Part 11 (1/2)

_Jub._ Behold that upright man! Rome fills his eyes With tears, that flow'd not o'er his own dear son. [_Aside._

_Cato._ Whate'er the Roman virtue has subdued, The sun's whole course, the day and year, are Caesar's: For him the self-devoted Decii died, The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios conquer'd: Ev'n Pompey fought for Caesar. Oh, my friends, How is the toil of fate, the work of ages, The Roman empire, fall'n! Oh, cursed ambition!

Fall'n into Caesar's hands! Our great forefathers Had left him nought to conquer but his country.

_Jub._ While Cato lives, Caesar will blush to see Mankind enslaved, and be ashamed of empire.

_Cato._ Caesar ashamed! Has he not seen Pharsalia?

_Luc._ 'Tis time thou save thyself and us.

_Cato._ Lose not a thought on me; I'm out of danger: Heaven will not leave me in the victor's hand.

Caesar shall never say, he conquer'd Cato.

But oh, my friends! your safety fills my heart With anxious thoughts; a thousand secret terrors Rise in my soul. How shall I save my friends?

'Tis now, O Caesar, I begin to fear thee!

_Luc._ Caesar has mercy, if we ask it of him.

_Cato._ Then ask it, I conjure you; let him know, Whate'er was done against him, Cato did it.

Add, if you please, that I request of him,-- That I myself, with tears, request it of him,-- The virtue of my friends may pa.s.s unpunish'd.

Juba, my heart is troubled for thy sake.

Should I advise thee to regain Numidia, Or seek the conqueror?

_Jub._ If I forsake thee Whilst I have life, may Heaven abandon Juba!

_Cato._ Thy virtues, prince, if I foresee aright, Will one day make thee great; at Rome, hereafter, 'Twill be no crime to have been Cato's friend.

Portius, draw near: my son, thou oft hast seen Thy sire engaged in a corrupted state, Wrestling with vice and faction: now thou see'st me Spent, overpower'd, despairing of success.

Let me advise thee to retreat betimes To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field; Where the great Censor toil'd with his own hands, And all our frugal ancestors were bless'd In humble virtues, and a rural life; There live retired, pray for the peace of Rome; 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 Portius that he scorns himself.

_Cato._ Farewell, my friends! If there be any of you Who dare not trust the victor's clemency, Know there are s.h.i.+ps prepared, by my command, 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 sh.o.r.e, Where Caesar never shall approach us more.

[_Pointing to his dead son._ There, the brave youth, with love of virtue fired, Who greatly in his country's cause expired, Shall know he conquer'd. The firm patriot there, Who made the welfare of mankind his care, Though still by faction, vice, and fortune crost, Shall find the gen'rous labour was not lost. [_Exeunt._

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.

_A Chamber._

CATO _solus, sitting 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 reason'st 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 Heav'n itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!