The Inflexible Captive Part 10

The pride be mine to fill their youthful b.r.e.a.s.t.s With ev'ry virtue--'twill not cost me much: I shall have nought to teach, nor they to learn, But the great history of their G.o.d-like 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 G.o.ds, I've nothing more to do.

_Enter_ PUBLIUS _in haste_.

_Pub._ O Regulus!

_Reg._ Say what has happened?

_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._ G.o.ds! G.o.ds! 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 us'd 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: then, alas!

Both Regulus 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 Of Regulus's virtue in my breast.

Though fate denies me thy ill.u.s.trious chains, I will at least endeavour to _deserve_ them. [_Exit._

_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 a.s.sist 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.

[_Exeunt severally._

MANLIUS, ATTILIA.

_At._ (_speaking as she enters._) 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 n.o.ble friend?

_At._ (_kneeling._) If ever pity's sweet emotions touch'd thee,-- If ever gentle love a.s.sail'd thy breast,-- If ever virtuous friends.h.i.+p 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 hers 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. [_Turns from her._

_At._ (_rises eagerly._) 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. [_Going._

_At._ How! not, 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 G.o.ds: 'Tis not their thunder that excites our reverence, 'Tis their mild mercy, and forgiving love.

'Twill add a brighter l.u.s.tre 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 the expense Of honour, virtue, glory, faith, and Rome.

_At._ Think you behold the G.o.d-like Regulus The prey of unrelenting savage foes, 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 e'en the Punic 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 pincers tear his quivering flesh, While the dire murderers smile upon his wounds, His groans their music, and his pangs their sport.

And if they lend some interval of ease, Some dear-bought intermission, meant to make The following pang more exquisitely felt, Th' insulting executioners exclaim, --"Now, Roman! feel the vengeance thou hast scorn'd."

_Man._ Repress thy sorrows----

_At._ Can the friend of Regulus Advise his daughter not to mourn his fate?

How cold, alas! is friends.h.i.+p when compar'd To ties of blood--to nature's powerful impulse!

Yes--she a.s.serts 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!

[_Catching hold of his robe._