They knew so sad a messenger
Some ghastly news must bring,
And all of them were fathers,

And their sons were with the King.

10. And up then rose the Provost
A brave old man was he,

Of ancient name, and knightly fame,
And chivalrous degree.

O, woful now was the old man's look,
And he spake right heavily:
"Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,
However sharp they be!

Woe is written on thy visage,
Death is looking from thy face:
Speak! though it be of overthrow-
It cannot be disgrace!"

11. Right bitter was the agony

That wrung that soldier proud:
Thrice did he strive to answer,

And thrice he groaned aloud.
Then he gave the riven banner

To the old man's shaking hand,
Saying, "That is all I bring ye

From the bravest of the land!
Ay! ye may look upon it —

It was guarded well and long,
By your brothers and your children,
By the valiant and the strong.
One by one they fell around it,
As the archers laid them low,
Grimly dying, still unconquered,
With their faces to the foe.

12. Ay! ye

well may look upon it
There is more than honor there,
Else be sure, I had not brought it
From the field of dark despair.
Never yet was royal banner

Steeped in such a costly dye;
It hath lain upon a bosom

Where no other shroud shall lie.
Sirs! I charge you, keep it holy,
Keep it as a sacred thing,
For the stain ye see upon it

Was the life-blood of your King!"

13. Woe, woe, and lamentation!

What a piteous cry was there!
Widows, maidens, mothers, children,
Shrieking, sobbing in despair!

14. O, the blackest day for Scotland
That she ever knew before!

O our King! the good, the noble,
Shall we see him never more?
Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!
O our sons, our sons and men!
Surely some have 'scaped the Southron,*
Surely some will come again?"

Till the oak that fell last winter

1 BEA CON. A fire lighted on a height | CÖRSE'LET. A breastplate or light as a signal.

1 WARD'ER. Keeper; guard.

armor for the fore part of the body. 7 BRAND. Sword.

HÄR NESS. Defensive armor; equip. 8 PRŎV'OST. The chief or head. In

ment of an ancient knight.

4 RIV'EN. Torn or rent asunder.

• BÜRGH'ER (bür'ğer). A townsman.

* SOUTH'RON. Englishman.

Scotland, a provost corresponds to

a mayor elsewhere.

Viş'AGE. Face.

†DUN-ED'IN. Gaelic name for Edinburgh.

LXXVII -DIALOGUE BETWEEN ANTONY AND

VENTIDIUS.

DRYDEN.

[John Dryden, a celebrated English poet, was born in 1631, and died in 1700. He was a voluminous writer, his works comprising tragedies, comedies, satires, didactic poems, narrative poems, odes, and occasional pieces. His is an eminent name in English literature. No writer is a greater master in the use of the heroic measure, and no one possesses in so high a degree the power of reasoning in verse. He was also a forcible and animated prose writer.

The following scene is from the tragedy of " All for Love." Mark Antony, a distinguished Roman, despairing of further success in the field, after his defeat at Actium, gives himself up to inglorious ease. Ventidius is one of his generals. Octavius Cæsar (afterwards the Emperor Augustus) has taken up arms against Antony. Cleopatra is the Queen of Egypt, for whom Antony has abandoned his wife Octavia, the sister of Octavius Cæsar.]

Antony. Art thou Ventidius?

Ventidius.

Are you Antony?

I'm liker what I was, than you to him

Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I?

Ven. My Emperor: the man I love next Heaven. If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin;

You're all that's good and noble.

Ant.

You will not leave me, then?

To

Ven.

say

All that's wretched,

"Twas too presuming

I would not: but I dare not leave you;

And 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence

So soon, when I so far have come to see you.

Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied?

For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough;

And, if a foe, too much.

Ven. Look, Emperor, this is no common dew: I have not wept these forty years; but now

My mother comes afresh into my eyes;

I cannot help her softness.

Ant. Sure there's contagion' in the tears of friends; See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not

For my own griefs, but thine-nay, father

Ven. Emperor.

Ant. Emperor! why that's the style of victory. The conquering soldier, red with unfelt wounds, Salutes his general so: but never more

Shall that sound reach my ears.

Ant. Thou favor'st me, and speak'st not half thou think'st;

For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly:

But Antony

Ven.

Ant.

Nay, stop not.

Antony

(Well, thou wilt have it) - like a coward fled,

Fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, Ventidius.
Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave.
I know thou cam'st prepared to rail.

I did.

I know thy meaning.

Ven. Ant. I'll help thee-I have been a man, Ventidius. Ven. Yes, and a brave one: butAnt. But I have lost my reason, have disgraced The name of soldier, with inglorious ease. In the full vintage of my flowing honors Sate still, and saw it pressed by other hands.

2

*Julius Cæsar.

Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it,
And purple greatness met my ripened years.
When first I came to empire I was borne
On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs.
I was so great, so happy, so beloved,

Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains,

And worked against my fortune, chid her from me,
And turned her loose: yet still she came again.
My careless days, and my luxurious nights,

At length have wearied her, and now she's gone,
Gone, gone, divorced' forever.

Ven. You are too sensible already

Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings;
And, like a scorpion, whipped by others first
To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.
Ant. Dost thou think me desperate
Without just cause? No, when I found all lost
Beyond repair, I hid me from the world,
And learnt to scorn it here; which now I do
So heartily, I think it is not worth

The cost of keeping.

Ven.

Cæsar thinks not so;

He'll thank you for the gift he could not take.

You would be killed like Tully,* would you? Do
Hold out your throat to Cæsar, and die tamely.

Ant. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve.

Ven. I can die with you, too, when time shall serve ; But fortune calls upon us now to live,

To fight, to conquer.

Ant.

Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius.

Ven. No, 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.

Up, up, for honor's sake; twelve legions wait you,

Marcus Tullius Cicero, a distinguished Roman orator, was born 106 B. C He was slain by a party of soldiers, agents of Antony, B. C. 43.