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That I myself, with tears, request it of him, Through all her works, he most delight in virtue; The virtue of my friends may pass unpunish'd. And that which he delights in, must be happy.) Juba, my heart is troubled for thy sake:

But when? or where? This world was made for Should I advise thee to regain Numidia,

Cæsar, Or seek the conqueror?

I'm weary of conjectures: This must end 'em. Jubah If I forsake thee Whilst I have life, may Heaven abandon Juba!

(Laying his hand on his sword.) Cato. Thy virtues, prince, if I foresee aright, Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and life, Will one day make thee great. At Rome, here- My bane and antidote, are both before me: after,

This in a moment brings me to an end; 'Twill be no crime to have been Cato's friend. But this informs me, I shall never die. Porcius, como bither to me. Ah! my son,

The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles Despairing of success.

At the drawn dagger, and defies its me advise thee to withdraw betimes

The stars shall fade away, the sun bimself To our paternal seat, the Sabine field,

Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; Where the great censor toil'd with his own hands, But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, And all our frugal ancestors were bless'd

Unhurt amidst the war of elements, In humble virtues, and a rural life:

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. There live retir'd:

What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? Content thyself to be obscurely good:

Nature oppress'd, and harass'd out with care, When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway, Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her, The post of honour is a private station.

That my awaken'd soul may take her flight, Por. I hope, my father does not reconimend Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life, A life to Porcius, that he scorns himself.

An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear Cato. Farewell, my friends! If there be any of Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of 'em, you

Indifferent in his choico to sleep or die.
Who dare not trust the victor's clemency,
Know, there are ships prepared by my command,

Their sails already opening to the winds,

But ha! how's this? My son? Why this intruThat shall convey you to the wish'd-for port.

sion? Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for you? Were not my orders that I would be private ? The conqueror draws near. Once more, farewell!

Why am I disobey'd ? If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet

Por. Alas, my father! In bappier climes, and on a safer shore,

What means this sword ? this instrument of death? Where Cæsar never should approach us more. Let me convey it hence. (Pointing to his dead son.)

(Takes up the sword.) There the brave youth, with love of virtue fir'd,

Cato. Rash youth, forbear! Who greatly in his country's cause expird,

Por. O, let the prayers, the entreaties of your Shall know he conquer'd.


Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from (Exeunt Lucius and Senators.

you. The firm patriot there,

Cato. Would'st thou betray me? would'st thou Who made the welfare of mankind his care,

give me up. Though still by faction, vice, and fortune cross'a, A slave, a captive, into Cæsar's hands? Shall find the generous labour was not lost. Retire: and learn obedience to a father; [A dead march. Exeunt. Or know, young man,

Por. Look not thus sternly on me:

* (Lays down the suord.) ACT V.

You know I'd rather die than disobey you.
SCENE I-A Chamber in the Palace.

Cato. 'Tis well: again I'm master of myself.

Now, Cæsar, let thy troops beset our gates, CATO discovered, in a thoughtful posture In his hand and bar each avenue; thy gathering ficets

Plato's book on the Immortality of the Soul: a drawn O'erspread the ses, and stop up every port; sword on the table by him.

Cato shall open to himself a passage,

And mock thy hopes. Cato. It must be so; Plato, thou reasonest well; Por. (Rneels.) 0, sir, forgive your son, Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, Whose grief hangs heavy on him! O my father, This longing after immortality?

How am I sure it is not the last time Or whence this secret dread and inward horror I e'er shall call you só ?--be not displeas'd, of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul O be not angry with me, whilst I weep, Back on herself and startles at destruction ? And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you "Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;

To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, Cato. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful. And intimates eternity to man. Eternity! Thou pleasing, dreadful thought!

(Raises and embraces hin.) Through what variety of untried being,

Weep pot, my son: all will be well again: Through what new scenes and changes must we The righteous gods, whom I have sought to PABS!

please, Tho wide, the unbounded prospect lies before Will succour Cato, and protect his children. me,

Por. Your words give comfort to my drooping But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it

heart. Here will I hold: If there's a Power above us, Cato. Porcius, thou may'st rely upon my come (And that there is, all nature cries aloud




Cato will never act what misbecomes him,

The number, strength, and posture of our focs, But go, my son; take care that nought be want- Who now encamp within a short hour's march. ing

On the high point of yon bright western tower Among thy father's friends; see themombark'd; We ken them from afar; the setting sun Aad tell me if the winds and seas befriend 'em. Plays on their shining arms and burnish'd helMy soul is quite weigh'd down with care, and

mets. asks

Aud covers all the field with gleams of fire. The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep.

Luci. Marcia, 'tis time, we should awake thy fa

ther. (Exit Cato.

Cæsar is still dispos'd, to give us terms; Por. My thoughts are more at ease; my heart and waits at distauce, till be bears from Cato. revives.


Porcius, thy looks speak somewhat of Import-
O Marcia, O my sister, still there's hope :
Our fatber will not cast away a life

What tidings dost thou bring? Methinks, I So needful to us all, and to his country He is retir'd to rest, and seems to cherish

Unusual gladness sparkling in thy eyes. Thoughts full of peace. He has despatch'd me Por. As I was hasting to the port, where now hence

My father's friends, impatient for a passage, With orders that bespeak a mind composid, Accuse the lingering winds, a sail arriv'd And studious for the safety of his friends.

From Pompey's son, who through the realms of Harcia, take care that none disturb his slumbers.


Calls out for vengeanco on his father's death, (Exit Porcius.

And rouses the whole nation up to arms. Mar. O ye immortal powers that guard the Were Cato at their head, once more might just,

Watch round his couch, and soften his repose ! Assert her rights, and claim her liberty.
Badish his sorrows, and becalm his soul

(Cato's groans are heard.)
With easy dreams! Remember all his virtues,
And shew mankind that goodness is your care! But bark! what means that groan? O, give me
Enter LUCIA.


And let me fly into my father's presence.
Luc. Where is your father, Marcia? Where is

(Erit. Var. Lucia, speak low:-he is retir'd to resto Luci. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on My friend, I feel a gentle dawning hope

Rise in my soul: we may be happy still.

And in the wild disorder of his soul
Luc. slas! I tremble when I think on Cato; Mourns o'er his country.
In every view, in every thought, I tremble.
Cato is stern, and awful as a god :

(Calo groans again.) He knows not how to wink at human frailty, Ha! a second groan!-Heaven guard us all! Or pardon weakness that he never felt.

Mar. Alas! 'tis not the voice
Mar. Though stern and awful to the foes of Of one who sleeps: 'tis agonizing pain,

"Tis death is in that sound. He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild,

Compassionate and gentle, to his friends :
Filled with domestic tenderness,--the best,

Por. O, sight of woe! he kindest father. I have ever found him

Marcia, what we fear'd is come to pass! Easy, and good, and bounteous to my wishes. Cato is fallen upon his sword.

Luc. 'Tis his consent alone can make us happy. Luci. O Porcius,
But who knows Cato's thoughts?

Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale,
Who knows how he may dispose of Porcius ? And let us guess the rest.
Or, how he has determin'd of thyself?

Pur. I've raised nim up, Mar. Let him but live, commit the rest to And plac'd bim in his chair, where, pale and faint, heaven.

Ho gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from Enter LUCIUS.


Demands to see his friends. His servants weepLuci. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous

ing, man.

Obsequious to his orders, bear him hither. O Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father:

Mar. U heaven, assist me in this dreadful hour Some power invisible supports his soul,

To pay the last sad duties to my father!
And bears it up in all its wonted greatness.

Enter CATO, with two Freedmen.
A kind, refreshing sleep has fallen upon him:
I saw him stretch'd at ease, his fancy lost

Juba. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O In pleasing dreams: as I drew near his couch,

He smil'd, and cried, “Cesar, thou canst not hurt Luci. Now is Rome fallen indeed!

Cato. Here set me down. Mar. His mind still labours with some dreadful Porcius, como pear me:-are my friends entthought

bark'd ?

Can any thing bA thought of for their service ? Enter JUBA.

Whilst yet I live, let me not live in vain. Juba. Lucius, the horsemen are return'd from O Lucius, art thou here! Thou art too good! viewing

Let this our friendship live between our childron;


Make Porcius happy in thy daughter Lucia, From this pain world, the abode of guilt and sot. Alas, poor man, he weeps! Marcia, my daughter,

row! O bend me forward! Juba loves thee, Marcia. And yet, methinks, a beam of light breaks in A senator of Rome, while Rome surviv'd,

On my departing soul. Alas! I fear, Would not have match'd his daughter with a king; I've been too hasty O ye powers, that search But Cæsar's arms have thrown down all distinc- The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts, tion:

If I have done amiss, impute it not! Whoe'er is brave and virtuous, is a Roman. The best my err; but you are good; and-oh! I'm sick to death. O, when shall I get loose


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we do get up, though we should even reach the

top. SCENE 1.–4 View of the Ocean off the American Mer. We are under the guns of the frigate, you

Coast, with Rocks running into the Sea; a ship and kuow; and you remember that three oar-blades Schooner sailing in the distance.

and a pistol will draw her shot. Enter BARNSTAPLE, YOUNG MERRY, and two

Bar. Yes, upon our own heads. Master Merry,

never be so foolish as to trust a long shot-it makes Sailors, in a boat.

a great smoke, and some noise, but it is a terrible Bar. There, that's right, my lads, shove the boat way of throwing old iron about. In such business out of the surf, and keep within hail. This is, at as this, I would sooner trust my coxswain, Tom best, but a Jacob's ladder we have to climb; (Look- Coffin, and his harpoon to back me, than the best ing up the rocks.) and it is by no means certain that broadside that ever rattled out of the three decks we shall be well received by the Yankees when of a ninety-gun sbip. Wbat, bo, there! Master

Corn! Coxswain, yo ho i come, gather your limbs Bar. Is it the pilot, think you, Tom ? together, and try whether you can walk on terra Long Tom C. He seems nothing to apprehend firra.

your honour ; yet he is no sort of a pilot: that's for Long Tom C. (Without.) Yo ho! your honour! sartain ; a youngster wanting a berth, I should what cheer? yaw! yaw!


(Kate sings without.) Bar. Ashore, ashore, ye lubber; what the devil

Aboard of a British ship I'll sail, are you skulking about! I verily believe the fellow

W: ere gallant hearts abide; considers it a crime to land, as if he expected to

With my loreto cruize through the stormy gale, flounder like a porpoise or a lobster; because, like

And over the swelling tide. them, he was born at sea, and knows as little as they do of the shore. What, ho, Tom Coffin! cox- Long Tom C. My eyes! only listen, bow he pipes swain, I say!

all hands! there's jawing tackle for you. Enter LONG TOM COTTIN in a boat.

Kate. Aboard og à British ship I'll sail, Long Tom C. (Leaning on his harpoon in the boat,

Where gallant hearts abide; which is pushed forward., Belay, belay, your honour; With my love to cruise through the stormy gall, you know I bare no great relish for setting my

And over the swelling tide. foot asbore, becase, ye see, I'm no sea-gull, to

Bar. That voice! the song, toosteady m self by my wings- however, since you

Mor. It's very like one Miss Plowden used to sing think proper to give the word of command, here I

before she left England, sir. am. (Jumps from the boat., Belay, (Staggers.) but

Bar. It was a scurvy trick of Kata's old guardian this terror former, as your honour nicknames it, tosses and tumbles about like a whale-tub afloat idea off uniting her to a man of politics opposed to

to carry on his ward to America, merely with the among the breakers.

Bar. 'Tis you toss and tumble about; why can't mine; yet Kate lov'd me, I do believe, and could I ye stand steady upon your keel, Tom, or e'll order

but once discover her retreat

Mer. Should you to be blocked up for launching again. Long Tom C. Why, ye see, I don't know very

Bar. Pelay, boy, bel, She, sir

dost think, for a moment, weil how to handle my legs ashore, becase I'm random amongst rocks and shoals like these ?—ha,

so trin a frigate would be capering about at out of my own element, though I've heard people ha, ha!-no, boy, no. Well, Tom, does the stranger say that there sartainly be as much arth as water;

near us? you may believe nie, I was out of sight of the sea once, myself; that was when I went from Liver

Long Tom C. Ay, ay, yer bonour: he'll be with pool to Plymouth, outside passenger of a craft the

you in less time than it would take me to cry

luff. landfolk name a coach. The man at the belm has an easy birth on't, for there his course lay

Lar. You, then, Merry, get with Tom into the a'tween walls and fences; and then they'd stuck boat, while I hail the youngster, and see whether up bits o stone on end, that they call'd mile-posts,

he bas, any despatches to overhaul. alongside of which a man might have steered with

Long Tom C. Ay, ay, yer honour. half an eye, from sunrise to sunset, without ever so

(A/erry goes on board the boat, and shoves off.


Tom retii much as the stoleward.

ba! Pil warrant me, Tom, the peo- Enter KATE, in boy's attire, singing. ple took you for some amphibious animal just es- Bar. Stay a bit, youngster; what waton have we caped from the deep.

n this bay? Long Tom C. Nambibberous enouch, your honour; Kate. (Aside.) By Heavens ! 'tis Barnstable! I remeniber that I said to them, says I, only let water, sir! I should think it would be the salt me get my foot once more safe on salt water, and water of the ocean. You a sailor, and ask such & you 'ont catch me running the risk of my life on question of a litttle skipper like me! I find I shall this bere dry land again in a hurry.

have to make out a new chart for you. Bar. Ha, ha, ha! now, Mr. Merry, how are we Bar. Perhaps, my ine fellow, your cunning is to find this pilot, that we came here, by the cap- equal to telling me how long we sball detain you, if tain's order, to look for ?

we make you prisoner, in order to enjoy the benefit Mer. He was to meet us on this rock, and the of your wit ? Come, come, don't tremble, you are question you are to put to him is written on this bit a fresh-water cruizer, doubtless, and I have no deof paper.

sire to frighten you, but Bar. True, I recollect; but, sorrehow, I don't Kate. (Averting her face.) Fresh-water sailor! like hugging these American shores too closely; you'll find me an old cruizer. Ha, ha, ha! Frighten what say you, Master Coffin ?

me, you hare but another to frighten-T'H let you Long Tom C. Ah, sir! give me plenty of sea see that I know how to reef and sail as well as tbo room, and good canvas, where there's no 'casion best of you.—Yo bo, there, taughten reef tackles, for pilots at all, sir. For my part, I was born at haul out your weather-earing, after points taught! sea, and never could d.skiver the use of more land reef away! yo, ho! frighten me, will you, that's a than now and then to raise a few wedgetables, and good joke! I should like to see that. to dry your fish. I'm sure the sight on't always Bar. Now, by all the whales in the sea, but you makes me uncomfortable, unless we have the wind are merry out of season, young gentleman. It's dead off sho e.

quite bad enough to be at anchor in such a bay as Bar. (Smiling.) Ah, Tom, you are a sensible fel- this, without being laughed at by a stripling, who low! but we must be moving. Heaven keep us hasn't strength enough to carry a beard, if he had from riding out at anchor in such a place as this! one; but l'll know more of you and your jokes; But, look out from yon rock, Tom, d'ye see any you shall aboard with me for the rest of the.cruize thing of the man we are in quest of ?

Come, come. Long om C. Look to your arms, your bonour :I

(Dragging her towards the boat. see something, looming

large, approaching behind Kate. Barnstable, dear Barnstable, would you yonder craigs-the first thing we hear may be a harm me? shot,

[Taking of her hal

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