 | The adulateur |  |
SENE III.
Changes to a street in ServiaEnter Brutus, solus.
To be the sport of every flying moment—
The butt at which old time may throw his shafts,
And vex him oft—light tennis ball of fortune—
This is thy fate, O man. Weak helpless creature,
Design'd to crawl with other little reptiles
Round this dull globe of earth—to sport a while,
And wanton in the sun shine of an hour.
Frolic and gay he trifles on the stage,
Nor sees the various ills behind the scene.
These dart their baneful stings unnotic'd at him
And spoils his mirth—misfortune treads on joy,
And every hour comes loaded with new sorrows.
This I experience—each succeeding day
Affords fresh scenes of woe—not only one
Deaf to the call of nature pleading in him
Imbrues his hands in blood—ten thousand join him.
The soldier hea[illeg.] by the curs'd example,
His poinard whets,
And swear to fill these streets with blood and slaughter,
Enter Cassius in much agitation.
Cassius.
Oh! Brutus, what a scene! the hour is come—
Our fates are at a crisis—Servia shakes—
Thro' this once happy seat of gaiety and pleasure
The soldier foams, and belches nought but slaughter.
This fatal night, the plan before concerted,
Bursts into flames—the virtuous citizen
Flies from one death, and rushes on another.
Hard by I saw a little innocent,
Whose quiv'ring tears might make e'en Nero weep,
Clasp the rough knees of the inhuman ruffian.
And beg for pity—but he begs in vain—
High o'er his head the sabre dreadful gleam'd,
He fell and spake no more—but hark!—
[a confus'd sound of voices, clashing of arms, with
freequent oaths is heard.]
Our fates are at a crisis—Servia shakes—
Thro' this once happy seat of gaiety and pleasure
15
This fatal night, the plan before concerted,
Bursts into flames—the virtuous citizen
Flies from one death, and rushes on another.
Hard by I saw a little innocent,
Whose quiv'ring tears might make e'en Nero weep,
Clasp the rough knees of the inhuman ruffian.
And beg for pity—but he begs in vain—
High o'er his head the sabre dreadful gleam'd,
He fell and spake no more—but hark!—
It must be so—
Brutus, the citizen now falls a victim,
To brutal malice—ha!—a gun—another—
And another still—O my poor country,
When will thy troubles end!—
Brutus, the citizen now falls a victim,
To brutal malice—ha!—a gun—another—
And another still—O my poor country,
When will thy troubles end!—
Enter Junius Portius and others, in much agitation.
Junius.
Th' inhuman soldiers stamp the hostile ground,
His garments stain'd with blood,
The streets of Servia sweat with human gore.
Oh! Brutus, I'm on fire—hand me my sword,
And give me to the foe—
And if we die—let's die like men
And bravely fall expiring on the foe.—
That man dies well who sheds his blood for freedom.
Portius.
Oh! had you seen promiscuous slaughter hurl'd—
Or had you heard the groans of innocence,
'Twould rouze you into action.
While I can boast one short reprieve from death,
I'll breathe revenge. This unstain'd guiltless dagger
Shall sweat with blood, and rust with humane gore.
Brutus.
'Tis well—there Portius spoke like himself,
Let's wake the latent seeds of honor into action.
What do I see?—or is it merely fancy?
Methinks yon rising ghost stares full in view,
Points to its wounds and cries aloud—REVENGE.—
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And hear them tamely?—Oh! my heart 'twill burst.
Junius.
Her sighs?—and hear them tamely? never-never-—
Who knows the secrets of my soul,
Knows 'tis on fire, and bursting for revenge.
What tho' I totter with a weight of years,
And palsied age relaxes every nerve,
Yet such foul deeds have rouz'd the genial current,
That long had lag'd—this life by nature's laws,
Like an old garment must have soon been drop'd:
And never could I had I liv'd to ages,
Have dy'd so well as now—to die at ease,
And drop into the grave, unheard, unknown
This is but common fate—
He, who bleeds in freedom's cause, expires illustrious,
He falls, but catches immortality.
While greatful millions croud around,
And with a generous tear bedew his urn.
[Exeunt.
| The adulateur | |