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 oppose the mighty torrent That bears down Rome, and all her gods, before it, Or muft at length give up the world to Cæfar. Sempronius.
Not all the pomp and majefty of Rome Can raise her fenate more than Cato's prefence. His virtues render our affembly awful, They strike with fomething like religious fear, And make ev'n Cæfar tremble at the head Of armies flush'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 blefs'd indeed!
Syphax, Sempronius.
Syphax.
-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 discipline,
And wait but the command to change their mafter.
Sempronius.
Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste;
Ev'n whilft we speak, our conqueror comes on,
And gathers ground upon us every moment.
Alas thou know'ft not Cæfar's active foul,
With what a dreadful courfe he rushes on
From war to war: in vain has nature form'd
Mountains and oceans to oppose his passage;
He bounds o'er all, victorious in his march;
The Alps and Pyreneans fink before him;
Through winds, and waves, and storms, he works
his way,
Impatient for the battle: one day more
Will fet the victor thundering at our gates.
But tell me, haft thou yet drawn o'er young
Juba?
That still would recommend thee more to Cælar,
And challenge better terms-
-Alas! he's Inft,
He's loft, 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 fubdue those stubborn principles
Of faith, of honour, and I know not what,
That have corrupted his Numidian temper,
And ftruck th' infection into all his foul.
Sempronius.
Be fure to prefs upon him every motive.
Juba's furrender, fince his father's death,
Would give up Afric into Cæfar's hands,
And make him lord of half the burning Zone.
Sypbax.
But is it true, Sempronius, that your fenate
Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious!
Cato has piercing eyes, and will difcern
Qur frauds, unless they're cover'd thick with art.
Sempronius.
Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal My thoughts in paffion ('tis the surest way); I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country, And mouth at Cæfar till I fhake the fenate. Your cold hypocrify's a ftale device,
A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought in carnest,
Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury! Syphax.
In troth, thou'rt able to inftruct grey-hairs, And teach the wily African deceit !
Once more, be fure to try thy skill on Juba; Mean-while I'll haften to my Roman foldiers, Inflame the mutiny, and underhand
Blow up their discontents, till they break out Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato,
Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone.
I have obferv'd of late thy looks are fallen,
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?
'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts,
Nor carry fmiles and fun-fhine in my face,
When difcontent fits heavy at my heart.
I have not yet so much the Roman in me.
Why dost thou caft out fuch ungenerous terms
Against the lords and fovereigns 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?
Patience, kind heavens !-Excufe an old man's
warmth.
What are thefe wondrous civilizing arts,
This Roman polish, and this smooth behaviour,
That render man thus tractable and tame?
Are they not only to disguise our paffions,
To fet our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the starts 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?
Juba.
To ftrike thee dumb: turn up thine eyes to
Cato!
There may'st 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 ftill feverely bent against himself;
Renouncing fleep, and reft, and food, and ease,
He strives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat;
And when his fortune fets before him all
The pomps and pleasures that his foul can wifh,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.
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 chafe,
Amidst the running ftream he flakes his thirft,
Toils all the day, and at the approach of night
On the first friendly bank he throws him down,
Or refts 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 repaft, or an untafted fpring,
Bleffes his stars, and thinks it luxury.
Fuba.
Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't difcern
What virtues grow from ignorance and choice,
Gods! where's the worth that fets this people | Nor how the hero differs from the brute.
Above your own Numidia's tawny fons?
Do they with tougher finews bend the bow?
Or flies the javelin swifter 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,
Loaden with war? Thefe, thefe are arts, my
Prince,
In which your Zama does not ftoop to Rome.
Fuba.
These 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 wisdom, discipline, and liberal arts;
Th' embellishments of life: virtues like thefe
Make human nature shine, reform the foul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.
But grant that others could with equal glory
Look down on pleasures and the baits of fenfe,
Where fhall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
Heavens, with what ftrength, what fteadiness of
mind,
He triumphs in the midst of all his fufferings !
How does he rise against a load of woes, [him:
And thank the gods that throw the weight upon
'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul :
I think the Romans call it Stoicifm.
Had not your royal father thought so highly
Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's caufe,
He had not fall'n by a flave's hand inglorious:
Nor would his flaughter'd army now have lain
On Afric's fauds, disfigur'd with their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.
Juba.
Why do'st thou call my forrows up afrefh?
My father's name brings tears into my eyes.
Sypbax.
Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills!
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 bleflings, Which you drew from him in your last farewell? Still must 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 cry'd, Pr'ythee be careful of my fon!-his grief Swell'd up fo high, he could not utter more. Juba.
Alas, thy story melts away my foul. That beft of fathers! how fhall I discharge The gratitude and duty which I owe him! Syphax.
By laying up his counfels in your heart.
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The glowing dames of Zama's royal court
Have faces flufht with more exalted, charms.
The fun, that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,
Works up more fire and colour in their cheeks:
Were you with thefe, my Prince, you'd foon for
get
The pale unripen'd beauties of the north.
Fuba.
'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 towers above her sex :
True, fhe is fair, (oh, how divinely fair :)
But still 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 winning mildness and attractive fmiles
Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace
Soften the rigour of her father's virtues.
How does your tongue grow wanton in her praife!
But on my knees I beg you would confider
Unbent your thoughts, and flacken'd them to arms, While, warm with flaughter, our victorious foe Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field.
O Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerna 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. Marcia.
My prayers and wifhes always fhall attend The friends of Rome, the glorious caufe of virtue, And men approv'd of by the gods and Cato.
That Juba may deferve thy pious cares, I'll gaze for ever on thy godlike father,
My father never at a time like this Would lay out his great foul in words, and waste Such precious moments. Fuba.
Thy reproofs are just, Thou virtuous maid; I'li haften to my troops, And fire their languid fouls with Cato's virtue; If e'er I lead them to the field, when ail The war shall stand rang'd in its just array, And dreadful pomp: then will I think on thee! O lovely maid, then will I think on thee! And, in the shock of charging hosts, remember What glorious deeds fhou'd grace the man, who hopes
[Exit. Marcia, you're too fevere : How could you chide the young good-natur'd
My voice is ftill for war. Gods, can a Roman fenate long debate Which of the two to choose, flavery or death No, let us rife at once, gird on our fwords, And, at the head of our remaining troops, Attack the foe, break through the thick array Of his throng'd legions, and charge home upon him;
Perhaps fome arm, more lucky than the rest,
May reach his heart, and free the world from bon-
dage.
Rise, fathers, rife; 'tis Rome demands your help;
Rife, and revenge her flaughter'd citizens,
Or fhare their fate: the corps of half her fenate
Manure the fields of Theffaly, while we
Sit here, deliberating in cold debates,
If we should facrifice our lives to honour,
Or wear them out in fervitude and chains.
Rouse up for fhame! our brothers of Pharfalia
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud-to battle!
Great Pompey's fhade complains that we are flow,
And Scipio's ghoft walks unreveng'd amongst us,
Let hot a torrent of impetuous zeal
Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reafon :
True fortitude is feen in great exploits,
That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides;
All elfe is towering phrenfy and diftraction.
Are not the lives of thofe, who draw the fword
In Rome's defence, intrufted to our care?
Should we thus lead them to a field of flaughter,
Might not th' intpartial world with reafon fay,
We lavish'd at our deaths the blood of thousands,
To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious?
Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.
My thoughts, I must confefs, are turn'd of peace.
Already have our quarrels fill'd the world
With widows and with orphans: Scythia mourns
Our guilty wars, and earth's remoteft regions
Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome:
'Tis time to fheath the fword, and fpare mankind.
It is not Cæfar, but the gods, my fathers,
The gods declare against us, and repel
Our vain attempts: To urge the foe to battle,
(Prompted by blind revenge and wild despair)
Were to refufe th' awards of providence,
And not to reft in heaven's determination.
Already have we fhewn our love to Rome:
Now let us fhew fubmiffion to the gods.
We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves,
But free the commonwealth; when this end fails,
Arms have no further ufe; our country's cause,
That drew our fwords, now wrefts them from our
hands,
And bids us not delight in Roman blood,
Unprofitably fhed; what men could do
Is done already heaven and earth will witness,
If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.
Sempronius.
This fmooth difcourfe and mild behaviour oft
Conceal a traitor-Something whispers me
All is not right-Cato, beware of Lucius.
Let us appear not rash nor diffident:
Immoderate valour fwells into a fault,
And fear, admitted into public councils.
Betrays like treafon. Let us fhun them both.
Fathers, I cannot fee that our affairs
Are grown thus defperate. We have bulwarks round us;
Within our walls are troops inur'd to toil
In Afric's heats, and feafon'd to the fun;
Numidia's fpacious kingdom lies behind us,
Ready to rife at its young prince's call.
Whilft there is hope, do not diftrust the gods;
But wait at leaft till Cæfar's near approach
Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late
To fue for chains, and own a conqueror.
Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time?
No, let us draw her term of freedom out
In its full length, and fpin it to the laft.
So fhall we gain ftill one day's liberty;
And let me perish, but in Cato's judgment,
A day, an hour of virtuous liberty,
s worth a whole eternity in bondage.
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