THE dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, th' important day, big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome- -Our father's death
Would fill up all the guilt of civil war,
And close the scene of blood. Already Cæsar
Has ravaged more than half the globe, and sees
Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword:
Should he go further, numbers would be wanting
To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make
Among your works!
While the present humour of idolizing Shakespear continues, ne quarter will be given to this poem; though it be the master-piece of the author, and was the pride of the age in which it was written.-But a time will come, when, not as a tragedy, indeed, (for which the subject was unfit) but, as a work of art and taste, it will be supremely admired by all candid and judicious critics.
This opening of the drama is too solemn and declamatory. The author speaks, not his " Persona dramatis." Horace has given a caution against this misconduct, in his ridicule of "Fortunam Priami cantabo, et nobile bellum," which was addressed to the tragic, as well as, epic poet,
Thy steady temper, Portius,"
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy;
I'm tortured even to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he's named
Pharsalia rises to my view!I see
Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field
Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter,
His horse's hoofs wet with Patrician blood!
Oh, Portius! is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man,
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?
Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness,
And mixt with too much horror to be envy'd:
How does the lustre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness
His sufferings shine, and spread a glory round him;
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppression, tyranny, and power usurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em.
Who knows not this? but what can Cato do
Against a world, a base degenerate world,
That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæsar?
Pent up in Utica he vainly forms
A poor epitome of Roman greatness,
And, cover'd with Numidian guards, directs
A feeble army, and an empty senate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
This a little palliates the indecorum, just now observed; and may let us see, that the poet himself was aware of it (so exact was his taste ;) but it does not wholly excuse it.
By heavens, such virtues, join'd with such success,
Distract my very soul: our father's fortune
Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.
Remember what our father oft has told us :
The ways of heaven are dark and intricate,
Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors:
Our understanding traces 'em in vain,
Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search;
Nor sees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confusion ends.
These are suggestions of a mind at ease:
Oh Portius! didst thou taste but half the griefs
That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly.
Passion unpity'd, and successless love,
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind!-
Thou seest not that thy brother is thy rival:
But I must hide it, for I know thy temper.
Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue's on the proof:
Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve,
And call up all thy father in thy soul:
To quell the tyrant Love, and guard thy heart
On this weak side, where most our nature fails,
Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son.
Portius, the counsel which I cannot take,
Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Bid me for honour plunge into a war
Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death,
Then shalt thou see that Marcus is not slow
To follow glory, and confess his father.
A strange unnatural phrase: which yet hath made its fortune in modern tragedy. Besides, if these words have any meaning, it was ridiculous to add " and aggravate my other griefs."
Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost
In high ambition, and a thirst of greatness;
'Tis second life, it grows into the soul,
Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse,
I feel it here my resolution melts
Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince !
With how much care he forms himself to glory,
And breaks the fierceness of his native temper
To copy out our father's bright example.
He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her,
His eyes, his looks, his actions all betray it:
But still the smother'd fondness burns within him.
When most it swells, and labours for a vent,
The sense of honour and desire of fame
Drive the big passion back into his heart.
What! shall an African, shall Juba's heir
Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman soul?
Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind 'em.
Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, show
A virtue that has cast me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?
Marcus, I know thy gen'rous temper well;
Fling but th' appearance of dishonour on it,
It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.
A brother's sufferings claim a brother's pity.
Heaven knows I pity thee: behold my eyes
Even whilst I speak-Do they not swim in tears?
Were but my heart as naked to thy view,
Marcus would see it bleed in his behalf.
Why then dost treat me with rebukes, instead
Of kind condoling cares, and friendly sorrow?
O Marcus! did I know the way to ease
Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains,
Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it.
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 softness hanging on me.
SEMPRONIUS, PORTIUS.
SEMPRONIUS.
Conspiracies no sooner should be form'd
Than executed. What means Portius here?
I like not that cold youth. I must dissemble,
And speak a language foreign to my heart.
Good morrow, Portius! 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 sun's the last,
That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty.
My father has this morning call'd together
To this poor hall his little Roman senate,
• Cold youth] Finely observed. Men of cold passions have quick eyes, and are no fit company for such men as Sempronius; whether they speak from the heart, or dissemble: hence, the indignant reproof of his passion, and the abrupt departure from his flatteries.
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