Why, Arnold! Hold thine own; thou hast in hand
A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor;
Also a dealer in the sword and dagger.

The Bourbon from the wall.

ARNOLD.

Oh, these immortal men! and their great motives!

But I must after my young charge. He is

By this time i' the forum. Charge! charge!

SCENE II.

The City. Combats between the Besiegers and Besieged in the streets. Inhabitants flying in confusion.

Enter CÆSAR.

CESAR.

I cannot find my hero; he is mix'd
With the heroic crowd that now pursue
The fugitives, or battle with the desperate.
What have we here? A cardinal or two,

That do not seem in love with martyrdom.

How the old red-shanks scamper! Could they doff
Their hose as they have doff'd their hats, 't would be
A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder.
But let them fly, the crimson kennels now

Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire
Is of the self-same purple hue.

Enter a party fighting.-ARNOLD at the head of the

Besiegers.

He comes,

ARNOLD.

Away! they must not rally.

CESAR.

I tell thee, be not rash; a golden bridge
Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee
A form of beauty, and an

Exemption from some maladies of body,
But not of mind, which is not mine to give.
But though I gave the form of Thetis' son,
I dipt thee not in Styx; and 'gainst a foe
I would not warrant thy chivalric heart
More than Pelides' heel; why then, be cautious,
And know thyself a mortal still.

ARNOLD.

And who

With aught of soul would combat if he were Invulnerable? That were pretty sport.

'Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar?

CESAR.

ARNOLD.

In the shoulder, not the sword arm

And that's enough. I am thirsty: would I had

[ARNOLD rushes into the combat.

Why dost not strike?

The morning-star of all the flowers,
The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours;
Nor, 'midst the roses, e'er forget

The virgin, virgin violet.

Enter CESAR.

CÆSAR (singing).

The wars are all over,

Our swords are all idle,
The steed bites the bridle,

The casque 's on the wall.
There's rest for the rover;

But his armour is rusty,

And the veteran grows crusty,

As he yawns in the hall.

He drinks-but what's drinking?

A mere pause from thinking!

No bugle awakes him with life and death call.

Chorus.

But the hound bayeth loudly,

The boar 's in the wood,

And the falcon longs proudly

To spring from her hood.

On the wrist of the noble,

She sits like a crest,

And the air is in trouble

With birds from their nest.

CESAR.

Oh! shadow of glory!

Dim image of war!

But the chase hath no story,

Her hero no star,

Since Nimrod, the founder
Of empire and chase,
Who made the woods wonder,
And quake for their race,
When the lion was young,
In the pride of his might,
Then 't was sport for the strong
To embrace him in fight;

To go forth, with a pine

For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth,

Or strike through the ravine
At the foaming behemoth;
While man was in stature
As towers in our time,
The first-born of Nature,
And, like her, sublime!

Chorus.

But the wars are over, The spring is come; The bride and her lover

Have sought their home: They are happy, and we rejoice; Let their hearts have an echo in every voice! [Exeunt the Peasantry, singing.