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Brut. For ever then! but O, my tears run o'er; Groans choak my words, and I can speak no
44 Lady Randolph, Lord Randolph, Norval, not known at the time Randolph's Son.
Lady Ran. How fares my Lord?
An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief, Ran. That it fares well, thanks to Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
My heart o'erflows with gratitude to Heaven, And to this noble youth, who, all unknown To you and yours, deliberated not,
Nor paus'd at peril- but, humanely brave, Fought on your fide against such fearful odds. Have you yet learnt of him whom we should thank, Whom call the faviour of Lord Randolph's life? Lord Ran. I ask'd that queftion, and he anfwer'd not:
But I must know who my deliverer is.
[To the Stranger. Norv. A low-born man, of parentage obfcure, Who nought can boaft but his defire to be A foldier, and to gain a name in arms.
Lord Ran. Whoe'er thou art, thy fpirit is ennobled
By the great King of Kings; thou art ordain'd
And ftamp'd a hero by the fovereign hand
Of nature! Blush not, flow'r of modefty
As well as valour, to declare thy birth.
Narv. My name is Norval: on the Grampian
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose conftant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only fon, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles: and I long'd
To follow to the field fome warlike lord;
And Heaven foon granted what my fire denied.
This moon, which rofe laft night round as my
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians from the hills
Rufh'd like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds, The hepherds
Returning home in triumph, I difdain'd
The fhepherd's flothful life: and having heard
That our good king had fummon'd his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron fide,
I left my father's houfe, and took with me
A chofen fervant to conduct my steps:
Yon trembling coward, who forfook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I pafs'd thefe tow'rs
And, heaven-directed, came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name.
Lord Ran. He is as wife as brave; was ever tale
With fuch a gallant modefty rehears'd?
My brave deliv'rer! thou fhalt enter now
A nobler lift; and, in a monarch's fight,
Contend with princes for the prize of fame,
I will prefent thee to our Scottish king,
Whofe valiant spirit ever valour lov'd.
Ha! my Matilda! wherefore ftarts that tear?
Lady Ran. I cannot fay; for various affections
And strangely mingled, in my bosom swell :
Yet each of them may well command a tear.
I joy that thou art fafe; and I admire
Him, and his fortunes, who hath wrought thy
Yea, as my mind predicts, with thine his own.
Obfcure and friendless, he the army fought;
Bent upon peril, in the range of death
Refolv'd to hunt for fame, and with his fword
To gain diftin&tion which his birth denied.
In this attempt unknown he might have pes
And gain'd with all his valour but oblivion.
Now, grac'd by thee, his virtue serves no more
Beneath defpair. The foldier now of hope,
He ftands confpicuous; fame and great renown
Are brought within the compafs of his fword.
On this my mind reflected, whilft you spoke,
And blefs'd the wonder-working hand of Hea-
My knight; and ever, as thou didft to-day,
With happy valour guard the life of Randolph.
Lord Ran. Well haft thou spoke. Let me for-
We are thy debtors ftill; thy high defert
O'ertops our gratitude. I muft proceed,
As was at first intended, to the camp;
Some of my train, I fee, are speeding hither,
Impatient doubtlefs, of their lord's delay.
Go with me, Norval; and thine eyes fhall fee
The chofen warriors of thy native land,
Who languifh for the fight, and beat the air
With brandifh'd fwords.
Norv. Let us be gone, my lord.
45. Young Norval informs Lord Randolph by what Means be acquired a Knowledge in the Art of War. HOME.
BENEATH a mountain's brow, the most remote
And inacceffible by shepherds trod,
In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man,
Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains.
Auftere and lonely, cruel to himself,
Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the fhepherds' alms.
I went to see him; and my heart was touch'd
With reverence and with pity. Mild he fpake,
And ent'ring on difcourfe, fuch ftories told,
As made me oft revifit his fad cell.
For he had been a foldier in his youth;
And fought in famous battles, when the peers
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,
Againft th' ufurping Infidel difplay'd
The crofs of Chrift, and won the Holy Land.
Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire [fhake
His fpeech ftruck from me, the old man would
His years away, and act his young encounters:
Then, having fhew'd his wounds, he'd fit him
And all the live-long day difcourfe of war.
To help my fancy, in the fmooth green turf
He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts;
Defcrib'd the motions, and explain'd the use
Of the deep column, and the lengthen'd line;
The fquare, the crefcent, and the phalanx firm.
For all that Saracen or Christian knew
Of war's vaft art, was to this hermit known.
Returning homewards by Meffina's port,
Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won,
▲ rude and boist'rous captain of the sea
Faften'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought;
The ftranger fell; and, with his dying breath,
Declar'd his name and lineage. Mighty God!
The foldier cried, my brother! O my brother!
They exchang'd forgiveness:
And happy, in my mind, was he that died;
For many deaths has the furvivor fuffer'd.'
In the wild defert on a rock he fits,
Upon fome nameless ftream's untrodden banks,
And ruminates all day his dreadful fate.
At times, alas! nor in his perfect mind,
Holds dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghoft;
And oft each night forfakes his fullen couch, To make fad orifons for him he flew.
46. Douglas's Soliloquy in the Wood, waiting for Lady Randolph, after be was known to be ber Son. HOME.
is the the centre of the
Here ftands the oak, the monarch of the wood: How sweet and folemn is this midnight fcene! The filver moon, unclouded, holds her way Thro' ikies, where I could count each little ftar. The fanning weft-wind fcarcely ftirs the leaves; The river, rushing o'er its pebbled bed, Imposes filence with a ftilly found. In fuch a place as this, at fuch an hour, If ancestry can be in aught believ'd, Defcending fpirits have convers'd with man, And told the fecrets of the world unknown. Eventful day! how haft thou chang'd my flat' Once on the cold and winter-fhaded fide Of a bleak hill mischance had rooted me, Never to thrive, child of another foil; Transplanted now to the gay funny vale, Like the green thorn of May, my fortune flow'n Ye glorious ftars! high heaven's refplendent hot: To whom I oft have of my lot complain'd, Hear, and record my fowl's unalter'd wish! Dead or alive, let me but be renown'd! May Heaven infpire fome fierce gigantic Dane To give a bold defiance to our host! Before he speaks it out, I will accept : Like DOUGLAS conquer, or like DOUGLAS,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day;
The great, th' important day, big with the fate
Or Cato and of Rome-our father's death
Would fill up all the guilt of civil war,
And close the scene of blood. Already Cefar
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and fees
Mankind grown thin by his deftructive fword:
Should he go farther, numbers would be wanting
To form new battles and fupport his crimes.
Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make
Among your works!
Marc. Thy fteady temper, Portius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cefar,
In the calm lights of mild philofophy;
I'm tortur'd e'en to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: ev'ry time he's nam'd
Pharfalia rifes to my view!-I fee
Th' infulting tyrant prancing o'er the field, Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in flaughter,
His horfe's hoofs wet with patrician blood!
O Portius is there not fome chofen curfe,
Some hidden thunder in the ftores of Heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatnefs to his country's ruin?
Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious
And mix'd with too much horror to be envied.
How does the luftre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphan:
His fuff'rings thine, and fpread a glory round
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the caufe [him;
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His fword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppreffion, tyranny, and pow'r ufurp'd,
Drew all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em,
Marc. Who knows not this? But what can
Against a world, a base degenerate world,
That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæ-
Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms
A poor epitome of Roman greatness ;
And, cover'd with Numidian guards, directs
A feeble army, and an empty fenate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
By Heav'n, fuch virtues, join'd with fuch fuccefs,
Diftract my very foul: our father's fortune
Would almoft tempt us to renounce his precepts.
Por. Remember what our father oft has told us.
The ways of Heaven are dark and intricate;
Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors,
Our understanding traces them in vain,
Loft and bewilder'd in the fruitless fearch;
Nor fees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confufion ends.
Marc. Thefe are fuggeftions of a mind at eafe;
O Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs
That wring my foul, thou couldst not talk thus
Paffion unpitied, and fuccessful love,
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind-
Por. Thou feeft not that thy brother is thy
But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Afide.
Now Marcus, now thy virtue's on the proof:
Put forth thy utmost strength, work ev'ry nerve,
And call up all thy father in thy foul.
Toquell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart
On this weak fide, where most our nature fails,
Would be a conqueft worthy Cato's fon.
Marc. Portius,the counfel which I cannot take,
Inftead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Bid me for honour plunge into a war
Of thickelt foes, and ruth on certain death,
Then fhalt thou fee that Marcus is not flow
To follow glory, and confefs his father.
Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost
In high ambition, or a thirst of greatness :
'Tis fecond life, it grows into the foul,
Warms ev'ry vein, and beats in ev'ry pulfe :
1 feel it here: my refolution melts.
Por. Behold young Juba,the Numidian prince,
With how much care he forms himself to glory,
And breaks the fierceness of his native temper,
To copy out our father's bright example.
He loves our fifter Marcia, greatly loves her:
But ftill the fmother'd fondnefs bus within him:
eyes, his looks, his actions, all betray it :
When moft it fwells, and labours for a vent,
The fenfe of honour and defire of fame
Drive the big paffion back into his heart.
Reproach great Cato's fon, and fhew the world
What? fhall an African, shall Juba's heir,
A virtue wanting in a Roman foul?
Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave
ftings behind 'em.
Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, fhew
A virtue that has caft me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the purfuits of honour?
Fling but th' appearance of difhonour on it,
Por. Marcus, I know thy gen'rous temper well,
It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.
Marc. A brother's fuff'rings claim a bro-
Por, Heaven knows I pity thee. Behold my
Ev'n while I fpeak-do they not swim in tears;
Were but my heart as naked to thy view,
Marcus would fee it bleed in his behalf.
Marc. Why then doft treat me with rebukes,
Of kind condoling cares, and friendly forrow?
Por. O Marcus! did I know the way to ease
Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains,
Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it.
Marc. Thou beft of brothers, and thou best
Pardon a weak, diftemper'd foul, that fwells
The fport of paffions. But Sempronius comes:
With fudden gufts, and finks as foon in calms,
He must not find this foftnefs hanging on me.
Sem. Confpiracies no fooner fhould be form'd like not that cold youth. I must diffemble, Than executed. What means Portius here? And speak a language foreign to my heart.
Good-morrow, Portius; let us once embrace,
To-morrow, fhould we thus exprefs our friend-
Once more embrace, while yet we both are free.
Each might receive a flave into his arms. [fhip,
This fun, perhaps, this morning's fun, 's the laft
That e'er thall rife on Roman liberty.
To this poor hall his little Roman fenate,
Por. My father has this morning call'd together
The leavings of Pharfalia, to confult
If yet he can oppofe the mighty torrent
That bears down Rome, and all her gods before
Or muft at length give up the world to Cæfar.,
Sem. Not all the pomp and majefty of Rome
Can raife her fenate more than Cato's prefence.
His virtues render our affembly awful,
They ftrike with fomething like religious fear,
And make e'en Cæfar tremble at the head
Could I but call that wondrous man my father.
Of armies flush'd with conqueft. O my Portius,
Would but thy fifter Marcia be propitious
To thy friend's vows, I might be bleft indeed!
To Marcia, whilft her father's life's in danger? Thou might as well court the pale trembling veital,
When the beholds the holy flame expiring.
Sem. The more I fee the wonders of thy race, The more I'm charm'd. Thou muft take heed, my Portius;
The world has all its eyes on Cato's fon;
Thy father's merits fets thee up to view,
And fhews thee in the fairest point of light,
To make thy virtues or thy faults confpicuous.
Por. Well doft thou feem to check my
On this important hour-I'll ftraight away;
And while the fathers of the fenate meet
In close debate, to weigh the events of war,
I'll animate the foldier's drooping courage
With love of freedom, and contempt of life;
I'll thunder in their ears their country's caufe,
And try to rouse up all that's Roman in 'em.
'Tis not in mortals to command success,
But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll deferve it.
Sem. Curfe on the ftripling! how he apes his
Ambitiously fententious!-But I wonder [fire,
Old Syphax comes not: his Numidian genius
Is well difpos'd to mifchief, were he prompt
And eager on it; but he must be fpurr'd,
And ev'ry moment quicken'd to the course.
Cato has us'd me ill: he has refus'd
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.
Befides, his baffled arms, and ruin'd cause,
Are bars to my ambition. Cæfar's favour,
That fhow'rs down greatness on his friends, will
To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato,
I claim, in my reward, his captive daughter.
But Syphax comes-
Sy. Sempronius, all is ready.
I've founded my Numidians, man by man,
And find them ripe for a revolt: they all
Complain aloud of Cato's difcipline, [mafter.
And wait but the command to change their
Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to
Ev'n whilst we speak, our conqueror comes on,
And gathers ground upon us ev'ry moment.
Alas! thou know'ft not Cæfar's active foul,
With what a dreadful courfe he rushes on
From war to war. In vain has nature form'd
Mountains and oceans to oppofe his paffage ;
He bounds o'er all; victorious in his march;
The Alps and Pyreneans fink before him;
Thro' winds and waves, and ftorms, he works
Impatient for the battle; one day more
Will fet the victor thund'ring at our gates.
But tell me, haft thou yet drawn o'er young
That ftill would recommend thee more to Cæfar, And challenge better terms.
He's loft, Sempronius! all his thoughts are full
Of Cato's virtues.-But I'll try once more
(For ev'ry inftant I expect him here)
If yet I can fubdue thofe ftubborn principles
Of faith and honour, and I know not what,
That have corrupted his Numidian temper,
And ftruck th' infection into all his foul.
Sem. Be fure to prefs upon him ev'ry matist, Juba's furrender, fince his father's death, Would give up Afric into Cæfar's hands, And make him lord of half the burning zone. Sy. But is it true, Sempronius, that your is
Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious, Cato has piercing eyes, and will difcern [2. Our frauds, unless they're cover'd thick w
Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax; I'll concen My thoughts in paffion ('tis the foreft way); I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country, And mouth at Cæfar, 'till I fhake the fenate. Your cold hypocrify 's a ftale device, A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought it earnest,
Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury Sy. In troth, thou'rt able to inftru&t grey ha And teach the wily African deceit.
Sem. Once more be fure to try thy skill on Jub Mean while I'll haften to my Roman fold.ers, Inflame the mutiny, and underhand Blow up their difcontents, till they break ont Unlook'd for, and difcharge themselves on Ca Remember, Syphax, we must work in hafte: O think what anxious moments pass between The birth of plots and their laft fatal periods, O, 'tis a dreadful interval of time Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death! Deftruction hangs on ev'ry word we speak, On ev'ry thought; till the concluding stroke Determines all, and closes our design.
Sy. I'll try if I can yet reduce to reason This headftrong youth, and make him spurn Cato.
The time is fhort, Cæfar comes rufting on u But hold! young Juba fees me, and approaches, Enter Juba.
Jub. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone, I have obferv'd of late thy looks are fall'n, O'ercaft with gloomy cares and discontent. Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee tell me, What are the thoughts that knit thy brow it frowns,
And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince
Sy. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts, Or carry fmiles and funfhine in my face, When difcontent fits heavy at my heart; I have not yet so much the Roman in me.
Jub. Why doft thou caft out fuch ungen'rou
Against the lords and fovereigns of the world!
Doft thou not fee mankind fall down before them,
And own the force of their fuperior virtue?
Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,
dt our barren rocks, and burning fands,
t does not tremble at the Roman name?
. Gods! where's the worth that fets thefe
ve her own Numidia's tawny fons ?
bey with tougher finews bend the bow?
es the jav'lin fwifter to its mark,
ch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm ?
→ like our a&tive African inftru&ts
fiery fteed, and trains him to his hand !
uides in troops th' embattl'd elephant,
n with war? Thefe, thefe are arts, my
hich your Zama does not ftoop to Rome.
b. These are all virtues of a meaner rank,
ctions that are plac'd in bones and nerves.
ɔman foul is bent on higher views :
ivilize the rude, unpolish'd world,
lay it under the restraint of laws ;,
ake man mild, and fociable to man;
altivate the wild licentious favage,
wifdom, difcipline, and lib'ral arts,
embellishments of life: virtues like thefe
human nature fhine, reform the foul,
break our fierce barbarians into men.
. Patience, kind Heavens! excufe an old
Where fhall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
Heavens! with what ftrength, what fteadiness
t are these wond'rous civilizing arts,
Roman polish, and this smooth behaviour,
render man thus tractable and tame ?
hey not only to disguise our passions,
t our looks at variance with our thoughts,
heck the starts and fallies of the foul,
break off all its commerce with the tongue:
ort, to change us into other creatures
what our nature and the gods defign'd us.
b. To ftrike thee dumb-turn up thy eyes
He triumphs in the midst of all his fuff 'rings!
How does he rife against a load of woes,
And thank the gods that throws the weight upon
Sy. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of
I think the Romans call it Stoicifm.
Had not your royal father thought fo highly
Of Roman virtue and of Cato's caufe,
He had not fall'n by a flave's hand inglorious:
Nor would his flaughter'd army now have lain
On Afric fands, disfigur'd with their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.
Jub. Why dost thou call my forrows up afresh?
My father's name brings tears into my eyes.
Sy. O that you'd profit by your father's ills!
Jub. What wouldst thou have me do?
Sy. Abandon Cato.
Jub. Syphax, I should be more than twice an
By fuch a lofs.
Sy. Ay, there's the tie that binds you!
You long to call him father. Marcia's charms
Work in your heart unfeen, and plead for Cato.
No wonder you are deaf to all I fây.
Jub. Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate;
I've hitherto permitted it to rave,
And talk at large; but learn to keep it in,
Left it should take more freedom than I'll give it.
e mayft thou fee to what a godlike height Roman virtues lift up mortal man. le good and juft, and anxious for his friends, till feverely bent against himself; uncing fleep, and reft, and food, and eafe, rives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat; when his fortune fets before him all pomps and pleasures that his foul can wifh, igid virtue will accept of none. . Believe me, prince, there's not an African t traverses our vaft Numidian deferts aeft of prey, and lives upon his bow, better practices thefe boafted virtues : fe are his meals, the fortune of the chace ; dft the running ftream he flakes his thirst; sall the day, and at the approach of night he first friendly bank he throws him down, efts his head upon a rock till morn; n rifes fresh, purfues his wonted game; if the following day he chance to find ew repaft, or an untafted fpring, es his ftars, and thinks it luxury.
b. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't difcern at virtues grow from ignorance and choice, how the hero differs from the brute. grant that others could with equal glory K down on pleasures, and the baits of fenfe,
Sy. Sir, your great father never us'd me thus.
Alas, he's dead! but can you e'er forget
The tender forrows, and the pangs of nature,
The fond embraces, and repeated bleffings,
Which you drew from him in your last farewell?.
Still muft I cherish the dear fad remembrance,
At once to torture and to please my foul.
The good old king at parting wrung my hand
(His eyes brim-full of tears); then fighing, cried,
Pry'thee be careful of my fon!His grief
Swell'd up fo high, he could not utter more.
Jub. Alas, thy ftory melts away my foul !
That beft of fathers! how fhall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him?
Sy. By laying up his counfels in your heart.
Jub. His counfels bade me yield to thy di
Then, Syphax, chide me in feverest terms ;
Vent all thy paffion, and I'll ftand its shock
Calm and unruffled as a fummer fea,
When not a breath of wind flies o'er its furface.
Sy. Alas, my prince! I'd guide you to your
Jub. I do believe thou wouldft; but tell me
Sy. Fly from the fate that follows Cæfar's foes,
Jub. My father scorn'd to do it.
Sy. And therefore died.
Jub. Better to die ten thousand deaths,
Than wound my honour.
Sy. Rather fay, your love.
Jub. Syphax, I've promifed to preserve my
Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame
I long have ftifled, and would fain conceal?