But, Philibert, we'll in to council. Arnold,

We would request your presence.

ARNOLD.

Prince! my service

Is yours, as in the field.

BOURBON.

In both we prize it,

And yours will be a post of trust at day-break.

And wait within my tent.

[Exeunt BOURBON, ARNOLD, PHILIBERT, &c.

CESAR (solus.)

Within thy tent!

Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my presence? Or that this crooked coffer, which contained

Thy principle of life, is aught to me

Except a mask? And these are Men, forsooth!
Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards!
This is the consequence of giving Matter

The power of Thought. It is a stubborn substance,

And thinks chaotically, as it acts,

Ever relapsing into its first elements.

Well! I must play with these poor puppets: 'tis
The Spirit's pastime in his idler hours.

When I grow weary of it, I have business

Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures deem
Were made for them to look at. "Twere a jest now
To bring one down amongst them, and set fire
Unto their ant-hill: how the pismires then

Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing
From tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth
One universal orison! Ha! ha!

[Exit CESAR.

END OF PART FIRST.

SCENE 1.

A DRAMA.

PART II. SCENE I.

Before the Walls of Rome.

The assault: the army in

motion, with ladders to scale the walls; BOURBON,

with a white scarf over his armour, foremost.

Chorus of Spirits in the air.

1.

'Tis the morn, but dim and dark.

Whither flies the silent lark?

Whither shrinks the clouded sun?

Is the day indeed begun?

Nature's eye is melancholy

O'er the city high and holy:

But without there is a din

Should arouse the Saints within,

And revive the heroic ashes

Round which yellow Tiber dashes.

Oh ye seven hills! awaken,

Ere your very base be shaken!

2.

Harken to the steady stamp!

Mars is in their every tramp!

Not a step is out of tune,

As the tides obey the moon!

On they march, though to self-slaughter,

Regular as rolling water,

Whose high waves o'ersweep the border Of huge moles, but keep their order, Breaking only rank by rank.

Harken to the armour's clank!

Look down o'er each frowning warrior,

How he glares upon the barrier:
Look on each step of each ladder,

As the stripes that streak an adder.

3.

Look upon the bristling wall,
Manned without an interval!

Round and round, and tier on tier,
Cannon's black mouth, shining spear,
Lit match, bell-mouthed musquetoon,

Gaping to be murderous soon.
All the warlike gear of old,

Mixed with what we now behold,

Awful as thy brother's crime!

Christians war against Christ's shrine :—

Must its lot be like to thine?

4.

Near-and near-nearer still,

As the earthquake saps the hill,

First with trembling, hollow motion,
Like a scarce-awakened ocean,

Then with stronger shock and louder,
Till the rocks are crushed to powder,-
Onward sweeps the rolling host!
Heroes of the immortal boast!
Mighty Chiefs! Eternal Shadows!
First flowers of the bloody meadows
Which encompass Rome, the mother
Of a people without brother!

Will you sleep when nations' quarrels
Plough the root up of your laurels ?
Ye who weep o'er Carthage burning,

Weep not-strike! for Rome is mourning!*

Scipio, the second Africanus, is said to have repeated a verse of Homer and wept o'er the burning of Carthage. He had better have granted it a capitulation.