Who check'd his conquests, and denied his triumphs. | Why will not Ca'to be this Cæsar's friend? |

Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urg'd, forbid it. | Dec. Cato, I have orders to expostulate,

And reason with you, as from friend to friend、 ; |
Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head,
And threatens ev'ry hour to burst upon it; |
Still may you stand high in your country's honors,
Do but comply, and make your peace with Cæsar, |
Rome will rejoice', and cast its eyes on Cato, |
As on the second of mankind. |

Cato.

No more

I must not think' of life on such conditions. |

Dec. Cæsar is well acquainted with your virtues, | And therefore sets this value on your life. |

Let him but know the price' of Cato's friendship, |
And name your terms. |

Cato.

Bid him disband his legions, |

Restore the commonwealth to liberty, |

Submit his actions to the public censure, |
And stand the judgment of a Roman senate. I
Let him do this', and Cato is his friend.

Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom-
Cato. Nay, more though Cato's voice was ne'er
- |
employ'd

To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes, |
Myself will mount the rostrum in his fa`vor, |
And strive to gain his pardon from the people. |

Dec. A style like this becomes a con'queror. |
Cato. Decius, a style like this, becomes a Ro'man. |
Dec. What is a Roman, that is Cæsar's foe?
Cato. Greater than Cæsar: he's a friend to virtue.
Dec. Consider, Cato, you 're in Utica,

And at the head of your own little senate; |

You don't now thunder in the Capitol, |

With all the mouths of Rome to second you. |

Cato. Let him consider that, who drives us hither. 'Tis Cæsar's sword has made Rome's senate little, |

And thinn'd its ranks. | Alas! thy dazzled eye ¦
Beholds this man in a false glaring light, |

Which conquest, and success have thrown upon him:]
Didst thou but view him right, | thou 'dst see him black
With murder, trea'son, sacrilege, and crimes', !
That strike my soul with horror but to name them.
I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch

Beset with ills, and cover'd with misfortunes; |
But, millions of worlds' |

Should never buy me to be like that Cæsar. |

Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to Cæsar, | For all his generous cares, and proffer'd friendship? | Cato. His cares for me, are insolent, and vain'. | Presumptuous man! | the gods' take care of Cato. Would Cæsar show the greatness of his soul, Let him employ his care for these my friends'; | And make good use of his ill-gotten power,

By shelt'ring men much better than himself. |

Dec. Your high unconquer'd heart makes you forget You are a man. You rush on your destruction. I When I relate hereafter |

But I have done.
The tale of this unhappy embassy,
All Rome, will be in tears. |

[Exit.

Semp. Cato, we thank' thee. The mighty genius of immortal Rome', | Speaks in thy voice: | thy soul breathes lib'erty. | Cæsar will shrink to hear the words thou utter❜st, | And shudder in the midst of all his conquests. | Luc. The senate owes its gratitude to Cato | Who, with so great a soul, consults its safety, And guards our lives, while he neglects his own. | Semp. Sempronius gives no thanks on this account. I Lucius seems fond of life'; but what is life? | "T is not to stalk about, | and draw fresh air From time to time, or gaze upon the sun :| "T is to be free. When liberty is gone, | Life grows insipid, and has lost its relish. I O could my dying hand | but lodge a sword

In Cæsar's bosom, and revenge my country,
I could enjoy the pangs of death', |

And smile in agony! |

Luc.

Others, perhaps,↓

May serve their country with as warm a zeal, |
Though 't is not kindled into so much rage.
Semp. This sober conduct is a mighty virtue
In luke-warm patriots! |

Cato. Come-no more', Sempronius, |

All here are friends to Rome, and to each other
Let us not weaken still the weaker side |
By our divisions. |

Semp. Cato, my resentments

Are sacrificed to Rome | I stand reprov'd. |
Cato. Fathers, 't is time you come to a resolve. |
Luc. Cato, we all go into your' opinion
Cæsar's behavior has convinc'd the senate |
We ought to hold it out till terms arrive. |

Semp. We ought to hold it out till death-but, Cato,] My private voice is drown'd amidst the senate's. |

Cato. Then let us rise', my friends', and strive to fill This little interval, this pause of life, |

While yet our liberty, and fates are doubtful, |
With resolution, | friend ship, | Roman bra'very, |
And all the virtues we can crowd into it, |

That heaven may say it ought to be prolong'd. |
Fathers, farewell. The young Numidian prince
I
Comes forward, and expects to know our counsels.

THANATOPSIS. *

(W. C. BRYANT.)

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language: for his gayer hours, |
She has a voice of glad 'ness, and a smile,

* Thanatopsis (Greek), from thanatos, death, and opsis, sighta view of death.

And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And gentle sym'pathy that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. |

When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour, come like a blight
Over thy spirit; | and sad imagesa

Of the stern, agony,

and shroud', | and pall', | And breathless dark,ness, and the narrow house', | Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, | Go forth under the open sky', and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — |
Earth', and her wa'ters, and the depths of air
Comes a still voice, !

Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun | shall see no more' |

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground`, |
Where thy pale form | was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth to be resolv'd to earth again; |
And, lost each human trace, | surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go |

To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock',

And to the sluggish clod | which the rude swain |
Turns with his share, and treads upon.
I

The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.¦

Yet not to thy eternal resting-place, |

Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish' |

Couch more magnificent.

Thou shalt lie down |

With patriarchs of the infant world

with kings', |

The powerful of the earth the wise, the good', I
Fair forms, and hoary seers' of ages past', |
I

All in one mighty sepulchre. |

b Sad images; not sad-dim'a-ges. Stern agony; not stern-nag'

go-ry.

The hills, |

Rock-ribb'd, and ancient as the sun'; the vales', |
Stretching in pensive quietness between. ; |
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the "complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; | and, pour'd round all
Old ocean's grey, and melancholy waste', |
Are but the solemn decorations all', I

Of the great tomb of man. |

1

The golden sun、, |
The planets, all the infinite host of heav'n, |
Are shining on the sad, abodes of death, |
Through the still lapse of ages. | All that tread
The globe, are but a hand ful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. | Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert, pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods |
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, |
Save his own dash.ings yet the dead are there, ;!
And millions in those solitudes, | since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep, the dead reign there, alone,. |

So shalt thou' rest 1 and what if thou shalt fall, |
Unnoticed by the living; and no friend
Take note of thy departure? | All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone; the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, I will chase
His favorite phantom- yet all these | shall leave
|
Their mirth, and their employments, and shall come,
I
And make their bed with thee. |

As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men', |

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years', ma'tron and maid,

b

* Sad abodes; not sad'der-bodes. But a handful; not butter handful.