Classic Poem

  Lic. Attilia waiting here? Is't possible?
Is this a place for Regulus's daughter?
Just gods! must that incomparable maid
Associate here with Lictors and Plebeians?
  Att. Yes, on this threshold patiently I wait
The consul's coming; I would make him blush
To see me here his suitor. O, Licinius,
This is no time for form and cold decorum;
Five lagging years have crept their tedious round,
And Regulus, alas! is still a slave;
A wretched slave, unpitied, and forgotten;
No other tribute paid his memory,
Than the sad tears of his unhappy child;
If she be silent, who will speak for Regulus?
  Lic. Let not her sorrows make my fair unjust.
In there in Rome a heart so dead to virtue
That does not beat in Regulus's cause?
That wearies not the gods for his return?
That does not think all subjugated Afric,
A slender, unimportant acquisition,
If, in return for this extended empire,
The freedom of thy father be the purchase?
These are the feelings of imperial Rome;
My own; it were superfluous to declare.
For if Licinius were to weigh his merit,
That he's thy father were sufficient glory.
He was my leader, train'd me up to arms;
And if I boast a spark of Roman honour,
I owe it to his precepts and his virtues.
  Att. And yet I have not seen Licinius stir
  Lic. Ah! spare me thy reproaches—what, when into
A private citizen, could I attempt?
'Twas not the lust of power, or pride of rank,
Which made me seek the dignity of tribune;
No, my Attilie, but I fondly hop'd
'Twould strengthen and enforce the just request,
Which, as a private man, I vainly urg'd;
But now, the people's representative,
I shall demand , Attilia, to be heard.
  Att. Ah! let us not too hastily apply
This dangerous remedy; I would not rouse
Fresh tumults 'twixt the people and the senate:
Each views with jealousy the idol, power,
Which, each possessing, would alike abuse.
What one demands, the other still denies.
Might I advise you, try a gentler method;
I know that every moment Rome expects
The ambassador of Carthage, nay, 'tis said
The conscript fathers are already met
To give him audience in Beilona's temple.
There might the consul at my suit, Licinius,
Propose the ransom of my captive father.
  Lic. Ah! think, Attilia, who that consul is,
Manlius thy father's rival, and his foe:
His ancient rival, and his foe profess'd:
To hope in him, my fair, were fond delusion.
  Att. Yet though his rival, Manlius, is a Roman :
Nor will he think of private enmities,
Weigh'd in the balance with the good of Rome,
Let me at least make trial of his honour.
  Lic. Be it so, my fair! but elsewhere make thy suit;
Let not the consul meet Attilia here ,
Confounded with the refuse of the people.
  Att. Yes, I will see him here , e'en here , Licinius.
Let Manlius blush, not me: here will I speak,
Here shall he answer me.
  Lic. Behold, he comes.
  Att. Do thou retire.
  Lic. O, bless me with a look,
One parting look, at least.
  Att. Know, my Licinius,
That at this moment I am all the daughter ,
The filial feelings now possess my soul,
And other passions find no entrance there.
  Lic. O sweet, yet powerful influence of virtue,
That charms though cruel, though unkind subdues,
And what was love exalts to admiration!
Yes, 'tis the privilege of souls like thine
To conquer must when least they aim at conquest.
Yet, ah! vouchsafe to think upon Licinius,
Nor fear to rob thy father of his due;
For surely virtue and the gods approve
Unwearied constancy and spotless love.

  Att. Ah! Manlius, stay, a moment stay, and hear me.
  Man. I did not think to meet thee here, Attilia;
The place so little worthy of the guest.
  Att. It would, indeed, have ill become Attilia,
While still her father was a Roman citizen;
But for the daughter of a slave to Carthage,
It surely is most fitting.
  Man. Say, Attilia,
What is the purpose of thy coming hither?
  Att. What is the purpose, patience, pitying Heaven
Tell me, how long, to Rome's eternal shame,
To fill with horror all the wond'ring world,
My father still must groan in Punic chains.
And waste the tedious hours in cruel bondage?
Days follow days, and years to years succeed,
And Rome forgets her hero, is content
That Regulus be a forgotten slave.
What is his crime? is it that he preferr'd
His country's profit to his children's good?
Is it th' unshaken firmness of his soul,
Just, uncorrupt, and, boasting, let me speak it,
Poor in the highest dignities of Rome?
Illustrious crime! O glorious poverty;
  Man. But know, Attilia—
  Att. O, have patience with me.
And can ungrateful Rome so soon forget?
Can those who breathe the air he breath'd forget
The great, the godlike virtues of my father?
There's not a part of Rome but speaks his praise.
The streets —through them the hero pass'd triumphant:
The forum —there the legislator plann'd
The wisest, purest laws—the senate-house—
There spoke the patriot Roman —there his voice
Secur'd the public safety: Manlius, yes;
The wisdom of his councils match'd his valour.
Enter the temples —mount the capital —
And tell me, Manlius, to what hand but his
They owe their trophies, and their ornaments,
Their foreign banners, and their boasted ensigns,
Tarentine, Punic, and Sicilian spoils?
Nay, e'en those lictors who precede thy steps,
This consul's purple which invests thy limbs,
All, all were Regulus's, were my father's.
And yet this hero, this exalted patriot,
This man of virtue, this immortal Roman,
In base requital for his services,
Is left to linger out a life in chains,
No honours paid him but a daughter's tears.
O Rome! O Regulus! O thankless citizens!
  Man. Just are thy tears:—thy father well deserves them;
But know thy censure is unjust, Attilia.
The fate of Regulus is felt by all:
We know and mourn the cruel woes he suffers
From barbarous Carthage.
  Att. Manlius, you mistake;
Alas! it is not Carthage which is barbarous;
'Tis Rome, ungrateful Rome, is the barbarian;
Carthage but punishes a foe profess'd,
But Rome betrays her hero and her father:
Carthage remembers how he slew her sons,
But Rome forgets the blood he shed for her :
Carthage revenges an acknowledged foe,
But Rome with basest perfidy rewards
The glorious hand that hound her brow with laurels.
Which now is the barbarian, Rome or Carthage?
  Man. What can be done?
  Att. A woman shall inform you.
Convene the senate; let them straight propose
A ransom, or exchange for Regulus,
To Africa's ambassador. Do this,
And Heav'n's best blessings crown your days with peace,
  Man. Thou speakest like a daughter , I, Attilia,
Must as a consul net; I must consult
The good of Rome, and with her good, her glory
Would it not tarnish her unspotted fame,
To sue to Carthage on the terms thou wishest?
  Att. Ah! rather own thou'rt still my father's foe.
  Man. Ungen'rous maid! no fault of mine concurr'd
To his destruction. 'Twas the chance of war.
Farewell! ere this the senate is assembled—
My presence is requir'd.—Speak to the fathers,
And try to soften their austerity;
My rigour they may render vain, for know,
I am Rome's consul , not her king , Attilia.
  Att. This flattering hope, alas! has prov'd abortive.
One consul is our foe, the other absent.
What shall the sad Attilia next attempt?
Suppose I crave assistance from the people!
Ah! my unhappy father, on what hazards,
What strange viclesitudes, what various turns,
Thy life, thy liberty, thy all depends!
  Bar. Ah, my Attilia!
  Att. Whence this eager haste?
  Bar. Th' ambassador of Carthage is arriv'd.
  Att. And why does that excite such wondrous transport?
  Bar. I bring another cause of greater still.
  Att. Name it, my Barce.
  Bar. Regulus comes with him.
  Att. My father! can it be?
  Bar. Thy father—Regulus.
  Att. Thou art deceiv'd, or thou deceiv'st thy friend.
  Bar. Indeed I saw him not, but every tongue
Speaks the gird tidings.

  Att. See where Publius comes.
  Pub. My sister, I'm transported! Oh Attilia,
He's here, our father—Regulus is come!
  Att. I thank you, gods: O my full heart! where is he?
Hasten, my brother, lead, O lead me to him.
  Pub. It is too soon: restrain thy fond impatience.
With Africa's ambassador he waits,
Until th' assembled senate give him audience.
  Att. Where was he, Publius, when thou saw'st him first?
  Pub. You know, in quality of Roman quastor,
My duty 'tis to find a fit abode
For all ambassadors of foreign states.
Hearing the Carthaginian was arriv'd,
I hasten'd to the port, when, O just gods!
No foreigner, no foe, no African
Salutes my eye, but Regulus—my father!
  Att. Oh mighty joy! too exquisite delight!
What said the hero? tell me, tell me all,
And ease my anxious breast.
  Pub. Ere I arriv'd,
My father stood already on the shore,
Fixing his eyes with anxious eagerness,
As straining to descry the capitol.
I saw, and flew with transport to embrace him,
Pronounced with wildest joy the name of father—
With reverence seiz'd his venerable hand,
And would have kiss'd it; when the awful here,
With that stern grandeur which made Carthage tremble,
Draw back—stood all collected in himself,
And said austerely, Know, thou rash young man,
That slaves in Rome have not the rights of fathers .
Then asked, if yet the senate was assembled,
And where? which having heard, without indulging
The fond effusions of his soul, or mine,
He suddenly retired. I flew with speed
To find the consul, but as yet, success
Attends not my pursuit. Direct me to him.
  Par. Publius, you'll find him in Bellonn's temple
  Att. Then Regulus returns to Rome a slave!
  Pub. Yes, but he comforted: I know he brings
Proposals for a peace; his will's his fate.
  Att. Rome may perhaps refuse to treat of peace.
  Pub. Didst thou behold the universal joy
At his return, thou wouldst not doubt success.
There's not a tongue in Rome but, wild with transport,
Proclaims aloud that Regulus is come!
The streets are filled with thronging multitudes,
Pressing with eager gaze to catch a look.
The happy man who can descry him first,
Points him to his next neighbour, he to his;
Then what a thunder of applause goes round;
What music to the car of filial love!
Attilia! not a Roman eye was seen,
But shed pure tears of exquisite delight.
Judge of my feelings by thy own, my sister.
By the large measure of thy fond affection,
Judge mine.
  Att. Where is Licinius? find him out;
My joy is incomplete till he partakes it.
When doubts and fears have rent my anxious heart,
In all my woes he kindly bore a part:
Felt all my sorrows with a soul sincere,
Sigh'd as I sigh'd, and number'd tear for tear:
Now favouring Heav'n my ardent vows has blest.
He shall divide the transports of my breast.
  Pub. Barce, adieu!
  Bar. Publius, a moment hear me.
Know'st thou the name of Africa's ambassador?
  Pub. Hamilcar?
  Bar. Son of Hanno?
  Pub. Yes! the same.
  Bar. Ah me! Hamilear!—How shall I support it!
  Pub. Ah, charming maid! the blood forsaltes thy cheek:
Is he the rival of thy Publius? speak,
And tell me all the rigour of my fate.
  Bar. Hear me, my lord. Since I have been thy slave!
Thy goodness, and the friendship of Attilia,
Have soften'd all the horrors of my fate.
Till now I have not felt the weight of bondage.
Till now—ah, Publius!—think me not ungrateful,
I would not wrong thee—I will be sincere—
I will expose the weakness of my soul.
Know then, my lord—how shall I tell then all?
  Pub. Stop, cruel maid, nor wound thy Publius more;
I broad the fatal frankness of thy words:
Spare me the pain of knowing I am scorn'd;
And if thy heart's devoted to another,
Yet do not tell it me; in tender pity
Do not, my fair, dissolve the fond illusion,
The dear delightful visions I have form'd
Of future joy, and fond exhaustless love.
  Bar. And shall I see him then, see my Hamilcar,
Pride of my soul, and lord of all my wishes?
The only man in all our burning Afric
Who ever taught my bosom how to love!
Down, foolish heart! be calm, my busy thoughts!
If at his name I feel these strange emotions,
How shall I see, how meet my conqueror?
O let not those presume to judge of joy
Who ne'er have felt the pangs which absence gives.
Such tender transport those alone can prove,
Who long like me have known disastrous love;
The tears that fell; the sighs that once were paid,
Like grateful incense on his altar laid;
The lambent flame rekindle, not destroy,
And woes remember'd heighten present joy.