From whom, to a soul so sensible as mine, Each single scorn would be far worse than dying: Besides, I 'scape the stings of my own consience, Which will for ever rack me with remembrance, Haunt me by day, and torture me by night, Casting my blotted honor in the way Where'er my melancholy thoughts shall guide

me.

Brut. But is not death a very dreadful thing? Tit. Not to a mind resolv'd. No, sir, to me It seems as natural as to be born:

Groans, and convulsions, and discolor'd faces,
Friends weeping round us, blacks and obsequies,
Make it a dreadful thing; the pomp of death
Is far more terrible than death itself.
Yes, Sir, I call the pow'rs of heav'n to witness,
Titus dares die, if so you have decreed;
Nay, he shall die with joy to honor Brutus,
To make your justice famous thro' the world,
And fix the liberty of nome for ever.
Not but I must confess my weakness too;
Yet it is great thus to resolve against it,
To have the frailty of a mortal man,
But the security of the immortal gods.

Brut. O Titus! O thou absolute young man!
Thou flatt'ring mirror of thy father's image,
Where I behold myself at such advantage!
Thou perfect glory of the Junian race!
Let me endear thee once more to my bosom,
Groan an eternal farewell to thy soul;
Instead of tears, weep blood, if possible,
Blood, the heart-blood of Brutus on his child:
For thou must die, iny Titus, die, my son;
I swear the gods have doom'd thee to the grave:
The violated genius of thy country
Rears his sad head, and passes sentence on thee:
This morning sun, that lights my sorrows on
To the tribunal of this horrid vengeance,
Shall never see thee more.

Why all these trappings for a traitor's hearse? The gods will have it so.

Brut. They will, my Titus:

Nor heaven nor earth can have it otherwise.
Nay, Titus, mark: the deeper that I search,
My harass'd soul returns the more confirm'd;
Methinks I see the very hand of Jove
Moving the dreadful wheels of this affair,
That whirl thee, like a machine, to thy fate.
It seems as if the gods had pre-ordain'd it,
To fix the reeling spirits of the people,
And settle the loose liberty of Rome.
'Tis fix'd; O therefore let not fancy fond thee:
So fix'd thy death, that it is not in the pow r
Of gods or men to save thee from the axe.
Tit. The axe! O Heaven! then must I fall
so basely?

What, shall I perish by the common hangman? Brut. If thou deny me this, thou giv'st me nothing.

Yes, Titus, since the gods have so decreed That I must lose thee, I will take the advantage Of thy important fate, cement Rome's flaws,

And heal her wounded freedom with thy blood:
I will ascend myself the sad tribunal,
And sit upon my sons; on thee, my Titus;
Behold thee suffer all the shame of death,
The lictor's lashes, bleed before the people;
Then with thy hopes, and all thy youth upon
thee,

See thy head taken by the common axe,
Without a groan, without one pitying tear,
If that the gods can hold me to my purpose,
To make my justice quite transcend example.
Tit. Scourg'd like a bondman! ah! a beaten
slave!

But I deserve it all; yet here I fail!
The image of this suff'ring quite unmans me;
Nor can I longer stop the gushing tears.
O, Sir! O, Brutus! must I call you father,
Yet have no token of your tenderness ?
No sign of mercy? What, not bate me that!
Can you resolve, O all th' extremity
Of cruel rigor! to behold me too?
To sit unmov'd, and see me whipt to death!
Where are your bowels now? Is this a father?
Ah, Sir, why should you make my heart suspect
That all your late compassion was dissembled?
How can I think that you did ever love me?

Brut. Think that I love thee by my present

passion,

By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here,
These sighs, that twitch the very strings of life:
Think that no other cause on earth can move me
To tremble thus, to sob, or shed a tear,
Nor shake my solid virtue from her point,
But Titus' death: O do not call it shameful,
That thus shall fix the glory of the world.
I own thy suff'rings ought t'unman me thus,
To make me throw my body on the ground,
To bellow like a beast, to gnaw the earth,
To tear my hair, to curse the cruel fates,
That force a father thus to drag his bowels.

Tit. O rise, thou violated majesty!
Rise from the earth, or I shall beg those fates
Which you would curse, to bolt me to the centre.
I now submit to all your threaten'd vengeance:
Come forth, you executioners of justice,
Nay, all your lictors, slaves, and common hang-

fall,

For want of spirits, grovelling in the dust, Then take my head, and give it his revenge; By all the gods, I greedily resign it!

Brut. No more-farewell, eternally farewell! If there be gods, they will reserve a room, A throne for thee in heaven. One last embrace! What is it makes thy eyes thus swim again? Tit. I had forgot: be good to Teraminta When I am in ashes.

Brut. Leave her to my care. See her thou must not, for thou canst not bear it. O for one more, this pull, this tug of heartstrings!

Farewell for ever!

Tit. O Brutus! O my father! Brut. Canst thou not say farewell?

Tit. Farewell for ever!

Brut. Forever then! but O, my tears run o'er; Groans choak my words, and I can speak no

more.

$44. Lady Randolph, Lord Randolph, and young Norval, not known at the time to be Lady Randolph's Son. HOME.

Lady Ran. How fares my lord?

Lord Ran. That it fares well, thanks to this
gallant youth,

Whose valor sav'd me from a wretched death.
As down the winding dale I walk'd alone,
At the cross way four armed men attacked me,
Rovers I judge from the licentious camp,
Who would have quickly laid Lord Randolph
low,

Had not this brave and generous stranger come,
Like my good angel, in the hour of tate,
And, mocking danger, made my foes his own.
They turn'd upon him: but his active arm
Struck to the ground, from whence they rose

no more,

The fiercest two: the others fled amain,
And left him master of the bloody field.
Speak, Lady Randolph; upon beauty's tongue
Dwell accents pleasing to the brave and bold.
Speak, noble damne, and thank him for thy lord.
Lady Ran. My lord, I cannot speak what
now I feel.

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 side against such fearful odds. Have you yet learnt of him whom we should thank,

Whom call the saviour of Lord Randolph's life? Lord Ran. I ask'd that question, and he answer'd not;

But I must know who my deliverer is.

[To the Stranger. Norv. A low-born man, of parentage obscure, Who nought can boast but his desire to be A soldier, and to gain a name in arms.

Lord Ran. Whoe'er thou art, thy spirit is

ennobled

By the great King of kings: thou art ordain'd
And stamp'd a hero by the sovereign hand
Of nature! Blush not, flow'r of modesty
As well as valor, to declare thy birth.

Norv My name is Norval: on the Grampian
Hills

My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep is only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles: and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord;
And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon, which rose last night round as my
shield,

Had not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians from the hills
Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds

Aed

For safety, and for succour. I alone,
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd
The road he took: then hasted to my friends;
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe.
We fought and conquer'd. Ere a sword was
drawn,

An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief,
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd
The shepherd's slothful life: and having heard
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps:
Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master.
Journeyingwith this intent, I pass'd these tow'rs;
And, heaven-directed, came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name.
Lord Kan. He is as wise as brave; was ever
tale

With such a gallant modesty rehears'd?
My brave deliv'rer! thou shalt enter now
A nobler list; and, in a monarch's sight,
Contend with princes for the prize of fame.
I will present thee to our Scottish king,
Whose valiant spirit ever valor lov'd.
Ha! my Matilda! wherefore starts that tear?
Lady Ran. I cannot say; for various affec-

tions,

And strangely mingled, in my bosom swell:
Yet each of them may well command a tear.
I joy that thou art safe; and I admire
Him, and his fortunes, who hath wrought thy
safety;

Yea, as my mind predicts, with thine his own.
Obscure and friendless, he the army sought;
Bent upon peril, in the range of death
Resolv'd to hunt for fame, and with his sword
To gain distinction which his birth denied.
In this attempt unknown he might have pe-
rish'd,

And gain'd with all his valor but oblivion.
Now grac'd by thee, his virtue serves no more
Beneath despair. The soldier now of hope,
He stands conspicuous: faine and great renown
Are brought within the compass of his sword.
On this my inind reflected, whilst you spoke,
And bless'd the wonder-working hand of Hea-

ven.

Lord Ran. Pious and grateful ever are thy thoughts!

My deeds shall follow where thou point'st the way.

Next to myself, and equal to Glenalvon,
In honor and command shall Norval be.

Norv. I know not how to thank you: rude I

am

In speech and manners: never till this hour Stood I in such a presence: yet, my lord, There's something in my breast which makes me bold

To say, that Norval ne'er will shame thy favor. Lady Ran. I will be sworn thou wilt not. Thou shalt be

My knight; and ever, as thou didst to-day,
With happy valor guard the life of Randolph.
Lord Ran. Well hast thou spoke. Let me
forbid reply.
[To Norval.
We are thy debtors still; thy high desert
O'ertops our gratitude. I must proceed,
As was at first intended, to the camp;
Some of my train, I see, are speeding hither,
Impatient doubtless of their lord's delay.
Go with me, Norval; and thine eyes shall see
The chosen warriors of thy native land,
Who languish for the fight, and beat the air
With brandish'd swords.

Norv. Let us begone, my lord.

And inaccessible 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.
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,
Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherds' alms.
I went to see him; and my heart was touch'd
With reverence and with pity. Mild he spake,
And ent'ring on discourse, such stories told,
As made me oft revisit his sad cell.
For he had been a soldier in his youth;
And fought in famous battles, when the peers
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,
Against the usurping infidel display'd
The cross of Christ, and won the Holy Land.
Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire
His speech struck from me, the old man would

shake.

His years away, and act his young encounters: Then, having show'd his wounds, he'd sit him

down,

And all the live-long day discourse of war.
To help my fancy, in the sinooth green turf
He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts;
Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use
Of the deep column, and the lengthen'd line,
The square, the crescent, and phalanx firm;
For all that Saracen or Christian knew
Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known.

Unhappy man!

Returning homewards by Messina's port,
Loaded with wealth and honors bravely won,
A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea
Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought;
The stranger fell; and with his dying breath,
Deciar'd his name and lineage. Mighty God!
The soldier cried, my brother! O my brother!
They exchang'd forgiveness:
And happy, in my mind, was he that died;
For many deaths nas the surviver suffer’d.
In the wild descrt on a rock he sits,
Upon some nameless stream'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 ghost;

And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch, To make sad orisons for him he slew.

$46. Douglas's Soliloquy in the Wood, wailing for Lady Randolph, after he was known to be her Son. HOME.

THIS is the place, the centre of the grove. Here stands the oak, the monarch of the wood! How sweet and solemn is this midnight scene! The silver moon, unclouded, holds her way Thro' skies, where I could count each little star. The fanning west-wind scarcely stirs the leaves; The river, rushing o'er its pebbled bed, Imposes silence with a stilly sound. In such a place as this, at such an hour, If ancestry can be in aught believ'd, Descending spirits have convers'd with man, And told the secrets of the world unknown.

Eventful day! how hast thou chang'd my state!
Once on the cold and winter-shaded side
Of a bleak hill mischance had rooted me,
Never to thrive, child of another soil;
Transplanted now to the gay sunny vale,
Like the green thorn of May, my fortune flow'rs.
Yeglorious stars! high heaven's resplendent host!
To whom I oft have of my lot complain'd,
Hear, and record my soul's unalter'd wish!
Dead or alive, let me but be renown'd!
May Heav'n inspire some 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 die.

§ 47. CATO. ADDISON.

ACT I.

Enter Portius and Marcus.

Por. THE dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs,

And heavily in clouds brings on the day;
The great, th' important day, big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome-our father's death

Would fill up all the guilt of civil war,
And close the scene of blood Already Cæsar
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees
Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword:
Should he go farther, numbers would be want-

ing

To form new battles and support his crimes. Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make Among your works!

Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius, Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar, In the calin Tights 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 Pharsalia rises to my view!-I sce

Th' insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field, Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter,

His horse's hoofs wet with patrician blood!
O Portius! is there not some chosen curse,

Some hidden thunder in the stores of Heaven, | Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin? Por. Believe nie, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness,

And mix'd with too much horror to be envied. How does the lustre of our father's actions, Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness!

His suff'rings shine, and spread a glory round him:

Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honor, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppression, tyranny, and pow'r usurp'd,
Drew all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em.
Marc. Who knows not this? But what can
Cato do

Against a world, a base, degenerate world, That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæsar?

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 senate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
By Heav'n, such virtues, join'd with such success,
Distract my very soul: our father's fortune
Would almost 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,
Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search;
Nor sees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confusion ends. [ease;

Marc These are suggestions of a mind at O Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly.

Passion unpitied, and successless love,
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but iny Lucia kind-
Por. Thou see'st not that thy brother is thy
rival;
[Aside.

But I must hide it, for I know thy temper.
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 soul.
To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart
On this weak side, where most our nature fails,
Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son. [take,
Marc. Portius, the counsel which I cannot
Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Bid me for honor plunge into a war

Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death,
Then shalt thou see that Marcus is not slow
To follow glory, and confess his father.
Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost
In high ambition, or a thirst of greatness:
"Tis second life, it grows into the soul,
Warms ev'ry vein, and beats in ev'ry pulse:
I feel it here: my resolution melts.

[prince, Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian 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 sister Marcia, greatly loves her:
His eyes, his looks, his actions, all betray it:
Butstill thesmother'd fondness burns within him:
When most it swells, and labors for a vent,
The sense of honor and desire of fame
Drive the big passion back into his heart.
What! shall an African, shaft Juba's heir,
Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman soul?

Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind 'em.

Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius show
A virtue that has cast me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honor?
Por. Marcus, I know thy gen'rous temper
well.

Fling but th' appearance of dishonor on it,
It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.
Marc. A brother's suff'rings claim a brother's
[eyes

pity.

Por. Heaven knows I pity thee. Behold my E'en whilst I speak-do they not swim in tears? Were but my heart as naked to thy view, Marcus would see it bleed in his behalf.

Marc. Why then dost treat me with rebukes, instead

Of kind condoling cares, and friendly sorrow? 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 best of brothers, and thou best

of friends!

Pardon a weak, distemper'd soul, that swells With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in calms, The sport of passions. But Sempronius comes: He must not find this softness hanging on me. [Ex. Marc.

Enter Sempronius.

Sem. Conspiracies no sooner should be form'd Than executed. What means Portius here? I like not that cold youth. I must dissemble, And speak a language foreign to my heart.

[Aside Good-morrow, Portius; let us once enibrace, Once more embrace, while yet we both are free. To-morrow, should we thus express our friendEach might receive a slave into his arms.[ship, This sun, perhaps, this morning's sun's the last That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty.

Por. My father has this morning call'd togeTo this poor hall his little Roman senate, [ther The leavings of Pharsalia, to consult If yet he can oppose the mighty torrent That bears down Rome and all her gods before it, Or must at length give up the world to Cæsar.

Sem. Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome Can raise her senate more than Cato's presence. His virtues render our assembly awful, They strike with something like religious fear, And make e'en Cæsar tremble at the head Ofarmies flush'd with conquest. O my Portius, Could I but call that wondrous man my father, Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious To thy friend's vows, I might be blest indeed!

Por. Alas, Sempronius! wouldst thou talk of love

To Marcia, whilst her father's life's in danger? Thou mightst as well court the pale trembling vestal,

When she beholds the holy flame expiring.
Sem. The more I see the wonders of thy race,
The more I'm charm'd. Thou must take heed,
my Portius;

The world has all its eyes on Cato's son ;
Thy father's merits set thee up to view,
And show thee in the fairest point of light,
To make thy virtues or thy faults conspicuous.
Por. Well dost thou seem to check my ling-
'ring here

On this important hour-I'll straight away;
And while the fathers of the senate meet
In close debate, to weigh the events of war,
I'll animate the soldiers' drooping courage
With love of freedom, and contempt of life;
I'll thunder in their ears their country's cause,
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 deserve it.
[Exit.
Sem. Curse on the stripling! how he apes

his sire,

Ambitiously sententious!-But I wonder
Old Syphax comes not: his Numidian genius
Is well disposed 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.
Besides, his baffled arms, and ruin'd cause,
Are bars to my ambition. Cæsar's favor,
That show'rs down greatness on his friends, will

raise me

To Rome's first honors. 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 sounded my Numidians, man by man,
And find them ripe for a revolt: they all
Complain aloud of Cato's discipline,

And wait but the command to change their

master.

Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste;

E'en whilst we speak, our conqueror comes on, And gathers ground upon us ev'ry moment. Alas! thou know'st not Cæsar's active soul, With what a dreadful course he rushes on From war to war. In vain has nature form'd Mountains and oceans to oppose his passage; He bounds o'er all, victorious in his march: The Alps and Pyreneans sink before him; Thro' winds and waves, and storms, he works

his way, Impatient for the battle; one day more Will set the victor thund'ring at our gates. But tell me, has thou yet drawn o'er young Juba?

That still would recommend thee more to Cæsar, And challenge better terms.

Sy. Alas, he's lost!

He's lost, Sempronius! all his thoughts are full
Of Cato's virtues.-But I'll try once more
(For ev'ry instant I expect him here)
If yet I can subdue those stubborn principles.
Of faith and bonor, and I know not what,
That have corrupted his Numidian temper,
And struck the infection into all his soul.

|
Sem. Be sure to press upon him ev'ry motive
Juba's surrender, since 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 se-

Meanwhile I'll hasten to my Roman soldiers, Inflame the mutiny, and underhand

Blow up their discontents, till they break out Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato. Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste: O think what anxious moments pass between The birth of plots and their last fatal periods: O, 'tis a dreadful interval of time,

Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death! Destruction hangs on ev'ry word we speak, On ev'ry thought; till the concluding stroke Determines all, and closes our design.

[Exit. Sy. I'll try if I can yet reduce to reason This headstrong youth, and make him spurn at

Cato.

The time is short; Cæsar comes rushing on usBut hold! young Juba sees me, and approaches Enter Juba.

Jub. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone: I have observ'd of late thy looks are fall'n, O'ercast with gloomy cares and discontent. Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee tell me, What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in

frowns,

And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince?

Sy. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts, Or carry smiles and sunshine in my face, When discontent sits heavy at my heart; I have not yet so much the Roman in me.

Jub. Why dost thou cast out such ungen'rous

terms

Against the lords and sovereigns of the world! Dost thou not see mankind fall down before them,

And own the force of their superior virtue?
Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,