Wrestling with vice and faction: now thou seest
Spent, overpowered, despairing of success;
Let me advise thee to retreat betimes
To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field,
Where the great Censor toiled with his own
hands,
And all our frugal ancestors were blessed
In humble virtues, and a rural life;
There live retired, pray for the peace of Rome;
Content thyself to be obscurely good.
When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway,
The post of honour is a private station.
Por. I hope my father does not recommend A life to Portius, that he scorns himself?
Cato. Farewell, my friends! If there be any of you,
Who dare not trust the victor's clemency,
Know there are ships prepared by my command
(Their sails already opening to the winds),
That shall convey you to the wished-for port.
Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for you?
The conqueror draws near. Once more fare-
well!
If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet
In happier climes, and on a safer shore,
Where Cæsar never shall approach us more.
[Pointing to his dead son.
There, the brave youth, with love of virtue fired,
Who greatly in his country's cause expired,
Shall know he conquered. The firm patriot there,
Who made the welfare of mankind his care,
Though still by faction, vice, and fortune crost,
Shall find the generous labour was not lost.
EATO solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture: in
his hand Plato's book on the Immortality of the
Soul. A drawn sword on the table by him.
It must be so-Plato, thou reasonʼst well;
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
Tis Heaven itself, that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! ·
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we
pass?
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before
Through all her works) he must delight in vir
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when! or where this world was made for
Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures-this must end them.
[Laying his hand on his sword.
Thus I am doubly armed: my death, my life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?
Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care,
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her,
That my awakened soul may take her flight,
Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life,
An offering fit for Heaven. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest; Cato knows neither of them; Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.
But, ha! Who's this? my son! Why this intrusion!
Were not my orders that I would be private? Why am I disobeyed?
What means this sword, this instrument of death? Let me convey it hence.
Cato. Rash youth, forbear!
Por. Oh, let the prayers, the intreaties of your friends,
Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from you!
Cato. Wouldst thou betray me? Wouldst thou
give me up
A slave, a captive into Cæsar's hands?
Retire, and learn obedience to a father,
Or know, young man!-
Por. Look not thus sternly on me;
You know I'd rather die than disobey you.
Cato. 'Tis well! again I'm master of myself.
Now, Cæsar, let thy troops beset our gates,
And bar each avenue; thy gathering fleets
O'erspread the sea, and stop up every port;
Cato shall open to himself a passage,
And mock thy hopes-
For. Oh, sir! fo give your son,
Whose grief hangs heavy on him. Oh, my father!
How am I sure it is not the last time
I e'er shall call you so! Be not displeased,
Oh, be not angry with me whilst I weep,
And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you
To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul!
Cato. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful. [Embracing him. Weep not, my son, all will be well again; The righteous gods, whom I have sought to please,
Will succour Cato, and preserve his children. Por. Your words give comfort to my drooping
Luc. Where is your father, Marcia, where is Cato?
Mar. Lucia, speak low, he is retired to rest. Lucia, I feel a gentle dawning hope Rise in my soul. We shall be happy still.
Luc. Alas! I tremble when I think on Cato! In every view, in every thought I tremble! Cato is stern and awful as a god; He knows not how to wink at human frailty, Or pardon weakness that he never felt.
Mar. Though stern and awful to the foes s Rome,
Ile is all goodness, Lucia, always mild, Compassionate and gentle to his friends. Filled with domestic tenderness, the best, The kindest father I have ever found him, Easy and good, and bounteous to my wishes.
Luc. 'Tis his consent alone can make e blessed:
Marcia, we both are equally involved
In the same intricate, perplexed distress.
The cruel hand of Fate, that has destroyed
Thy brother Marcus, whom we both laiment-
Mar. And ever shall lament; unhappy youth
Luc. Has set my soul at large, and now I
But who knows Cato's
stand Loose of my vow. thoughts?
Who knows how yet he may dispose of Portius Or how he has determined of thyself?
Mar. Let him but live, commit the rest to Heaven.
Lucius. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtu
Oh, Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father!
Some power invisible supports his soul,
And bears it up in all its wonted greatness.
A kind refreshing sleep is fallen upon him:
I saw him stretched at ease, his fancy lost
In pleasing dreams; as I drew near his couch,
He smiled, and cried, Cæsar, thou can'st not
hurt me.
Mar: His mind still labours with some dread ful thought.
Lucius. Lucia, why all this grief, these flood of sorrow?
Dry up thy tears, my child; we all are safe While Cato lives his presence will protect us.
Juba. Lucius, the horsemen are returned from viewing
The number, strength, and posture of our foes, Who now encamp within a short hour's march; On the high point of yon bright western tower, We ken them from afar; the setting sun
Plays on their shining arms and burnished helmets,
And covers all the field with gleams of fire. Lucius. Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father;
Cæsar is still disposed to give us terms,
And waits at distance till he hears from Cato.
Portius, thy looks speak somewhat of importance. What tidings dost thou bring? Methinks I see Unusual gladness sparkling in thy eyes.
Por. As I was hasting to the port, where now
My father's friends, impatient for a passage,
Accuse the Ingering winds, a sail arrived
From Pompey's son, who through the realms of
Spein
Calls out for vengeance on his father's death,
And rouses the whole nation up to arms.
Were Cato at their head, once more might Rome
Assert her rights, and claim her liberty.
But, hark! what means that groan! Oh, give me
And let me fly into my father's presence. [Exit. Lucius. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome,
And in the wild disorder of his soul
Obsequious to his order, bear him hither.
Mar. Oh, Heaven! assist me in this dreadful
hour,
To pay the last sad duties to my father!
Juba. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O
Cæsar!
Lucius. Now is Rome fallen indeed!
CATO brought in on a chair.
Cato. Here set me down
Portius, come near me-Are my friends embarked?
Can any thing be thought of for their service?
Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain,
Oh, Lucius, art thou here? Thou art too good-
Let this our friendship live between our chil-
dren;
Make Port us happy in thy daughter Lucia.
Alas! poor man, he weeps! Marcia, my daugh-
But Cæsar's arms have thrown down all distinction;
Whoe'er is brave and virtuous is a Roman-
I'm sick to death-Oh, when shall I get loose
From this vain world, the abode of guilt and sor-
row!
And yet, methinks, a beam of light breaks in
On my departing soul. Alas, I fear
Mourns o'er his country. Ha! a second groan- I've been too hasty. Oh, ye powers, that search
The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts, If I have done amiss, impute it not!
The best may err, but you are good, and—Oh!
Lucius. There fled the greatest soul that ever
A Roman breast; oh, Cato! oh, my friend!
Thy will shall be religiously observed.
But let us bear this awful corse to Cæsar,
And lay it in his sight, that it
may stand
A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath;
Cato, though dead, shall still protect his friends.
From hence, let fierce contending nations know
What dire effects from civil discord flow:
'Tis this that shakes our country with alarms,
And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms,
Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife,
And robs the guilty world of Cato's life.
We hate you when you're easily said nay.
How needless, if you knew us, were your fears!
Let love have eyes, and beauty will have ears.
Our hearts are form'd, as you yourselves would
choose,
Too proud to ask, too humble to refuse:
We give to merit, and to wealth we sell,
He sighs with most success that settles well.
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix:
'Tis best repenting in a coach and six.
Blame not our conduct, since we but pursue
These lively lessons we have learnt from you.
Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms,
But wicked wealth usurps the pow'r of charms.
What pains to get the gaudy things you hate,
To swell in shew, and be a wretch in state!
At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow;
E'en churches are no sanctuaries now:
There golden idols all your vows receive,
She is no goddess that has nought to give.
Oh, may once more the happy age appear,
When words were artless, and the thoughts sin
When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things,
And courts less coveted than groves and springs!
Love then shall only mourn when truth com
plains,
And constancy feel transport in its chains:
Sighs with success their own soft anguish tell,
And eyes shall utter what the lips conceal:
Virtue again to its bright station climb,
And Beauty fear no enemy but time;
The fair shall listen to desert alone,
And ev'ry Lucia find a Cato's son.
SINCE fancy by itself is loose and vain,
The wise, by rules, that airy power restrain :
They think those writers mad, who, at their ease,
Convey this house and audience where they please;
Who Nature's stated distan es confound,"
And make this spot all soils the sun goes round:
'Tis nothing, when a fancy'd scene we view,
To skip from Covent-Garden to Peru.
But Shakespeare's self transgressed; and shall each elf,
Each pigmy genius, quote great Shakespeare's self!
What critic dare prescribe what's just and fit,
Or mark out limits for such boundless wit!
Shakespeare could travel through earth, sea, and
air,
And paint out all the powers and wonders there.
In barren deserts he makes Nature smile,
And gives us feasts in his enchanted isle.
Our author does his feeble force confess,
Nor dares pretend such merit to transgress;
Does not such shining gifts of genius share,
And therefore makes propriety his care.
Your treat with studied decency he serves ;
Not only rules of time and place prese ves,
But strives to keep his character entire,
With French correctness, and with British fire.
This piece, presented in a foreign tongue, When France was glorious, and her monarch young,
An hundred times a crowded audience drew,
An hundred times repeated, still 'twas new.
Pyrrhus, provoked, to no wild rants betrayed,
Resents his gen'rous love, so ill repaid;
Does like a man resent, a prince upbraid.
His sentiments disclose a royal mind;
Nor is he known a king from guards behind.
Injured Hermione demands relief;
But not from heavy narratives of grief;
In conscious majesty her pride is shewn ;
Born to avenge her wrongs, but not bemoan.
Andromache-If in our author's lines, As in the great original she shines, Nothing but from barbarity she fears; Attend with silence, you'll applaud with tears.
SCENE, A great hall in the court of Pyrrhus at Buthrotos, the capital city of Epirus.
|
