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My knight; and ever, as thou didst to-day,
With happy valour guard the life of Randolph.
Lord Ran. Well haft thou spoke. Let me for-
bid reply.
[To Norval.
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 doubtless, of their lord's delay.
Go with me, Norval; and thine eyes fhall fee
The chofen warriors of thy native land,
Who languish for the fight, and beat the air
With brandish'd fwords.

Norv. Let us be gone, my lord.

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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 display'd
The cross 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

down,

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 Chriftian knew
Of war's vaft art, was to this hermit known.

Unhappy man!

Returning homewards by Meffina's port,
Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won,
A rude and boift'rous captain of the fea
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 name lefs 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.

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

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low'rs,

And heavily in clouds brings on the day;
The great, th' important day, big with the fatt
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 Cæfar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy;
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 curie,

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.
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:
brightness!

His fuff'rings thine, and fpread a glory round
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the caule [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
Cato do

Against a world, a bafe degenerate world,
That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæ-
Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms
[lar?
A poor epitome of Roman greatnefs;
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 search;
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, didft thou taste but half the griefs That wring my foul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly.

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
rival;

But I muft hide it, for I know thy temper. [Afide.
Now Marcus, now thy virtue's on the proot :
Put forth thy utmost strength, work ev'ry nerve,
And call up all thy father in thy foul.

To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart
On this weak fide, where moft 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 confess his father.
Love is not to be reafon'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 pulse :
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:
His eyes, his looks, his actions, all betray it:
But ftill the fmother'd fondnefs bus within him:
When most it fwells, and labours for a vent,
The fenfe of honour and defire of fame
Drive the big passion back into his heart.
What? fhall an African, fhall Juba's heir,
Reproach great Cato's fon, and fhew the world
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 diftance,
And thrown me out in the purfuits of honour?
Por. Marcus, I know thy gen'rous temper well,
Fling but th' appearance of dishonour on it,
It ftraight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.
Marc. A brother's fuff'rings claim a bro-
ther's pity.

Por, Heaven knows I pity thee. Behold my

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eyes

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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
With fudden gufts, and finks as soon in calms,
The fport of paffions. But Sempronius comes:
He must not find this foftnefs hanging on me.
[Ex. Marc.

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.

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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
ling'ring here

his

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 roufe up all that's Roman in 'em.
'Tis not in mortals to command fuccefs,
But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it.
[Exit.
Sem. Curfe on the ftripling! how he apes
Ambitiously fententious!-But I wonder [fire,
Old Syphax comes not: his Numidian genius
Is well difpos'd to mischief, were he prompt
And eager on it; but he must be spurr'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 show'rs down greatnefs on his friends, will
raife me

To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato,
I claim, in my reward, his captive daughter.
But Syphax comes

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,
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
his way,

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
Juba?

That ftill would recommend thee more to Cæfar,
And challenge better terms.

S. Alas, he's loft!

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 why,
That have corrupted his Numidian temper,
And ftruck th' infection into all his foul.

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,
I have obferv'd of late thy looks are fall'n,
O'ercaft with gloomy cares and difcontent.
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 fach ungen'rout

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Amidft our barren rocks, and burning fands,
That does not tremble at the Roman name?

Sy. Gods! where's the worth that fets thefe people up

Above her own Numidia's tawny fons?
Do they with tougher finews bend the bow?
Or flies the jav'lin fwifter to its mark,
Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm ?
Who like our a&tive African inftructs
The fiery fleed, and trains him to his hand !
Or guides in troops th' embattl'd elephant,
Laden with war? Thefe, thefe are arts, my
prince,

In which your Zama does not ftoop to Rome.
Jub. Thefe are all virtues of a meaner rank,
Perfections that are plac'd in bones and nerves.
A Roman foul is bent on higher views :
To civilize the rude, unpolish'd world,
And lay it under the refraint of laws;
To make man mild, and fociable to man;
To cultivate the wild licentious favage,
With wifdom, difcipline, and lib'ral arts,
Th' embellishments of life: virtues like these
Make human nature fhine, reform the foul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.

Sy. Patience, kind Heavens! excufe an old
man's warmth.

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,

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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.
Jub. His counfels bade me yield to thy di-

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.
Abfence might cure it; or a fecond mistress
Light up another flame, and put out this.
The glowing dames of Zama's royal court
Have faces Aufh'd with more exalted charms;
The fun, that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,
Works up more fire and colour in their checks,
Were you with thefe, my prince, you'd foon for-
The pale, unripen'd beauties of the North. [get.
Jub. 'Tis not a fet of features or complexion.
The tincture of a fkin, that I admire :
Beauty foon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eye, and palls upon the fenfe.
The virtuous Marcia towers above her fex;
True, he is fair-O how divinely fair!
But ftill the lovely maid improves her charms
With inward greatness, unaffected wildom,
And fanctity of manners; Cato's foul
Shines out in every thing the acts or fpeaks,
While winning mildneís and attractive Imiles
Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace
Soften the rigour of her father's virtue.

Sy. How does your tongue grow wanton in
her praise!

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
beauty smooth

The face of war, and make even horror finile !
At fight of thee my heart shakes off its forrows;
I feel a dawn of joy break in upon me,
And for a while forget the approach of Cæfar.
Mar. I fhould be griev'd, young prince, to
think my presence
[arms,
Unbent your thoughts, and flacken'd 'em to
While, warm with laughter, our victorious foe
Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field.

Jub. O Marcia, let me hope thy kind concern
And gentle wishes follow me to battle!
The thought will give new vigour to my arm,
Add ftrength and weight to my defcending fword,
And drive it in a tempeft on the foe.

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,
And fire their languid fouls with Cato's virtue.
If e'er I lead them to the field, when all
The war fhall ftand rang'd in its jutt array,
And dreadful pomp; then will I think on thee,
O lovely maid! then will I think on the
And, in the fhock of charging hofts, remember
What glorious deeds should grace the man who
hopes
[Exit Juba,
Luc. Marcia, you're too fevere:
How could you chide the young good-natur'è
prince,

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,
When ev'ry moment Cato's life's at stake?
Cæfar comes arm'd with terror and revenge,
And aims his thunder at my father's head.
Should not the fad occafion iwallow up
My other cares, and draw them all into it?

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 !

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