And to your heirs forever, common pleasures, Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another? And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. Take up the body. Second Citizen. Go fetch fire. Third Citizen. Pluck down benches. Fourth Citizen. Pluck down forms, windows, anything. [Exeunt Citizens with the body. Antony. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt! The Forum, the Forum was the political centre of ancient Rome. It was surrounded by public buildings used for religious or state purposes. It had several platforms (rostra) from which public speeches were made. lovers, friends. in terred', buried. a bide', to answer for; to suffer for. dint, touch. drach'ma, a Greek coin, worth about eighteen cents. be hold'ing, beholden; under obligation. ex'e unt is a Latin word meaning" (they) go out." Oh, may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again. In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn Of miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, To vaster issues: So to live is heaven. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD THOMAS GRAY THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Full many a gem of purest ray serene, Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Yet e'en those bones from insult to protect With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, And many a holy text around she strews For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, |