_Man._ Ah, hold me not!--I must not, cannot stay, The softness of thy sorrow is contagious; I, too, may feel when I should only reason.
I dare not hear thee--Regulus and Rome, The patriot and the friend--all, all forbid it.
[_Breaks from her, and exit._
_At._ O feeble grasp!--and is he gone, quite gone?
Hold, hold thy empire, Reason, firmly hold it, Or rather quit at once thy feeble throne, Since thou but serv"st to show me what I"ve lost, To heighten all the horrors that await me; To summon up a wild distracted crowd Of fatal images, to shake my soul, To scare sweet peace, and banish hope itself.
Farewell! delusive dreams of joy, farewell!
Come, fell Despair! thou pale-ey"d spectre, come, For thou shalt be Attilia"s inmate now, And thou shalt grow, and twine about her heart, And she shall be so much enamour"d of thee, The pageant Pleasure ne"er shall interpose Her gaudy presence to divide you more.
[_Stands in an att.i.tude of silent grief._
_Enter_ LICINIUS.
_Lic._ At length I"ve found thee--ah, my charming maid!
How have I sought thee out with anxious fondness!
Alas! she hears me not.----My best Attilia!
Ah! grief oppresses every gentle sense.
Still, still she hears not----"tis Licinius speaks, He comes to soothe the anguish of thy spirit, And hush thy tender sorrows into peace.
_At._ Who"s he that dares a.s.sume the voice of love, And comes unbidden to these dreary haunts?
Steals on the sacred treasury of woe, And breaks the league Despair and I have made?
_Lic._ "Tis one who comes the messenger of heav"n, To talk of peace, of comfort, and of joy.
_At._ Didst thou not mock me with the sound of joy?
Thou little know"st the anguish of my soul, If thou believ"st I ever can again, So long the wretched sport of angry Fortune, Admit delusive hope to my sad bosom.
No----I abjure the flatterer and her train.
Let those, who ne"er have been like me deceiv"d, Embrace the fair fantastic sycophant-- For I, alas! am wedded to despair, And will not hear the sound of comfort more.
_Lic._ Cease, cease, my love, this tender voice of woe, Though softer than the dying cygnet"s plaint: She ever chants her most melodious strain When death and sorrow harmonise her note.
_At._ Yes--I will listen now with fond delight; For death and sorrow are my darling themes.
Well!--what hast thou to say of death and sorrow?
Believe me, thou wilt find me apt to listen, And, if my tongue be slow to answer thee, Instead of words I"ll give thee sighs and tears.
_Lic._ I come to dry thy tears, not make them flow; The G.o.ds once more propitious smile upon us, Joy shall again await each happy morn, And ever-new delight shall crown the day!
Yes, Regulus shall live.----
_At._ Ah me! what say"st thou?
Alas! I"m but a poor, weak, trembling woman-- I cannot bear these wild extremes of fate-- Then mock me not.--I think thou art Licinius, The generous lover, and the faithful friend!
I think thou wouldst not sport with my afflictions.
_Lic._ Mock thy afflictions?--May eternal Jove, And every power at whose dread shrine we worship, Blast all the hopes my fond ideas form, If I deceive thee! Regulus shall live, Shall live to give thee to Licinius" arms.
Oh! we will smooth his downward path of life, And after a long length of virtuous years, At the last verge of honourable age, When nature"s glimmering lamp goes gently out, We"ll close, together close his eyes in peace-- Together drop the sweetly-painful tear-- Then copy out his virtues in our lives.
_At._ And shall we be so blest? is"t possible?
Forgive me, my Licinius, if I doubt thee.
Fate never gave such exquisite delight As flattering hope hath imag"d to thy soul.
But how?----Explain this bounty of the G.o.ds.
_Lic._ Thou know"st what influence the name of Tribune Gives its possessor o"er the people"s minds: That power I have exerted, nor in vain; All are prepar"d to second my designs: The plot is ripe,--there"s not a man but swears To keep thy G.o.d-like father here in Rome---- To save his life at hazard of his own.
_At._ By what gradation does my joy ascend!
I thought that if my father had been sav"d By any means, I had been rich in bliss: But that he lives, and lives preserv"d by thee, Is such a prodigality of fate, I cannot bear my joy with moderation: Heav"n should have dealt it with a scantier hand, And not have shower"d such plenteous blessings on me; They are too great, too flattering to be real; "Tis some delightful vision, which enchants, And cheats my senses, weaken"d by misfortune.
_Lic._ We"ll seek thy father, and meanwhile, my fair, Compose thy sweet emotions ere thou see"st him, Pleasure itself is painful in excess; For joys, like sorrows, in extreme, oppress: The G.o.ds themselves our pious cares approve, And to reward our virtue crown our love.
ACT V.
_An Apartment in the Amba.s.sador"s Palace--Guards and other Attendants seen at a distance._
_Ham._ Where is this wondrous man, this matchless hero, This arbiter of kingdoms and of kings, This delegate of heav"n, this Roman G.o.d?
I long to show his soaring mind an equal, And bring it to the standard of humanity.
What pride, what glory will it be to fix An obligation on his stubborn soul!
Oh! to constrain a foe to be obliged!
The very thought exalts me e"en to rapture.
_Enter_ REGULUS _and Guards_.
_Ham._ Well, Regulus!--At last--
_Reg._ I know it all; I know the motive of thy just complaint-- Be not alarm"d at this licentious uproar Of the mad populace. I will depart-- Fear not--I will not stay in Rome alive.
_Ham._ What dost thou mean by uproar and alarms?
Hamilcar does not come to vent complaints; He rather comes to prove that Afric, too, Produces heroes, and that Tiber"s banks May find a rival on the Punic coast.
_Reg._ Be it so.--"Tis not a time for vain debate: Collect thy people.--Let us strait depart.
_Ham._ Lend me thy hearing, first.
_Reg._ O patience, patience!
_Ham._ Is it esteem"d a glory to be grateful?
_Reg._ The time has been when "twas a duty only, But "tis a duty now so little practis"d, That to perform it is become a glory.
_Ham._ If to fulfil it should expose to danger?----
_Reg._ It rises then to an ill.u.s.trious virtue.
_Ham._ Then grant this merit to an African.
Give me a patient hearing----Thy great son, As delicate in honour as in love, Hath n.o.bly given my Barce to my arms; And yet I know he doats upon the maid.
I come to emulate the generous deed; He gave me back my love, and in return I will restore his father.
_Reg._ Ah! what say"st thou?