Enter PORTIUS and MARCUS.
Por. 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 farther, numbers would be wanting
To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make
Among your works!
Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy;
I'm tortured, e'en to madness, when I think
On the proud victor-ev'ry time he's named
Pharsalia rises to my view!-I see
Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field,
Strew'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 Heav'n,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin ?
Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious great-
And mix'd 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 bright-
ness!
His suff'rings shine, and spread a glory round him; Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
Marc. Who knows not this? But what can Cato do Against a world, a base, degen'rate 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.
By Heav'n, such virtue, join'd with such success,
Distracts my very soul! our father's fortune
Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.
Por. Remember what our father oft has told us:
The ways
of Heav'n are dark and intricate,
Our understanding traces them 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.
Marc. 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-
Por. Thou seest not, that thy brother is thy rival;
But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Aside.
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.
Marc. Alas! the counsel which I cannot take,
Instead of healing but upbraids my weakness.
Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost
In high ambition, and a thirst of greatness;
'Tis second life, that grows into the soul,
Warms ev'ry vein, and beats in ev'ry pulse:
I feel it here; my resolution melts.
Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince.
He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her;
But still the smother'd fondness burns within him;
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?
Marc. No more! no more! your words leave stings behind them.
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?
Por. Oh, Marcus! did I know the way
Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains,
Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it,
Marc. 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.
Sem. 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. [Asides Good-morrow, Portius; let us once embrace, Once more embrace, while 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.
Por. My father has this morning call'd together, To this poor hall, his little Roman senate, (The leavings of Pharsalia) to consult
If he can yet 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. Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome
Can raise her senate more than Cato's presence.
His virtues render our assembly awful,
They strike with something like religious fear,
And make even Cæsar tremble at the head
Of armies flush'd with conquest. Oh, my Portius!
Could I but call that wond'rous man my father,
Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious
To thy friend's vows, I might be blest 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
Portius;
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