What! shall an African, shall Juba's heir,
Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman soul?
Mar. No more, no more! your words leave stings behind 'em.
Whene'er did Juba, or did Porcius, show
A virtue that has cast me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?
Por. O, Marcus, did I know the way to ease Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains, Believe me, I could freely die to do it.
Mar. Thou best of brothers, and thou best of friends!
Pardon a weak distemper'd soul, that swells
With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in calms,
The sport of passions.-But, Sempronius comes:
He must not find this softnesss hanging on me.
[Exit, L.-PORTIUS retires back to R. U. E.
Sem. Conspiracies no sooner should be form'd
Than executed.-[Aside.]—What means Porcius here?
I like not that cold youth. I must dissemble,
And speak a language foreign to my heart.
Good-morrow, Porcius! [PORCIUS comes forward.]
Let us once embrace,
Once more embrace, whilst yet, we both are free:
To-morrow, should we thus express our friendship,
Each might receive a slave into his arms:
This sun, perhaps, this morning's sun's the last
That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty.
Por. (c.) My father has this morning call'd together His little Roman senate
The leavings of Pharsalia-to consult
If yet he can oppose the mighty torrent.
That bears down Rome and all her gods before it-
Or must, at length, give up the world to Cæsar.
Sem. (R. C.). Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome
Can raise her senate more than Cato's presence;
His virtues render her assembly awful,
They strike with something like religious fear,
And make even Cæsar tremble at the head
Of armies flush'd with conquest. O, my Porcius,
Could I but call that wonderous man my father,
Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious
To thy friend's vows, I might be bless'd indeed.
Por. Alas! Sempronius, would'st thou talk of love
To Marcia, whilst her father's life's in danger?
Thou might'st as well court the pale trembling vestal,
When she beholds the holy flame expiring.
Sem. The more I see the wonders of thy race,
The more I'm charm'd. Thou must take heed, my
Porcius;
The world has all its eyes on Cato's son:
Thy father's merit sets thee up to view,
And shows thee in the fairest point of light,
To make thy virtues or thy faults conspicuous.
Por. Well dost thou seem to check my lingering here On this important hour.-I'll straight away, (R.) To animate the soldier's drooping courage With love of freedom, and contempt of life, And try to rouse up all that's Roman in 'em. "Tis not in mortals to command success;
But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it.
Sem. (c.) Curse on the stripling! How he apes his sire, Ambitiously sententious !-But I wonder,
Old Syphax comes not. His Numidian genius
Is well dispos'd to mischief—
Cato has us'd me ill: 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
To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato,
I claim in my reward his captive daughter.-
Syph. (L. c.) Sempronius, all is ready; I've sounded 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 master.
Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste; Even whilst we speak our conqueror comes on,
And gathers ground upon us every moment.
But tell me, hast thou yet drawn o'er young Juba?
That still would recommend thee more to Cæsar,
And challenge better terms.
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 the infection into all his soul.
Sem. Be sure to press upon him every motive:
Juba's surrender, since his father's death,
Would give up Africk into Cæsar's hands,
And make him lord of half the burning zone.
Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate
Is 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.
Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax: I'll conceal
My thoughts in passion: 'tis the surest way:
I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country,
And mouth at Cæsar, till 1 shake the senate:
Your cold hypocrisy's a stale device,
A worn-out trick: would'st thou be thought in earnest, Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury.
Syph. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs,
And teach the wily African deceit.
Sem. Once more, be sure to try thy skill on Juba.
Meanwhile I'll hasten to my Roman soldiers, (L.).
Inflame the mutiny, and, underhand,
Blow up their discontents, till they break out
Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato.
Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste;
O think, what anxious moments pass between
The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods;
It is a dreadful interval of time,
Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death;
Destruction hangs on every word we speak,
On every thought, till the concluding stroke
Determines all, and closes our design.
[Exit, L.
Syph. (c.) I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason
This headstrong youth, and make him spurn at Cato.
The time is short; Cæsar comes rushing on us ;-
But hold-Young Juba sees me, and approaches.
Juba. (R.) Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone.
I have observ'd of late thy looks are fallen,
O'ercast with gloomy cares and discontent:
Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee tell me, (R. C.)
What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns,
And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince?
Syph. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts,
Nor carry smiles and sunshine 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 these wonderous sovereigns of the world? Dost thou not see mankind fall down before 'em, And own the force of their superior virtue?
Syph. Gods! where's the worth that sets this people up
Above your own Numidia's tawny sons?
Do they with tougher sinews 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, instructs
The fiery steed, and trains him to his hand?
Or guides in troops the embattled elephant,
Loaden with war? These, these are arts, my prince,
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.
Juba. These all are virtues of a meaner rank,
Perfections that are plac'd in bones and nerves:
A Roman soul is bent on higher views.
To make man mild, and sociable to man;
To cultivate the wild licentious, savage
With wisdom, discipline, and liberal arts-
The embellishments of life; virtues like these
Make human nature shine, reform the soul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men. (L.)
Syph. Patience, kind heavens !-Excuse an old man's
warmth;
What are these wonderous civilizing arts,
This Roman polish, and this smooth behaviour,
. That render man thus tractable and tame?
Are they not only to disguise our passions,
To set our looks at variance with our thoughts?
In short, to change us into other creatures
Than what our nature and the gods design'd us?
Juba. To strike thee dumb, turn up thy eyes to
There may'st thou see to what a godlike height
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man :
Renouncing sleep, and rest, and food, and ease,
He strives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat;
And, when his fortune sets before him all
The pomps and pleasures that our soul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.
Syph. 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,
Toils 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,
Look down on pleasures and the baits of sense,
Where shall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
How does he rise against a load of woes,
And thank the gods that throw the weight upon him! Syph. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul;
I think, the Romans call it Stoicism.
Had not your royal father thought so highly
Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's cause,
He had not fallen, by a slave's hand, inglorious;
Nor would his slaughter'd army now have lain
On Africk's sands, disfigur'd with their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.
Juba. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh?
My father's name brings tears into my eyes.
Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills !
Juba. What would'st thou have me do?
Juba. Never:-I should be more than twice an orphan By such a loss.
Syph. Ay, there's the tie that binds you,
You long to call him father; Marcia's charms
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