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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. Juba. 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 greato At Rome, here- My bane and antidote, are both before me: after,
This in a moment brings we 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 succsss.
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. J et 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 ont 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 recommend 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
Indifferentin his choico to sleep or die.
But ha! how's this? My son? Why this intruThat shall convey you to the wish'd-for port.
Por. Alas, my father!
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 expirido
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.
Retire : and learn obedience to a father;
(Lays down the scord.) ACT V.
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, CATO discovered, in a thoughtful posture In his hand and bar each avenue; thy gathering fleets
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 sball open to himself a passage,
And mock thy hopes. Cato. It must be so; Plato, thou reasonest well; Por. (Kneels.) O, 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 so ?-- 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 beaven 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.) Throuvh 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 sougat to PASS!
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 con(And that there is, all nature cries aloud
Cato will never act what misbecomes him,
The number, strength, and posturo of our foes, But go, my son; take care that“ vought 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 them ombark'd ; We ken them from afar; the setting sun And tell me if the winds and seas befriend 'ein. Plays ou their shining arms and burnish'd helMy soul is quite weigh'd down with care, and
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 [Erit Cato.
Cæsar is still dispos'd, to give us terms; Por. My thoughts are more at ease; my heart and waits at distance, till he bears from Cato. revives.
Porcius, thy looks speak somewhat of import-
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 arrivd And studious for the safety of bis friends.
From Pompey' son, who through the realms of dlarcia, 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,
(Cato's groans are heard.) And shew mankind that goodness is your care!
But bark! what means that groan? O, give me
way, Enter LUCIA.
And let me fly into my father's presence. Luc. Where is your father, Marcia? Where is
(E.rit. Cato? Mar. Lucia, speak low:-he is retir'd to resto Luci. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on My friend, I feel a gentle dawning bope
And in the wild disorder of his soul
(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 dar. Though stern and awful to the foes of Of one who sleeps: 'tis agonizing pain, Rome,
"Tis death is in that sound. He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild,
Por. O, sight of woe! he kindest father. I have ever found him
Marcia, what we fear'd is come to pass!
Luci. O Porcius,
Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale,
Por. 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
Obsequious to his orders, bear bim 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!
Enter CATO, with two Freedmen.
Juba. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, o In pleasing dreams: as I drew near his couch,
Cato. Here set me down. Mar. His mind still labours with some dreadful Porcius, como near me:-are my friends enthought.
Can any thing be 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 vain world, tłie 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 se 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. Tlie best my err; but you are good; and-oh! I'm sick to death. O, when shall I get loose
A NAUTICAL BURJ.ETTA, IN THREE ACTS.-BY E. FITZBALL.
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
Cofn! Coxswain, yo hol come, gather your limbs Bar. Is it the pilot, think you,
Tome together, and try whether you can walk on terra Long Tom C. He seems nothing to appre!iend firir:a.
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, 1 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 considers it a crime to land, as if he expected to
W: ere gallant hearts abide;
With my loreto cruize through the stormy gale, ilounder 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 bands! there's jawing tackle for you. Enter LONG TOM COFFIN in a boat. Kate. Aboard op 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 gale, 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
Par. That voice! the song, 100 steady m self by my wings-however, since you
Mr. 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 this terror former, as your honour nicknames it,
Bar. It was a scurvy trick of Kate's old guardian 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
but once discover her retreatye stand steady upon your keel, Tom, or e'll order you to be blocked up for launching again.
Mer. Should this be she, sir
Bar. Pelay, boy, belay! dost think, for a moment, Long Tom C. Why, ye see, I don't know very well how to handle my legs ashore, becase I'm random amongst rocks and sboals like these?—ha,
so trim 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
Dar. You, then, Merry, get with Tom into the on't, for there his course lay has an easy birta fences; and then they'd stuck boat, while I hail the youngster, and see whether a'tween walls and up bits o stone on end, that they call'd mile-posts,
he has any despatches to overhaul alongside of which a man might have steered with
Long Tom C. Ay, ay, yor honour. half an eye, from sunrise to sunset, without ever so
(Alerry goes on board the boat, andshoves off. Long to
Tom retii Bar. Ha, ha,
Enter KATE, in boy's attire, singing. ple took you for some amphibious animal just es- Bar. Stay a bit, youngster; what water have we caped from the deep.
n this bay? Long Tom C. Nambibberous enough, your honour; Kate. (Aside.) By Heavons ! '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 here 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 fine 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 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-I'll let you Long Tom C. Ah, sir! give me plenty of sea see that I know how to reef and sail as well as to 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 I'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 honour : 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 hade
much as getting on warrant me, Tom, the presa