University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—A House in Crotona. Hannibal and Adherbal, and Citizens.
Han.
I have said it. You are welcome to my ships,
Both you and yours; and on the soil of Afric
Shall find a home and refuge from Rome's rage,
As long as Afric is a home for me.
For those who choose submission to their fate,
I trust there may e'en yet be clemency.
I grieve to leave them—leave, but not forget—
And if I can, will break their yoke once more.

Cit.
O Hannibal, our mournful thanks we owe thee!
To leave our home is hard, yet not so hard,
Following the fortunes of thine undimmed star,
Trusting to which we look for our return.

[Exeunt.
Enter an Officer hastily.
Off.
My lord! my lord! Th'Italian troops are all
Crowding to Juno's temple, where, drawn up,
They vow they will not go to Africa.
They heed us not—they call upon the goddess,
And drown our words in outcries of defiance.

Han.
They'll go where I will, or to Tartarus.—
Thoas! my horse!

Adh.
Let me call out my Spaniards,
And if these fellows come not to their duty,
We'll show Lacinian Juno on her throne
How red's the blood of traitors. We can face,
I think, her clamours at the sacrilege.

Han.
'Twill not be needed. Ne'ertheless be ready;
For if they come not willingly, I'll show them
Stern reasons for obedience. If those fail
I leave to Rome their corpses; but, meanwhile,
I want them living, and will have them, too.

Enter Silanus.
Sil.
I break in on stern moments, I divine.
Adherbal, by that soft, persuasive smile,
And tones as soft, is counselling rough deeds;
So doubtless, too, that delicate pen of his,
Which traces war-despatches like love-letters.
Yet pardon this intrusion, Hannibal!
This is the hour thou bad'st me come to thee.

Han.
Yet must I keep thee waiting, for a space,
Whilst first I gallop to Lacinium.

Adh.
I,
Meanwhile, will have my men in readiness,
To fall upon these mutineers.

Han.
So do.
I shall not need thee.

[Exit.
Adh.
Thou, if time hang heavy,
Mayst spend it in composing funeral dirges.

Sil.
Willingly. But for whom?

Adh.
For Mago, first.

Sil.
For Mago? Art thou such a gloomy prophet?

Adh.
News of his death this morn have reached his brother.

Sil.
Is this no jest? Dead?

Adh.
Of his wounds in battle.
The summons home found him, it seems, defeated
In one last struggle to cut through his way
'Gainst overwhelming numbers to Etruria,
And with a death-wound on him—not, indeed,
Defeated till that death-wound. Yet did he
Haste, like a true son of Hamilcar's blood,
To obey the call, all dying as he was,
Embarked with all his army, and expired
In passing the Sardinian shore, worn out
By the fierce fever of his mind and body.

Sil.
And Hannibal has now no brother.

Adh.
None!
Such is the comfort that to-day has brought him;
To-morrow may bring comfort of its own.
The other news we have may be called good.
The noble Sophonisba had drunk poison,
Rather than fall into the hands of Scipio,
And shame her country and her royalty,
Her father's house and every house in Carthage,
By living for his triumph. Mago's ghost
Will find her gone before him.

Sil.
Well, the skies
Can rain disaster on no soul and heart
More strong to bear them—yet on none, perchance,
More strong to feel them. What shall follow next?

Adh.
The times are changed. This day, nine years ago,
We left our fires red on Tifata's heights,
And swept along the Latin road, to Rome.

Sil.
I had forgotten.

Adh.
They will not forget!
Long shall the husbandmen of Cales tell,
Around the purple winepress, how our swarms
Burst on her vines when all the leaves were green,
And left nor green leaf nor a blossom there!
Long shall Casinum for her olives mourn!
Long shall Fregellæ curse the day when first
Our vengeful trumpets sounded in her lands,
And silent Liris tremble down the vale,
Remembering how he rolled that day through flames!
E'en from the loftiest peak of Algidus—
On whose black oaks the burden of his snows
Round Dian's freezing temple lay so late—
Long the pale priestess in her dreams shall hear
The echoes of our horsehoofs thundering by!—
Yet Capua fell, and on Tifata's heights
Ne'er have our fires been seen to burn again!
Small comfort in such anniversaries!
I must begone! Adieu!

[Exit.
Sil.
Proud soldier-souls,
Hard is the lesson you are now to learn,
Nor gentle the task-masters that shall teach it.
Under his novel schooling, Mago died.