SPEECHES IN THE ROMAN SENATE.
CATO.—Fathers! we once again are met in council.
Cæsar's approach, has summon'd us together,
And Rome attends her fate from our resolves.
How shall we treat this bold aspiring man?
Success still follows him, and backs his crimes,
Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has since
Receiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Cæsar's.
Why should I mention Juba's overthrow,
And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands
Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree
What course to take. Our foe advances on us,
And envies us ev'n Lybia's sultry deserts.
Fathers, pronounce your thoughts. Are they still fix'd
To hold it out and fight it to the last?
Or, are your hearts subdu'd, at length, and wrought;
By time and ill success, to a submission?—
Sempronius, speak.
SEMPRONIUS.—My voice is still for war.
Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
Which of the two to chuse, slav'ry or death?
No—let us rise at once; gird on our swords;
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, some arm, more lucky than the rest,
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.
Rise, Fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands your help;
Rise, and revenge her slaughter'd citizens,
Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senate
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we
Sit here, delib'rating' hi told debates,
If we should sacrifice our lives to honour,
Or wear them out in servitude and chains.
Rouse up, for shame: Our brothers of Pharsalia
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud—to battle!
Great Pompey's shade complains that we are flow;
And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd amongst us!
CATO.—Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal
Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason.
True fortitude is seen in great exploits,
That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides;
All else is tow'ring frenzy and distraction.
Are not the lives of those who draw the sword
In Rome's defence, entrusted to our care?
Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter,
Might not th' impartial world, with reason, say
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.
LUCIUS.—My thoughts, I must confess, are turn'd on peace,
Already have our quarrels fill'd the world
With widows and with orphans. Scythia mourns
Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions
Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome.
'Tis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind,
It is not Cæsar, but the gods, my fathers!
The gods declare against us, and repel
Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle,
(Prompted by a blind revenge and wild despair)
Were, to refuse th' awards of providence,
And not to rest in heav'n's determination.
Already have we shewn our love to Rome;
Now, let us shew submission to the gods.
We took up arms not to revenge ourselves,
But free the commonwealth. When this end fails,
Arms have no further use. Our country's cause,
That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands,
And bids us not delight in Roman blood
Unprofitably shed. What men could do
Is done already. Heav'n and earth will witness,
If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.
CATO—Let us appear, not rash, nor diffident,
Immoderate valour swells into a fault;
And fear, admitted into public councils,
Betray like treason. Let us shun 'em both.—
Father's, I cannot see that our affairs
Are grown thus desp'rate. We have bulwarks round us;
Within our walls, are troops inur'd to toil
In Afric heats, and season'd to the sun.
Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us,
Ready to rise at its young prince's call.
While there is hope, do not distrust the gods:
But wait, at least, till Cæsar's near approach
Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late
To sue for chains, and own a conqueror.
Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time?
No—let us draw our term of freedom out
In its full length, and spin it to the last:
So shall we gain still one day's liberty.
And, let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment,
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty,
Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.
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.
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!
Through what variety of untry'd beings,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me—
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.—
Here will I hold. If there's a pow'r above us,
(And that there is all nature cries aloud
Through all her works) he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But, when! or where! this world—was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures—this must end 'em.
[Laying his hand on his sword.
Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and life,
My bane and antidote are both before me:
This, in a moment, brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amid the war of elements,
The wrecks of matter; and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?
Nature oppress'd, and harrass'd out with care;
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her;
That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,
Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life;
An offering fit for Heav'n. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest; Cato knows neither of 'em;
Indiff'rent in his choice, to sleep or die.