel's side, Where raged the war, a dark red tide Where shall she turn!-behold her mark A little fountain-cell, Where water, clear as diamond spark, Above, some half-worn letters say, A Monk supporting Marmion's head; 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. O think of your immortal weal! Lord Marmion started from the ground, |