My knight; and ever, as thou didst to-day,
With happy valour guard the life of Randolph.
Lord Ran. Well haft thou spoke. Let me forbid
reply.
[To Norval.
We are thy debtors ftill; thy high defert
O'ertops our gratitude. I mult proceed,
As was at firft intended, to the camp;
Some of my train, I fee, are speeding hither,
Impatient, doubtlefs, of their lord's delay.
Go with me, Norval; and thine eyes fall fee
The chofen warriors of thy native land,
Who languish for the figlit, and beat the air
With brandifh'd swords.
Norv. Let us be gone, my lord.
$45.
Young Norval informs Lord Randolph
by what Means be acquired a Knowledge in the
Art of War.
HOME.
BENEATH a mountain's brow, the most remote
And inacceffible by fhepherds trod,
In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man,
Who was the wonder of our wand'ring fwains.
Auftere and lonely, cruel to himself,
Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherds' alms.
I went to fee him; and my heart was touch'd
With reverence and with pity. Mild he fpake,
And, ent'ring on difcourfe, fuch ftories told,
As made me oft revifit his fad cell.
For he had been a foldier in his youth;
And fought in famous battles, when the peers
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,
Against th' ufurping Infidel difplay'd
The cross of Christ, and won the Holy Land.
Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire
His fpeech ftruck from me, the old man would fhake
His years away, and act his young encounters:
Then, having fhew'd his wounds, he 'd fit him
And oft each night forfakes his fullen couch, To make fad orifons for him he flew.
$46. Douglas's Soliloquy in the Wood, waiting for Lady Randolph, after be was known to be ber Son. HOME.
THIS is the place, the centre of the grove.
Here ftands the oak, the monarch of the wood. How fweet and folemn is this midnight fcene! The filver moon, unclouded, holds her way Thro' fkies, where I could count each little ftar. The fanning weft-wind fcarcely ftis the leaves; The river, rushing o'er its pebbled bed, Impofcs filence with a filly found. In such a place as this, at fuch an hour, If ancestry can be ia aught believ'd, Defcending fpirits have convers'd with man, And told the fecrets of the world unknown.
Eventful day! how haft thou chang'd my state!
Once on the cold and winter-fhaded fide
Of a bleak hill mifchance had rooted me,
Never to thrive, child of another foil:
Transplanted now to the gay funny vale,
Like the green thorn of May, my fortune flow'rs.
Ye glorious ftars! high heaven's refplendent hoft!
To whom I oft have of my lot complain'd,
Hear, and record, my foul's unalter'd wish!
Dead or alive, let me but be renown'd!
May Heaven infpire fome fierce gigantic Dane
To give a bold defiance to our hoft!
Before he fpeaks it cut, I will accept:
Like DOUGLAS conquer, or like DOUGLAS die.
Enter Portius and Marcus. THE dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs, And heavily in clouds brings on the day, The great, th' important day, big, with the fate Of Cato and of Rome-our father's death Would fill up all the guilt of civil war, And clofe the fcene of blood. Already Cæfar Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and fees Mankind grown thin by his deftru&tive sword: Should he go farther, numbers would be wanting To form new battles, and fupport his crimes. Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make Among your works!
Marc. Thy fteady temper, Portius, Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæfar, In the calm lights of mild philofophy; I'm tortur'd e'en to madnets, when I think On the proud victor: ev'ry time he's nam'd Pharialia rifes to my view -I fee
1h' infulting tyrant prancing o'er the field, Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in
His horte's hoofs wet with patrician blood! O Portius! is there not fome chofen curfe,
To copy out our father's bright example.
He loves our fifter Marcia, greatly loves her;
His eyes, his looks, his actions, all betray it;
Some hidden thunder in the ftores of Heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?
Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious great-But ftill the fmother'd fondnefs burns within him;
nefs,
And mix'd with too much horror to be envied.
How does the luftre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant
brightnets!
His fuff 'rings thine, and fpread a glory round him;
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His fword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppreffion, tyranny, and pow'r ufurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em.
Marc. Who knows not this? But what can
Cato do
Against a world, a bafe degen'rate world,
That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæfar?
Pent up in Utica, he vainly forma
A poor epitome of Roman greatnefs;
And, cover'd with Numidian guards, directs
A fecble army, and an empty fenate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
By Heaven, fuch virtues, join'd with fuch fuccefs,
Diftract my very foul: our father's fortune
Would almoft tempt us to renounce his precepts.
Por. Remember what our father oft has told us:
The ways of Heaven are dark and intricate,
Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors;
Our understanding traces them in vain,
Loft and bewilder'd in the fruitless fearch;
Nor fees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confufion ends.
Marc. Thefe are fuggeftions of a mind at eafe: O Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs That wring my foul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly.
Paffion unpitied, and fuccefslefs love,
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind-
Por. Thou feeft not that thy brother is thy
rival;
But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Afide.
Now, Marcus, now thy virtue's on the proof:
Put forth thy utmost ftrength, work ev'ry nerve,
And call up all thy father in thy foul.
To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart
On this weak fide, where moft our nature fails,
Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son.
Marc. Portius, the counfel which I cannot take,
Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Bid me for honour plunge into a war
Of thickeft foes, and rush on certain death,
Then fhalt thou fee that Marcus is not flow
To follow glory, and confefs his father.
Love is not to be reafon'd down, or loft
In high ambition, or a thirst of greatness:
'Tis fecond life, it grows into the foul,
Warms ev'ry vein, and beats in ev'ry pulfe;
I feel it here: my refolution melts.
Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince, With how much care he forms himself to glory, And breaks the fiercenefs of his native temper,
When most it fwells, and labours for a vent,
The fenfe of honour and defire of fame
Drive the big paffion back into his heart.
What! fhall an African, fhall Juba's heir,
Reproach great Cato's fon, and fhew the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman foul ›
Marc. Portius,no more! your words leave ftings behind 'em.
When e'er did Juba, or did Portius, fhew
A virtue that has caft me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?
Por. Marcus, I know thy generous temper well;
Fling but th' appearance of difhonour on it,
It ftraight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.
Marc. A brother's fuff 'rings claim a brother's
pity.
Por. Heaven knows I pity thee. Behold my
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Good-morrow, Portius; let us once embrace,
Once more embrace, while yet we both are free.
To-morrow, fhould we thus exprefs our friendship,
Each might receive a flave into his arms.
This fun, perhaps, this morning's fun, 's the laft
That e'er thall rife on Roman liberty.
Por. My father has this morning call'd together
To this poor hall his little Roman fenate,
The leavings of Pharfalia, to confult
If yet he can oppofe the mighty torrent
That bears down Rome, and all her gods before it,
Or muft at length give up the world to Cæfar.
Sem. Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome Can raife her fenate more than Cato's prefence. His virtues render our affembly awful, They ftrike with fomething like religious fear, And make e'en Cæfar tremble at the head Of armies fluth'd with conqueft. O my Portius, Could I but call that wondrous man my father, Would but thy fifter Marcia be propitious To thy friend's vows, I might be bleft indeed!
For. Alas, Sempronius! wouldst thou talk of love
To Marcia, whilft her father's life's in danger Thou might'ft as well court the pale trembling veftal,
When the beholds the holy flame expiring.
Sem. The more I fee the wonders of thy race, The more I'm charm'd. Thou muft take heed, my Portius;
The world has all its eyes on Cato's fon;
Thy father's merit fets thee up to view,
And fhews thee in the faireft point of light,
To make thy virtues or thy faults confpicuous.
Por. Well doft thou feem to check my ling ring-
here
On this important hour-I'll straight away;
And while the fathers of the fenate meet
In clofe debate, to weigh th' events of war,
I'll animate the foldiers' drooping courage
With love of freedom, and contempt of life;
I'll thunder in their ears their country's caufe,
And try to roufe up all that 's Roman in 'em.
'Tis not in mortals to command fuccefs,
But we'll do more, Sempronius, we 'll deferve it.
[Exit.
Sem. Curfe on the ftripling! how he apes his fire,
Ambitiously fententious !-But I wonder
Old Syphax comes not: his Numidian genius
Is weli difpos'd to mitchief, were he prompt
And eager on it; but he must be spurr'd,
And ev'ry moment quicken'd to the courfe.
Cato has us'd me ill: he has refus'd
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.
Befides, his baffled arms, and ruin'd caufe,
Are bars to my ambition. Cæfar's favour,
That fhow'rs 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
Sy. Sempronius, all is ready.
I've founded my Numidians, man by man,
And find them ripe for a revolt: they all
Complain aloud of Cato's difcipline,
And wait but the command to change their mafter.
Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to
wafte;
Ev'n whilst we fpeak, our conqueror comes on,
And gathers ground upon us ev'ry moment.
Alas! thou know'ft not Cæfar's active foul,
With what a dreadful courfe he rushes on
From warto war. In vain has nature form'd
Mountains and oceans to oppofe his paff ge;
He bounds o'er all; victorious in his march,
The Alps and Pyreneans fink before him;
He's loft, Sempronius! all his thoughts are full
Of Cato's virtues.-But I'll try once more
(For ev'ry inftant I expect him here)
If yet I can fubdue those stubborn principles
Of faith and honour, and I know not what,
That have corrupted his Numidian temper,
And ftruck th' infection into all his foul.
Sem. Be sure to prefs upon him ev'ry motive,
Jaba's furrender, fince his father's death,
Would give up Afric into Cafar's hands,
And make him lord of half the burning zone.
Sy. But is it true, Sempronius, that your fe,
Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious;
Cato has piercing eyes, and will difcern
Our frauds, uniefs they 're cover'd thick with art.
Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax; I'll conceal
My thoughts in paffion ('tis the furest way);
I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country,
And mouth at Cæfar, til! I thake the fenate.
Your cold hypocrify 's a ftale device,
A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought in
earneft,
Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury!
Sy. In troth, thou 'rt able to inftruct grey hairs,
And teach the wily African deceit.
Sem. Once more be fure to try thy fkill on Juba:
Meanwhile I'll haften to my Roman foldiers,
Inflame the mutiny, and underhand
Blow up their difcontents, till they break out
Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato.
Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste :
O think what anxious moments pats between
The birth of plots and their laft fatal periods.
O, 'tis a dreadful interval of time
Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death!
Deftruction hangs on ev'ry word we speak,
On ev'ry thought; till the concluding stroke
Determines all, and clofes our defign.
Sy. I'll try if I can yet reduce to reafon
This headftrong youth, and make him spurn at
Cato.
The time is short; Cæfar comes rushing on us
But hold young Juba fees me, and approaches.
Enter Juba.
Jub. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone.
I have obferv'd of late thy looks are fall'n,
O'ercaft with gloomy cares and difcontent.
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?
S. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts,
Or carry fimiles and funfhine in my face,
Thro' winds and waves, and ftorms, he works his When difcontent fits heavy at my heart;
I have not yet fo much the Roman in me.
Jub. Why doft thou caft out fuch ungen'rous
Against the lords and fov'reigns of the world?
Doft thou not fee mankind fall down before them,
And own the force of their fuperior virtue ?
Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,
Amidft our barren rocks, and burning fands,
That does not tremble at the Roman name?
Sy. Gods where's the worth that fets thefe
people up
Above her own Numidia's tawny fons?
Do they with tougher finews bend the bow?
Or flies the jav'lin fwifter to its mark,
Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm?
Who like our active African inftructs
The fiery fteed, and trains him to his hand?
Or guides in troops th' embattled elephant,
Laden with war? Thefe, thefe are arts,
prince,
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.
Jub. Thefe all are virtues of a meaner rank,
Perfections that are plac'd in bones and nerves.
A Roman foul is bent on higher views:
To civilize the rude, unpolifh'd world,
And lay it under the restraint of laws;
To make man mild, and fociable to man;
To cultivate the wild, licentious favage,
With wifdom, difcipline, and lib'ral arts,
Th' embellishments of life: virtues like these
Make human nature fhine, reform the foul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.
Sy. Patience, kind Heavens! excufe an old man's
warmth.
What are these wondrous civilizing arts,
This Roman polish, and this fimooth behaviour,
That render man thus tractable and tame?
Are they not only to difguife our pallions,
To fet our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the ftarts and fallies of the foul,
And break off all its commerce with the tongue:
In short, to change us into other creatures
Than what our nature and the gods defign'd us
Jub. To strike the dumb-turn up thy eyes
to Cato;
There mayft thou fee to what a godlike height
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man.
While good, and juft, and anxious for his friends,
He's fill feverely bent against himfelf;
Renouncing fleep, and rest, and food, and ease,
He ftrives with thirt and hunger, toil and heat;
And when his fortune fets before him all
The pomps and pleafures that his foul can with,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.
Sy. Believe me, prince, there's not an African
That traverfes our vaft Numidian deferts
In queft of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practifes thefe boafted virtues :
Coarfe are his meals, the fortune of the chacc;
Amidst the running ftream he flakes his thirst;
Toils all the day, and at th' app.oach of night
On the first friendly bank he throws him down,
Or refts his head upon a rock till morn;
Then rifes fresh, purfues his wonted game;
And if the following day he chance to find
A new repast, or an untasted spring,
Bleffes his ftars, and thinks it luxury.
Jub. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't difcern What virtues grow from ignorance and choice, Nor how the hero differs from the brute. But grant that others could with equal glory Look down on pleatures, and the baits of fenfe,
Where shall we find the man that bears affliction, Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato? Heavens! with what strength, what steadiness of mind,
He triumphs in the midst of all his suff'rings ! How does he rife against a load of woes, And thank the Gods that throw the weight upon him! [foul;
Sy. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of I think the Romans call it Stoicifm. Had not your royal father thought fo highly Of Roman virtue, and of Cao's caufe, He had not fall'n by a flave's hand inglorious: Nor would his flaughter'd army now have lain]. On Afric fands, disfigur'd with their wounds, To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.
Jub. Why dost thou call my forrows up afresh! My father's name brings tears into my eyes. Sy. O that you'd profit by your father's ills! Jub. What wouldft thou have me do? Sy. Abandon Cato.
Jub. Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan
Sy. Aye, there's the tie that binds you! You long to call him father. Marcia's charms Work in your heart unfeen, and plead for Cato. No wonder you are deaf to all I fay.
Jub. Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate; I've hitherto permitted it to rave, And talk at large; but learn to keep it in, Left it should take more freedom than I'll give it.
Sy. Sir, your great father never us'd me thus. Alas, he 's dead! but can you e'er forget The tender forrows, and the pangs of nature, The fond embraces, and repeated bleffings, Which you drew from him in your last farewel! Still muft I cherish the dear fad remembrance, At once to torture and to please my foul. The good old king at parting wrung my hand (His eyes brim-full of tears); then fighing, cried, Pr'ythee be careful of my fon !His grief Swell'd up fo high, he could not utter more.
Jub. Alas, thy ftory melts away my foul! That beft of fathers! how fhall I discharge The gratitude and duty which I owe him?
Sy. By laying up his counsels in your heart.
Jub. His counfels bade me yield to thy die
rections:
Then, Syphax, chide me in fevereft terms;
Vent all thy paffion, and I'll stand its shock
Calm and unruffled as a fummer fe,
When not a breath of wind flies o'er its furface.
Sy. Alas, my prince! I'd guide you to your
fafety.
[how.
Jub. I do believe thou wouldft; but tell me
Sy. Fly from the fate that follows Cæfar's foes.
Jub. My father fcorn'd to do it.
Sy. And therefore died.
Jub. Better to die ten thousand deaths, Than wound my honour.
S. Rather fay, your love.
Jub. Syphax, I've promis'd to preferve my Why wilt thou urge me to confefs a flame long have ftifled, and would fain conceal ?
Sy. Believe me, prince, tho' hard to conquer love,
'Tis eafy to divert and break its force.
Abfence might cure it; or a fecond mistress
Light up another flame, and put out this.
The glowing dames of Zama's royal court
Have faces Huth'd with more exalted charms;
The fun, that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,
Works up more fire and colour in their checks:
Were you with thefe, my prince, you'd foon forget
The pale, unripen'd beauties of the North.
Jub. 'Tis not a fet of features, or complexion,
The tincture of a skin, that I admire :
Beauty foon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eye, and palls upon the fenfe.
The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her fex:
True, he is fair-O, how divinely fair!
But ftill the lovely maid improves her charms
With inward greatnefs, unaffected wisdom,
And fanctity of manners; Cato's foul
Shines out in every thing the acts or speaks,
While winniag mildness and attractive fimiles
Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace
Soften the rigour of her father's virtue.
Sy. How does your tongue grow wanton in her
praise !
But on my knees I beg you would confider
Jub. Hah! Syphax, is 't not she?-She moves
And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter. My heart beats thick-I pr'ythee, Syphax, leave
Sy. Ten thoufand curfes faften on 'em both! Now will this woman, with a single glance, Undo what I've been lab'ring all this while. [Exit Sypbax.
Enter Marcia and Lucia.
Jub. Hail, charming inaid! how does thy beauty fmooth
The face of war, and make even horror fmile!
At fight of thee my heart fhakes off its forrows;
1 feel a dawn of joy break in upon me,
And for a while forget th' approach of Cæfar.
Mar. Ifhould be griev'd, young prince, to think my prefence
Unbent your thoughts, and flacken'd 'em to arms, While, warm with flaughter, our victorious foe Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field.
fub. O Marcia, let me hope thy kind concern And gentle wishes follow me to battle! The thought will give new vigour to my arm, Add ftrength and weight to my defcending fword, And drive it in a tempeft on the foe.
Mar. My pray'rs and wishes always fhall attend The friends of Rome, the glorious caufe virtue,
The men approv'd of by the gods and Cato.
Jub. That Juba may deferve thy pious cares,
I'll gaze for ever on thy godlike father,
Tranfplanting, one by one, into my life
His bright perfections, till I fhine like him.
Mar. My father never at a time like this Would lay out his great foul in words, and wafte Such precious moments.
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In pleafing dreams, and lofe myfelf in love,
When ev'ry moment Cato's life 's at stake?
Cæfar comes arm'd with terror and revenge,
And aims his thunder at my father's head.
Should not the fad occafion fwallow up
My other cares, and draw them all into it?
Luc. Why have not I this conftancy of mind,
Who have fo many griefs to try its force?
Sure, nature form'd me of her foftest mould,
Enfeebled all my foul with tender paffions,
And funk me evea below my own weak fex:
Pity and love, by turns, opprefs my heart.
Mar. Lucia, difburthen all thy cares on me, And let me fhare thy molt retir'd diftrefs. Tell me who raifes up this conflict in thee? Luc. I need not blush to name them, when I
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