Classic Poem

  Reg. Be calm my soul! what strange emotions shake thee?
Emotions thou hast never felt till now.
Thou hast defied the dangers of the deep,
Th' impetuous hurricane, the thunder's roar,
And all the terrors of the various war;
Yet, now thou tremblest, fearful and dismay'd,
With anxious expectation of thy fate.——
Yes, thou hast amplest reason for thy fears;
For till this hour, so pregnant with events,
Thy fame and glory never were at stake.
 Soft—let me think—what is this thing called glory?
'Tis the soul's tyrant, that should be dethron'd,
And learn subjection like her other passions!
Ah! no! 'tis false: this is the coward's plea;
The lazy language of refining vice.
That man was born in vain, whose wish to serve
Is circumscribed within the wretched bounds
Of self —a narrow miserable sphere!
Glory exalts, enlarges, dignifies,
Absorbs the selfish in the social claims,
And renders man a blessing to mankind.—
It is this principle, this spark of Deity,
Rescues debased humanity from guilt,
And elevates it by her strong excitements.—
It takes off sensibility from pain,
From peril, fear; plucks out the sting from death;
Changes ferocious into gentle manners;
And teaches men to imitate the gods.
It shows,—but see, alas! where Publius comes.
Ah! he advances with a downcast eye,
And step irresolute.——

  Reg. My Publius, welcome!
What tidings dost thou bring? What says the Senate?
Is yet my fate determin'd? quickly tell me.—
  Pub. I cannot speak, and yet, alas! I must.
  Reg. Tell me the whole.—
  Pub. Would I were rather dumb!
  Reg. Publius, no more delay:—I charge thee speak.
  Pub. The Senate has decreed you shall depart.
  Reg. Blest spirit of Rome! thou hast at last prevail'd—
I thank the gods, I have not liv'd in vain!
Where is Hamilcar?—find him—let us go,
For Regulus has nought to do in Rome;
I have accomplish'd her important work,
And must depart.
  Pub. Ah, my unhappy father!
  Reg. Unhappy , Publius! didst thou say unhappy?
Does he, does that blest man deserve this name,
Who to his latest breath can serve his country?
  Pub. Like thee, my father, I adore my country,
Yet weep with anguish o'er thy cruel chains.
  Reg. Dost thou not know that life's a slavery?
The body is the chain that binds the soul;
A yoke that every mortal must endure.
Wouldst thou lament—lament the general fate,
The chain that nature gives, entail'd on all,
Not these I wear.
  Pub. Forgive, forgive my sorrows:
I know, alas! too well, those fell barbarians
Intend thee instant death.
  Reg. So shall my life
And servitude together have an end.—
Publius, farewell! nay, do not follow me.
  Pub. Alas! my father, if thou ever lov'dst me,
Refuse me not the mournful consolation
To pay the last sad offices of duty
I e'er can show thee.—
  Reg. No!—thou canst fulfil
Thy duty to thy father in a way
More grateful to him: I must straight embark.
Be it meanwhile thy pious care to keep
My lov'd Attilia from a sight, I fear,
Would rend her gentle heart.—Her tears, my son,
Would dim the glories of thy father's triumph.
Her sinking spirits are subdued by grief,
And should her sorrows pass the bounds of reason,
Publius, have pity on her tender age,
Compassionate the weakness of her sex;
We must not hope to find in her soft soul
The strong exertion of a manly courage.—
Support her fainting spirit, and instruct her,
By thy example, how a Roman ought
To bear misfortune. O, indulge her weakness!
And he to her the father she will lose.
I leave my daughter to thee—I do more—
I leave to thee the conduct of—thyself.
—Ah, Publius! I perceive thy courage fails—
I see the quivering lip, the starting tear;—
That lip, that tear calls down my mounting soul.
Resume thyself—oh! do not blast my hope!
Yes—I'm compos'd—thou wilt not monk my age—
Thou art —thou art a Roman —and my son .

  Pub. And is he gone?—now he thyself, my soul—
Hard is the conflict, but the triumph glorious.
Yes,—I must conquer these too tender feelings;
The blood that fills these vains demands it of me;
My father's great example, too, requires it.
Forgive me, Rome , and glory , if I yielded
To nature's strong attack:—I must subdue it.
Now, Regulus, I feel I am thy son .

  Att. My brother, I'm distracted, wild with fear—
Tell me, O tell me, what I dread to know—
Is it, then, true?—I cannot speak—my father?
  Bar. May we believe the fatal news?
  Pub. Yes, Barce.
It is determin'd. Regulus must go.
  Att. Immortal powers!—What say'st thou?
  Bar. Can it be?
Thou canst not mean it.
  Att. Then you've all betrayed me.
  Pub. Thy grief avails not.

  Bar. Pity us, Hamilcar!
  Att. Oh, help, Licinius, help the lost Attilia!
  Ham. My Barce! there's no hope.
  Lic. Ah! my fair mourner
All's lost!
  Att. What all, Licinius? said'st thou all?
Not one poor glimpse of comfort left behind?
Tell me at least where Regulus is gone:
The daughter shall partake the father's chains,
And share the woes she knew not to prevent.
  Pub. What would thy wild despair? Attilia, stay,
Thou must not follow; this excess of grief
Would much offend him.
  Att. Dost thou hope to stop me?
  Pub. I hope thou wilt resume thy better self,
And recollect thy father will not hear—
  Att. I only recollect I am a daughter ,
A poor, defenceless, helpless, wretched daughter!
Away—and let me follow.
  Pub. No, my sister.
  Att. Detain me not—Ah! while thou hold'st me here,
He goes, and I shall never see him more.
  Bar. My friend, he comforted, he cannot go
Whilst here Hamilcar stays.
  Att. O, Barce, Barce!
Who will advise, who comfort, who assist me?
Hamilcar, pity me.—Thou wilt not answer?
  Ham. Rage and astonishment divide my soul.
  Att. Licinius, wilt thou not relieve my sorrows?
  Lic. Yes, at my life's expense, my heart's best treasure,
Wouldst thou instruct me how.
  Att. My brother, too—
Ah! look with mercy on thy sister's woes!
  Pub. I will at least instruct thee how to bear them.
My sister—yield thee to thy adverse fate;
Think of thy father, think of Regulus;
Has he not taught thee how to brave misfortune?
'Tis but by following his illustrious steps
Thou e'er canst merit to be call'd his daughter.
  Att. And is it thus thou dost advise thy sister?
Are these, ye gods, the feelings of a son?
Indifference here becomes impiety—
Thy savage heart ne'er felt the dear delights
Of final tenderness—the thousand joys
That flow from blessing and from being bless'd!
No—didst thou love thy father as I love him,
Our kindred souls would be in unison;
And all my sighs be echoed back by thine.
Thou wouldst—alas!—I know not what I say.—
Forgive me, Publius,—but, indeed, my brother,
I do not understand this cruel coldness.
  Ham. Thou mayst not—but I understand it well.
His mighty soul, full as to thee it seems
Of Rome, and glory—is enamour'd—caught—
Enraptur'd with the beauties of fair Barce.—
She stays behind, if Regulus departs .
Behold the cause of all the well-feign'd virtue
Of this mock patriot—curst dissimulation!
  Pub. And canst thou entertain such vile suspicious?
Gods! what an outrage to a son like me.
  Ham. Yes, Roman: now I see thee as thou art,
Thy naked soul divested of its veil,
Its specious colouring, its dissembled virtues:
Thou hast plotted with the senate to prevent
Th' exchange of captives. All thy subtle arts,
Thy smooth inventions, have been set to work—
The base refinements of your polish'd land.
  Pub. In truth, the doubt is worthy of an African.

  Ham. I know—
  Pub. Peace, Carthaginian, peace, and hear me.
Didst thou not know, that on the very man
Thou hast insulted, Barce's fate depends?
  Ham. Too well I know, the cruel chance of war
Gave her, a blooming captive, to thy mother;
Who, dying, left the beauteous prize to thee.
  Pub. Now, see the use a Roman makes of power
Heav'n is my witness how I lov'd the maid!
O she was dearer to my soul than light!
Dear as the vital stream that feeds my heart!
But know my honour's dearer than my love.
I do not even hope thou wilt believe me;
Thy brutal soul, as savage as thy clime,
Can never taste those elegant delights,
Those pure refinements, love and glory yield.
'Tis not to thee I stoop for vindication,
Alike to me thy friendship or thy hate;
But to remove from others a pretence
For branding Publius with the name of villain;
That they may see no sentiment but honour
Informs this bosom.—Barce, thou art free .
Thou hast my leave with him to quit this shore.
Now learn, barbarian, how a Roman loves!
  Bar. He cannot mean it!
  Ham. Oh exalted virtue!
Which challenges esteem though from a foe.
  Att. Ah! cruel Publius, wilt thou leave me thus?
Thus leave thy sister?
  Bar. Didst thou hear, Hamilcar?
Oh! didst thou hear the godlike youth resign me?

  Ham. Farewell, I will return.
  Lic. Farewell, my love!
  Bar. Hamilcar, where—
  Att. Alas! where art thou going?

  Lic. If possible, to save the life of Regulus.
  Att. But by what means!—Ah! how canst thou effect it?
  Lic. Since the disease so desperate is become,
We must apply a desperate remedy.
  Ham. Yes, I will mortify this generous foe;
I'll be reveng'd upon this stubborn Roman;
Not by defiance bold, or feats of arms,
But by a means more sure to work its and;
By emulating his exalted worth,
And showing him a virtue like his own;
Such a refin'd revenge as noble minds
Alone can practise, and alone can feel.
  Att. If thou wilt go, Licinius, let Attilia
At least go with thee.
  Lic. No, my gentle love,
Too much I prize thy safety and thy peace.
Let me entreat thee, stay with Barce here
Till our return.
  Att. Then, ere ye go, in pity
Explain the intent purpose of your souls.
  Lic. Soon shalt thou know it all—Farewell! farewell!
Let us keep Regulus in Rome , or die .

  Ham. Yes.—These smooth, polish'd Romans shall confess
The soil of Afric too produces heroes.
What, though our pride perhaps be less than theirs,
Our virtue may be equal: they shall own
The path of honour's not unknown to Carthage,
Nor, as they arrogantly think, confin'd
To their proud capitol:—Yes, they shall learn
The gods look down on other climes than theirs.

  Att. What! gone, both gone? What can I think or do?
Licinius leaves me, led by love and virtue
To rouse the citizens to war and tumult,
Which may be fatal to himself and Rome,
And yet, alas! not serve my dearest father.
Protecting deities! preserve them both!
  Bar. Nor is thy Barce more at ease, my friend;
I dread the fierceness of Hamilcar's courage;
Rous'd by the grandeur of thy brother's deed,
And stung by his reproaches, his great soul
Will scorn to be outdone by him in glory.
Yet, let us rise to courage and to life,
Forget the weakness of our helpless sex,
And mount above these coward woman's fears.
Hope dawns upon my mind—my prospect clears,
And every cloud now brightens into day.
  Att. How different are our souls! Thy sanguine temper,
Flush'd with the native vigour of thy soil,
Supports thy spirits; while the sad Attilia,
Sinking with more than all her sex's fears,
Sees not a beam of hope; or, if she sees it,
'Tis not the bright, warm splendour of the sun;
It is a sickly and uncertain glimmer,
Of instantaneous light'ning, passing by.
It shows, but not diminishes the danger,
And leaves my poor benighted soul as dark
As it had never shone.
  Bar. Come, let us go.
Yes, joys unlook'd for now shall gild thy days,
And brighter suns reflect propitious rays.

 Where's your ambassador! where is Hamilcar?
Ere this he doubtless knows the senate's will.
Go seek him out—tell him we must depart—
Rome has no hope for him , or wish for me .
Longer delay were criminal in both .

  Reg. He comes. The Consul comes! my noble friend!
O let me strain thee to this grateful heart,
And thank thee for the vast, vast debt I owe thee!
But for thy friendship I had been a wretch—
Had been compell'd to shameful liberty .
To thee I owe the glory of these chains,
My faith inviolate, my fame preserv'd,
My honour, virtue, glory, bondage,—all!
  Man. But we shall lose thee, so it is decreed—
Thou must depart?
  Reg. Because I must depart
You will not lose me; I were lost indeed
Did I remain in Rome.
  Man. Ah! Regulus,
Why, why so late do I begin to love then?
Alas! why have the adverse fates decreed,
I ne'er must give thee other proofs of friendship,
Than those, so fatal, and so full of wo?
  Reg. Thou hast perform'd the duties of a friend;
Of a just, faithful, true, and noble friend:
Yet, generous as thou art, if thou constrain me
To sink beneath a weight of obligation,
I could—yes, Manlius—I could ask still more.
  Man. Explain thyself.
  Reg. I think I have fulfill'd
The various duties of a citizen;
Nor have I aught beside to do for Rome.
Now, nothing for the public good remains.
Manlius, I recollect I am a father!
My Publius! my Attilia! ah! my friend,
They are—(forgive the weakness of a parent)
To my fond heart dear as the drops that warm it.
Next to my country, they're my all of life;
And, if a weak old man be not deceiv'd,
They will not shame that country. Yes, my friend,
The love of virtue blazes in their souls.
As yet these tender plants are immature,
And ask the fostering hand of cultivation:
Heav'n in its wisdom would not let their father
Accomplish this great work.—To thee, my friend,
The tender parent delegates the trust:
Do not refuse a poor man's legacy;
I do bequeath my orphans to thy love—
If thou wilt kindly take them to thy bosom,
Their loss will be repaid with usury.
O let the father owe his glory to thee,
The children their protection!
  Man. Regulus,
With grateful joy my heart accepts the trust;
Oh! I will shield with jealous tenderness,
The precious blossoms from a blasting world.
In me thy children shall possess a father,
Though not as worthy, yet as fond as thee,
The pride be mine to fill their youthful-breasts
With every virtue—'twill not cost me much:
I shall have nought to teach, nor they to learn,
But the great history of their godlike sire.
  Reg. I will not hurt the grandeur of thy virtue,
By paying thee so poor a thing as thanks.
Now all is over, and I bless the gods,
I've nothing more to do.

  Pub. O Regulus!
  Reg. Say what has happen'd?
  Pub. Rome is in a tumult—
There's scarce a citizen but runs to arms—
They will not let thee go.
  Reg. Is't possible?
Can Rome so far forget her dignity
As to desire this infamous exchange?
I blush to think it!
  Pub. Ah! not so, my father.
Rome cares not for the peace, nor for th' exchange;
She only wills that Regulus shall stay.
  Reg. How, stay? my oath—my faith—my honour! ah!
Do they forget?
  Pub. No: Every man exclaims
That neither faith nor honour should be kept
With Carthaginian perfidy and fraud.
  Reg. Gods! gods! on what vile principles they reason!
Can guilt in Carthage palliate guilt in Rome,
Or vice in one absolve it in another?
Ah! who hereafter shall be criminal,
If precedents are used to justify
The blackest crimes!
  Pub. Th' infatuated people
Have called the augurs to the sacred fane,
There to determine this momentous point.
  Reg. I have no need of oracles , my son;
Honour's the oracle of honest men.
I gave my promise, which I will observe
With most religious strictness. Rome, 'tis true,
Had power to choose the peace, or change of slaves;
But whether Regulus return, or not,
Is his concern, not the concern of Rome .
That was a public, this a private care.
Publius! thy father is not what he was;
I am the slave of Carthage , nor has Rome
Power to dispose of captives not her own.
Guards! let us to the port.—Farewell, my friend.
  Man. Let me entreat thee stay; for shouldst thou go
To stem this tumult of the populace,
They will by force detain thee: than, alas!
Both Reguius and Rome must break their faith.
  Reg. What! must I then remain?
  Man. No, Regulus,
I will not check thy great career of glory:
Thou shalt depart; meanwhile, I'll try to calm
This wild tumultuous uproar of the people.
The consular authority shall still them.
  Reg. Thy virtue is my safeguard—but—
  Man. Enough.—
I know thy honour, and trust thou to mine .
I am a Roman , and I feel some sparks
Or Reguius's virtue in my breast.
Though fate denies me thy illustrious chains,
I will at least endeavour to deserve them.
  Reg. How is my country alter'd! how, alas,
Is the great spirit of old Rome extinct!
Restraint and force must now be put to use,
To make her virtuous. She must be compell'd
To faith and honour.—Ah! what Publius here?
And dost thou leave so tamely to my friend
The honour to assist me! Go, my boy,
'Twill make me more in love with chains and death,
To owe them to a son .
  Pub. I go, my father—
I will, I will obey thee.
  Reg. Do not sigh—
One sigh will check the progress of thy glory.
  Pub. Yes, I will own the pangs of death itself
Would be less cruel than these agonies:
Yet do not frown austerely on thy son:
His anguish is his virtue : if to conquer.
The feelings of my soul were easy to me,
'Twould be no merit. Do not then defraud
The sacrifice I make thee of its worth.

M ANLIUS , A TTILIA .

  Att. Where is the consul?
  —Where, oh! where is Manlius?
I come to breathe the voice of mourning to him,
I come to crave his mercy, to conjure him
To whisper peace to my afflicted bosom,
And heal the anguish of a wounded spirit.
  Man. What would the daughter of my noble friend?
  Att. If ever pity's sweet emotions touch'd thee,—
If ever gentle love assail'd thy breast—
If ever virtuous friendship fir'd thy soul—
By the dear names of husband and of parent—
By all the soft yet powerful ties of nature—
If e'er thy lisping infants charm'd thine ear,
And waken'd all the father in thy soul,—
If e'er thou hop'st to have thy latter days
Blest by their love, and sweeten'd by their duty—
Oh! hear a kneeling, weeping, wretched daughter,
Who begs a father's life—nor her's alone,
But Rome's—his country's father.
  Man. Gentle maid!
Oh! spare this soft, subduing eloquence!—
Nay, rise. I shall forget I am a Roman—
Forget the mighty debt I owe my country—
Forget the fame and glory of thy father.
I must conceal this weakness.
  Att. Ah! you weep!
Indulge, indulge, my lord, the virtuous softness:
Was ever sight so graceful, so becoming,
As pity's tear upon the hero's cheek?
  Man. No more—I must not hear thee.
  Att. How! not hear me!
You must—you shall—nay, nay, return, my lord—
Oh! fly not from me—look upon my woes,
And imitate the mercy of the gods:
'Tis not their thunder that excites our reverence,
'Tis their mild mercy and forgiving love.
'Twill add a brighter lustre to thy laurels,
When men shall say, and proudly point thee out,
“Behold the consul!—he who sav'd his friend.”
Oh! what a tide of joy will overwhelm thee!
Who will not envy thee thy glorious feelings?
  Man. Thy father scorns his liberty and life,
Nor will accept of either, at th' expense
Of honour, virtue, glory, faith, and Rome.
  Att. Think you behold the godlike Reguius,
The prey of unrelenting savage foas,
Ingenious only in contriving ill:—
Eager to glut their hunger of revenge,
They'll plot such new, such dire, unheard-of tortures—
Such dreadful and such complicated vengeance,
As ev'n the Panic annals have not known;
And, as they heap fresh torments on his head,
They'll glory in their genius for destruction.
Ah! Manlius—now methinks I see my father—
My faithful fancy, full of his idea,
Presents him to me—mangled, gash'd, and torn—
Stretch'd on the rack in writhing agony—
The torturing placers tear his quivering flesh,
While the dire murderers smile upon his wounds—
His groans their music, and his pangs their sport.
And if they land some interval of ease,
Some dear-bought intermission, meant to make
The following pang mere exquisitely felt,
Th' insulting executioners exclaim,
“Now, Roman! feel the vengeance thou hast scorn'd!”
  Man. Repress thy sorrows—
  Att. Can the friend of Regulus
Advise his daughter not to mourn his fate?
How cold, alas! is friendship when compar'd
To ties of blood—to nature's powerful impulse!
Yes—she asserts her empire in my soul,
'Tis nature pleads—she will—she must be heard;
With warm, resistless eloquence she pleads.
Ah, thou art soften'd!—see—the consul yields—
The feelings triumph—tenderness prevails—
The Roman is subdued—the daughter conquers!

  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.

  Att. Oh 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-eyed spectre, came,
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.

  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.
  Att. Who's he that dares assume the voice of love,
And comes unbidden to these dreary haunts?
Steals on the sacred treasury of we,
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.
  Att. 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 these, who ne'er have been like me deceiv'd,
Embrance 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 we,
Though softer than the dying cygnet's plaint:
She ever chants her most melodious strain
When death and sorrow harmonize her note
  Att. 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 gods 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.
  Att. Ah, me! what say'st thou?
Alas! I'm but a pont, 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.
  Att. 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 imaged to thy soul.
But how! Explain this bounty of the gods.
  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 godlike father here in Rome—
To save his life at hazard of his own.
  Att. 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,
In such a predigality of fate,
I cannot bear my joy with moderation:
Heaven should have dealt it with a scantier hand,
And not have shower'd such pleateous 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 gods themselves our pious cares approve,
And to reward our virtue, crown our love.