Began their buried senses to explore, When Cato's firm, all hope of succour past, Observe the justness of the poet's thoughts, Whose smallest excellence is want of faults: Without affected pomp and noise he warms; Without the gaudy dress of beauty charms. Love, the old subject of the buskin'd muse, Returns, but such as Roman virgins use. A virtuous love, chastis'd by purest thought, Not from the fancy, but from nature wrought. Britons, with lessen'd wonder, now behold Your former wits, and all your bards of old; Jonson out-vy'd in his own way confess; And own that Shakspeare's self now pleases less. While Phoebus binds the laurel on his brow, Rise up, ye Muses; and, ye poets, bow: Superior worth with admiration greet, And place him nearest to his Phoebus' seat. Those foes to verse you chase with manly arts, VERSES SENT TO A LADY, WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO. FROM STEELE'S COLLECTION. In vain, O heavenly maid, do I peruse I burn like Marcus in th' impetuous fire; our THE dawn is over-cast, the morning lowers, MARCUS. Thy steady temper, Portius, Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar, Th' insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field PORTIUS. Remember what our father oft has told us: The ways of Heaven are dark and intricate; Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errours, Our understanding traces them in vain, Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search; Nor where the regular confusion ends. Nor sees with how much art the windings run, MARCUS. These are suggestions of a mind at ease: Oh Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk, thus Passion unpity'd and successless love [coldly. Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind! PORTIUS. Thou see'st not that thy brother is thy rival: But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Aside. Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue's on the proof: Put forth thy utmost strength, work every 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. MARCUS. Portius, the counsel which I cannot take, Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness. Bid me for honour 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, and a thirst of greatness; 'Tis second life, it grows into the soul, Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse, slaughter, His horse's hoofs wet with patrician blood. I feel it here: my resolution melts PORTIUS. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince! 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: But still the smother'd fondness burns within him. When most it swells and labours for a vent, The sense of honour and desire of fame Drive the big passion back into his heart. What! shall an African, shall Juba's heir, Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world A virtue wanting in a Roman soul? MARCUS. Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind them. When e'er did Juba, or did Portius, show A virtue that has cast me at a distance, PORTIUS. Marcus, I know thy generous temper well; Pl ng but th' appearance of dishonour on it, It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze. MARCUS. A brother's sufferings claim a brother's pity. PORTIUS. Heaven knows I pity thee: behold my eyes PP PORTIUS. 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 th' 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 them. "Tis not in mortals to command success, But we'll do more, Sempronius; we'll deserve it. [Exit, SEMPRONIUS. Curse on the stripling! How he apes bis sire! Ambitiously sententious!-But I wonder Old Syphax comes not; his Numidian genius Is well dispos'd to mischief, were be prompt And eager on it; but he must be spurr'd, And every moment quicken'd to the course. Cato has us'd me it: 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 favour, That showers down greatness on his friends, will raise me To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato, I claim in my reward his captive daughter. But Syphax comes! SCENE III. SYPHAX, SEMPRONIUS. SYPHAX. -Sempronius, all is ready. Ev'n whilst we speak, our conqueror comes on, Impatient for the battle: one day more SYPHAX. -Alas! he's lost, He's lost, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full Of Cato's virtues-But I'll try once more (For every instant I expect him here) If yet I can subdue those stubborn principles Of faith, of honour, and I know not what, That have corrupted his Numidian temper, And struck th' infection intò all his soul. SEMPRONIUS. Be sure to press upon him every motive, uba's surrender, since his father's death, Vould give up Afric into Cæsar's hands, and make him lord of half the burning zone. SYPHAX. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious: Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern Our frauds, unless they're cover'd thick with art. SEMPRONIUS. Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal My thoughts in passion ('tis the surest way); Il bellow out for Rome and for my country, nd mouth at Cæsar till I shake the senate. Your cold hypocrisy 's a stale device, worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought in earnest, Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury. SYPHAX. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs, nd teach the wily African deceit! SEMPRONIUS. Once more, be sure to try thy skill on Juba; Meanwhile I'll hasten to my Roman soldiers, nflame the mutiny, and underhand Blow up their discontents, till they break ont SYPHAX. [Exit. I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason This head-strong youth, and make him spurn at Cato. The time is short, Cæsar comes rushing on usBut hold! young Juba sees me, and approaches. SCENE IV. JUBA, SYPHAX, JUBA. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone. I have observ'd of late thy looks are fallen, D'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? SYPHAX. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts, Nor carry smiles and sun-shine in my face, When discontent sits heavy at my heart. I have not yet so much the Roman in me. JUBA. Why dost thou cast out such ungenerous 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, Amidst our barren rocks and burning sands, That does not tremble at the Roman name? Believe me, prince, there's not an African That traverses our vast Numidian deserts In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow, But better practises these boasted virtues. Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase: Amidst the running stream he slakes his thirst, l'oils all the day, and at the approach of night On the first friendly bank he throws him down, Or rests his head upon a rock till morn: Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted game, And if the following day he chance to find A new repast, or an untasted spring, Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury. JUBA. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern What virtues grow from ignorance and choice, Nor how the hero differs from the brute. But grant that others could with equal glory He triumphs in the midst of all his sufferings! SYPHAX. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul: JUBA. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh? My father's name brings tears into my eyes. SYPHAX. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills! JUBA. What wouldst thou have me do? SYPHAX. JUBA. Abandon Cato. Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms, Alas, my prince, I'd guide you to your safety. JUBA. I do believe thou wouldst; but tell me how? Fly from the fate that follows Cæsar's foes. JUBA. My father scorn'd to do't. SYPHAX. And therefore dy'd, JUBA. Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths, Than wound my honour. SYPHAX. Rather say your love. JUBA. Syphax, I've promis'd to preserve my temper. I long have stifled, and would fain conceal? Believe me, prince, 'tis hard to conquer love, Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan Light up another flame, and put out this. Lest it should take more freedom than I'll give it. Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, SYPHAX. Sir, your great father never us'd me thus. Alas, thy story melts away my soul. By laying up his counsels in your heart. JUBA. His counsels bade me yield to thy directions: Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense. SYPHAX. How does your tongue grow wanton in her But on my knees I beg you would consider— JUBA. Hah! Syphax, is't not she!-She moves this And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter. me. |