Whilst I have life, may Heaven abandon Juba!
Cato. Thy virtues, prince, if I foresee aright,
Will one day make thee great. At Rome, here-
after,

'Twill be no crime to have been Cato's friend.
Porcius, come hither to me. Ah! my son,
Despairing of succsss.

Let me advise thee to withdraw betimes

To our paternal seat, the Sabine field,

Through all her works, he must delight in virtue; 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 'em.

(Laying his hand on his sword.)

Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and 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, secur'd 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;

In humble virtues, and a rural life:

There live retir'd:

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 Porcius, that he scorns himself.

Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? Nature oppress'd, and harass'd out with care, Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her, That my awaken'd soul may take her flight, Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life, An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear

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 wish'd-for port.

Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for you?
The conqueror draws near. Once more, farewell!
If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet
In happier climes, and on a safer shore,
Where Cæsar never should approach us more.

(Pointing to his dead son.)

There the brave youth, with love of virtue fir'd,
Who greatly in his country's cause expir'd,
Shall know he conquer'd.

[Exeunt Lucius and Senators.

The firm patriot there,
Who made the welfare of mankind his care,
Though still by faction, vice, and fortune cross'd,
Shall find the generous labour was not lost.
[A dead march. Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE L-A Chamber in the Palace.

CATO discovered, in a thoughtful posture In his hand Plato's book on the Immortality of the Soul: a drawn sword on the table by him.

Cato. It must be so; Plato, thou reasonest 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 me,

But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold: If there's a Power above us, (And that there is, all nature cries aloud

Cato. Would'st thou betray me? would'st 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:

(Lays down the sword.) 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.

- Por. (Kneels.) O, sir, forgive your son,
Whose grief hangs heavy on him! O my father,-
How am I sure it is not the last time

I e'er shall call you so?--be not displeas'd,
O 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.
(Raises and embraces hun.)
Weep not, my son: all will be well again:
The righteous gods, whom I have sought to
please,

Will succour Cato, and protect his children.
Por. Your words give comfort to my drooping

heart.

Mar. O ye immortal powers that guard the just,

Watch round his couch, and soften his repose!
Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul
With easy dreams! Remember all his virtues,
And shew mankind that goodness is your care!
Enter LUCIA.

Luc. Where is your father, Marcia? Where is
Cato?

Mar. Lucia, speak low:-he is retir'd to rest.
My friend, I feel a gentle dawning hope
Rise in my soul: we may be happy still.

Luc. las! 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.

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 burnish'd hel-
mets.

And covers all the field with gleams of fire.

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

Cæsar is still dispos'd, to give us terms;
And waits at distance, till he hears from Cato.
Enter PORCIUS.

Porcius, thy looks speak somewhat of import

ance.

Ha! a second groan!-Heaven guard us all! Mar. Alas! 'tis not the voice

Rome,

He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild,
Compassionate and gentle, to his friends:
Fill'd with domestic tenderness,-the best,
he kindest father. I have ever found him
Easy, and good, and bounteous to my wishes.
Luc. 'Tis his consent alone can make us happy.
But who knows Cato's thoughts?

Who knows how he may dispose of Porcius?
Or, how he has determin'd of thyself?

Mar. Let him but live, commit the rest to heaven.

Enter LUCIUS.

Luci. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous

man.

O 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 has fallen upon him:
I saw him stretch'd at ease, his fancy lost
In pleasing dreams: as I drew near his couch,
He smil'd, and cried, "Cesar, thou canst not hurt
me."

Mar. His mind still labours with some dreadful thought.

Enter JUBA.

"Tis death is in that sound.

Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale, And let us guess the rest.

Por. I've raised him up,

And plac'd him in his chair, where, pale and faint, He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from him,

Demands to see his friends. His servants weeping,

Obsequious to his orders, bear him hither.

Mar. O heaven, assist me in this dreadful hour To pay the last sad duties to my father! Enter CATO, with two Freedmen.

Juba. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O
Cæsar!

Luci. Now is Rome fallen indeed!
Cato. Here set me down.

Porcius, come near me:-are my friends entbark'd?

Can any thing be thought of for their service?
Whilst yet I live, let me not live in vain.

viewing

Let this our friendship live between our children;

Make Porcius happy in thy daughter Lucia,
Alas, poor man, he weeps! Marcia, my daughter,
O bend me forward! Juba loves thee, Marcia.
A senator of Rome, while Rome surviv'd,
Would not have match'd his daughter with a king;
But Caesar's arms have thrown down all distinc-

tion:

Whoe'er is brave and virtuous, is a Roman. I'm sick to death. O, when shall I get loose

From this vain world, the abode of guilt and sof row!

And yet, methinks, a beam of light breaks in
On my departing soul. Alas! I fear,
I've been too hasty O ye powers, that search
The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts,
If I have done amiss, impute it not!
The best my err; but you are good; and-oh!

(Dics)

ACT I.

SCENE 1-4 View of the Ocean off the American
Coast, with Rocks running into the Sea; a Ship and
Schooner sailing in the distance.
Enter BARNSTAPLE, YOUNG MERRY, and two
Sailors, in a boat.

Bar. There, that's right, my lads, shove the boat out of the surf, and keep within hail. This is, at best, but a Jacob's ladder we have to climb; (Looking up the rocks.) and it is by no means certain that we shall be well received by the Yankees when

YOUNG MERRY.

CAPTAIN of the ALACRITY. Boy.

KATE PLOWDEN.

CECILIA

IRISHWOMAN. SOLDIERS. SAILORS, &C.

we do get up, though we should even reach the top. Mer. We are under the guns of the frigate, you kuow; and you remember that three oar-blades and a pistol will draw her shot.

Bar. Yes, upon our own heads. Master Merry. never be so foolish as to trust a long shot-it makes a great smoke, and some noise, but it is a terrible way of throwing old iron about. In such business as this, I would sooner trust my coxswain, Tom Coffin, and his harpoon to back me, than the best broadside that ever rattled out of the three decks of a ninety-gun ship. What, ho. there! Master

Bar. Is it the pilot, think you, Tom?

Cofin! Coxswain, yo hoi come, gather your limbs together, and try whether you can walk on terra firma.

Long Tom C. (Without.) Yo ho! your honour! what cheer? yaw! yaw!

Bar. Ashore, ashore, ye lubber; what the devil are you skulking about! I verily believe the fellow considers it a crime to land, as if he expected to flounder like a porpoise or a lobster; because, like them, he was born at sea, and knows as little as they do of the shore. What, ho, Tom Coffin! coxswain, I say!

Enter LONG TOM COFFIN in a boat.

Long Tom C. (Leaning on his harpoon in the boat, which is pushed forward., Belay, belay, your honour; you know I have no great relish for setting my foot ashore, becase, ye see, I'm no sea-gull, to steady m self by my wings-however, since you think proper to give the word of command, here I am. (Jumps from the boat., Belay, (Staggers.) but this terror former, as your honour nicknames it, tosses and tumbles about like a whale-tub afloat among the breakers.

Bar. Tis you toss and tumble about; why can't ye stand steady upon your keel, Tom, or i'll order you to be blocked up for launching again.

Long Tom C. Why, ye see, I don't know very well how to handle my legs ashore, becase I'm out of my own element, though I've heard people say that there sartainly be as much arth as water; you may believe me, I was out of sight of the sca once, myself; that was when I went from Liverpool to Plymouth, outside passenger of a craft the landfolk name a coach. The man at the helm has an easy birth on't, for there his course lay a'tween walls and fences; and then they'd stuck up bits o stone on end, that they call'd mile-posts, alongside of which a man might have steered with half an eye, from sunrise to sunset, without ever so much as getting to leward.

Bar. Ha, ha, poro I'll warrant me, Tom, the people took you for some amphibious animal just escaped from the deep.

Long Tom C. Nambibberous enough, your honour; I remember that I said to them, says I, only let me get my foot once more safe on salt water, and you 'ont catch me running the risk of my life on this here dry land again in a hurry.

Bar. Ha, ha, ha! now, Mr. Merry, how are we to find this pilot, that we came here, by the captain's order, to look for?

Mer. He was to meet us on this rock, and the question you are to put to him is written on this bit of paper.

Bar. True, I recollect; but, somehow, I don't like hugging these American shores too closely; what say you, Master Coffin?

Long Tom C. Ah, sir! give me plenty of sea room, and good canvas, where there's no 'casion for pilots at all, sir. For my part, I was born at sea, and never could diskiver the use of more land than now and then to raise a few wedgetables, and to dry your fish. I'm sure the sight on't always makes me uncomfortable, unless we have the wind dead off shore.

Bar. (Smiling.) Ah, Tom, you are a sensible fellow! but we must be moving. Heaven keep us from riding out at anchor in such a place as this! But, look out from yon rock, Tom, d'ye see anything of the man we are in quest of?

Long om C. Look to your arms, your honour : I see something, looming large, approaching behind yonder craigs-the first thing we hear may be a shot.

Long Tom C. He seems nothing to apprehend your honour; yet he is no sort of a pilot: that's for sartain; a youngster wanting a berth, I should (Kate sings without.)

think

Aboard of a British ship I'll sail,

Were gallant hearts abide;

With my love to cruize through the stormy gale,
And over the swelling tide.

Long Tom C. My eyes! only listen, how he pipes all hands! there's jawing tackle for you. Kate. Aboard of a British ship I'll sail,

Where gallant hearts abide;

With my love to cruise through the stormy gale,
And over the swelling tide.

Bar. That voice! the song, too

Mur. It's very like one Miss Plowden used to sing before she left England, sir.

Bar. It was a scurvy trick of Kate's old guardian idea off uniting her to a man of politics opposed to to carry on his ward to America, merely with the mine; yet Kate lov'd me, I do believe, and could

but once discover her retreat

Mer. Should this
his be she, sir.

Bar. Belay, boy, belay! dost think, for a moment, random amongst rocks and shoals like these?-ha, so trim a frigate would be capering about at ha, ha!-no, boy, no. Well, Tom, does the stranger

near us?

Long Tom C. Ay, ay, yer honour; he'll be with you in less time than it would take me to cry

luff.

boat, while I hail the youngster, and see whether Dar. You, then, Merry, get with Tom into the he has any despatches to overhaul

Long Tom C. Ay, ay, yer honour.

[Merry goes on board the boat, and shoves off-Long Tom retin

Enter KATE, in boy's attire, singing. Bar. Stay a bit, youngster; what water have we n this bay?

Kate. (Aside.) By Heavens! 'tis Barnstable! water, sir! I should think it would be the salt water of the ocean. You a sailor, and ask such a question of a litttle skipper like me! I find I shall have to make out a new chart for you.

Bar. Perhaps, my fine fellow, your cunning is equal to telling me how long we shall detain you, if we make you prisoner, in order to enjoy the benefit of your wit? Come, come, don't tremble, you are a fresh-water cruizer, doubtless, and I have no desire to frighten you, but

Kate. (Averting her face.) Fresh-water sailor! you'll find me an old cruizer. Ha, ha, ha! Frighten me, you have but another to frighten-I'll let you see that I know how to reef and sail as well as the best of you.-Yo ho, there, taughten reef tackles, haul out your weather-earing, after points taught! reef away! yo, ho! frighten me, will you, that's a good joke! I should like to see that.

Bar. Now, by all the whales in the sea, but you are merry out of season, young gentleman. It's quite bad enough to be at anchor in such a bay as this, without being laughed at by a stripling, who hasn't strength enough to carry a beard, if he had one; but I'll know more of you and your jokes; you shall aboard with me for the rest of the cruize Come, come.

[Dragging her towards the boat. Kate. Barnstable, dear Barnstable! would you harm me?

[Taking of her hat,