My knight; and ever, as thou didst to-day, Norv. Let us be gone, my lord. BENEATH a mountain's brow, the most remote down, And all the live-long day difcourfe of war. Unhappy man! Returning homewards by Meffina's port, 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. THIS is the place, the centre of the grote Here ftands the oak, the monarch of the wo How fweet and folemn is this midnight fcene! The filver moon, unclouded, holds her way Thro' fkies, where I could count each little ftar. The fanning weft-wind fcarcely ftirs the leaves; The river, rushing o'er its pebbled bed, Impofes filence with a ftilly found. In iuch 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 flate ' Once on the cold and winter-fhaded fide Of a bleak hill mifchance 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 Dant To give a bold defiance to our hoft! Before he speaks it out, I will accept : Like DOUGLAS conquer, or like DOUGLAS die low'rs, And heavily in clouds brings on the day; Marc. Thy fteady temper, Portius, His horfe's hoofs wet with patrician blood! Some Some hidden thunder in the ftores of Heaven, Red with uncommon wrath, to blaft the man Who owes his greatnefs to his country's ruin? Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatnefs, And mix'd with too much horror to be envied. His fuff'rings thine, and fpread a glory round Against a world, a bafe degenerate world, Por. Remember what our father oft has told us. Marc. Thefe are fuggeftions of a mind at eafe; O Portius, didft thou taste but half the griefs That wring my foul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly. Paffion unpitied, and fuccessful love, But I muft hide it, for I know thy temper. [Afide. To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart Of thickelt foes, and ruth on certain death, 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. Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave ftings behind 'em. Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, fhew Por, Heaven knows I pity thee. Behold my eyes Ev'n whil? I fpeak-do they not fwim 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, inftead 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 of friends! Pardon a weak, diftemper'd foul, that fwells Enter Sempronius. Sem. Confpiracies no fooner fhould be form'd Than executed. What means Portius here? like not that cold youth. I must dissemble, And speak a language foreign to my heart. I [Afide. Good-morrow, Portius; let us once embrace, Once more embrace, while yet we both are free. To-morrow, fhould we thus exprefs our friendEach might receive a flave into his arms. [fhip, This fun, perhaps, this morning's fun, 's the laft That e'er fhall rife on Roman liberty. Por. My father has this morning call'd together To this poor hall his little Roman fenate, 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.. [it, Sem. Not all the pomp and majefty of Rome Can raife her fenate more than Cato's prefence. His virtues render our assembly awful," They ftrike with fomething like religious fear, And make e'en Cæfar tremble at the head Of armies flush'd with conqueft. O my Portius, Could I but call that wondrous man my father. Would but thy fifter Marcia be propitious To thy friend's vows, I might be bleft indeed! Por. 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; his On this important hour-I'll ftraight away; To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato, Enter Syphax. 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 wafte; Ev'n whilst we fpeak, our conqueror comes on, Impatient for the battle; one day more That ftill would recommend thee more to Cæfar, S. Alas, he's loft! He's loft, Sempronius! all his thoughts are full Sem. Be sure to prefs upon him ev'ry matite, Juba's furrender, fince his father's death, Would give up Afric into Cæsar's hands, And make him lord of half the burning zone. Sy. But is it true, Sempronius, that your i nate Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious, Cato has piercing eyes, and will difcern [27. Our frauds, unless they're cover'd thick w Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax; I'll conce 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 inftruct grey hair.. And teach the wily African deceit. Sem. Once more be fure to try thy skill on Jubr Mean while I'll haften to my Roman folders, Inflame the mutiny, and underhand Blow up their difcontents, till they break out Unlook'd for, and difcharge themselves on Ca Remember, Syphax, we must work in hafte: O think what anxious moments pafs 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. [Ext. Sy. I'll try if I can yet reduce to reason This headftrong youth, and make him spura z Cato. The time is fhort, Cæfar comes rufting on v But hold! young Juba fees me, and approaches, Enter Juba. Jub. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone, And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince Amidft our barren rocks, and burning fands, Sy. Gods! where's the worth that fets thefe people up Above her own Numidia's tawny fons? In which your Zama does not ftoop to Rome. Sy. Patience, kind Heavens! excufe an old Where fhall we find the man that bears affiction, Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato? Heavens! with what ftrength, what fteadiness of mind, 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 him! [foul; 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. There mayft thou fee to what a godlike height The Roman virtues lift up mortal man. While good and juft, and anxious for his friends, He's ftill feverely bent against himself; Renouncing fleep, and reft, and food, and eafe, He ftrives with thirft and hunger, toil and heat; And when his fortune fets before him all The pomps and pleasures that his foul can wifh, His rigid virtue will accept of none. Believe me, prince, there's not an African That traveries our vaft Numidian deferts In queft of prey, and lives upon his bow, But better practices thefe boafted virtues : 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 t Jub. What wouldst thou have me do? Sy. Abandon Cato. Jub. Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan 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 fay. 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. 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. rections: Then, Syphax,_chide me in severest terms; Vent all thy paffion, and I'll ftand its shock Corie are his meals, the fortune of the chace; Calm and unruffled as a fummer fea, Amidft the running stream he flakes his thirft; Toils all the day, and at the approach of night On the first friendly bank he throws him down, refts his head upon a rock till morn; Ог en rifes fresh, purfues his wonted game; And if the following day he chance to find new repaft, or an untafted spring, A B les his ftars, and thinks it luxury. Jub. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't difcern hat virtues grow from ignorance and choice, or how the hero differs from the brute. ut grant that others could with equal glory ook down on pleasures, and the baits of fenfe, When not a breath of wind flies o'er its furface. Sy. Alas, my prince! I'd guide you to your fafety. [how, Jub. I do believe thou wouldft; but tell me Sy. Fly from the fate that follows Cæfar's foci, Jub. My father fcorn'd to do it. Sy. And therefore died. Jub. Better to die ten thoufand deaths, Than wound my honour. Sy. Rather fay, your love. [temper Jub. Syphax, I've promifed to preferve my Why wilt thou urge me to confefs a flame I long have ftifled, and would fail. conceal ? Sy. Sy. Believe me, prince, tho' hard to conquer love, 'Tis easier to divert and break its force. Sy. How does your tongue grow wanton in But on my knees I beg you would confiderJub. Hah! Syphax, is't not she ?—She moves this way: And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter. My heart beats thick-I pr'ythee, Syphax, leave me. Sy. Ten thousand curfes faften on 'em both! Now will this woman, with a fingle glance, Undo what I've been lab'ring all this while. [Exit Syphax. Enter Marcia and Lucia. Jub. Hail, charming maid! how does thy The face of war, and make even horror finile ! Jub. O Marcia, let me hope thy kind concern Mar. My pray'rs and wifhes always shall attend The friends of Rome, the glorous caufe of virtue, The men approv'd of by the gods and Cato. Jub. That Juba may deferve thy pious cares, I'll gaze for ever on thy godlike father, Tranfplanting, one by one, into my life His bright perfections, till I fhine like him. Mar. My father never at a time like this Would lay out his great foul in words, and wafte Buch precious moments, Jub. Thy reproofs are juft, Thou virtuous maid! I'll haften to my troops, For Marcia's love. And drive him from you with so ftern an air, A prince that loves and dotes on you to death? Mar. 'Tis therefore, Lucia, that I chide him from me. His air, his voice, his looks, and honeft foul, Speak all fo movingly in his behalf, I dare not trust myself to hear him talk. Luc. Why will you fight against fo fweet: paflion, And feel your heart to fuch a world of charm. Mar. How, Lucia! wouldst thou have m fink away In pleafing dreams, and lofe myfelf in love, Luc. Why have not I this conftancy of mind, Who have fo many griefs to try its force? Sure, nature form'd me of her softeft mould, Enfeebled all my foul with tender paffions, And funk me even below my own weak fex: Pity and love, by turns, opprefs my heart. Mar. Lucia, difburthen all thy cares on t And let me fhare thy most retir'd diftrefs. Tell me who raifes up this conflict in thee? Luc. I need not blush to name them, wheɛ ! |