University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

The great Hall.
Enter Rapatio and Senators.
Rapatio.
Well, friends, you hear the issue of their councils.
The soldier goes, or else they swear to bathe
These streets in blood—ask my resolution.
Say, shall the soldier go?

1st. Senator.
The people's fury's rais'd: they scorn to triffle longer.
'Tis not the efforts of expiring faction—
The weak attempts of a distracted party.
But men, who act on principles of honor,
Now grasp the sword, and glorious in the struggle.
Will force their way to freedom.—

Rapatio.
True, but remember—
These troops;—no power of mine
Can contract—I'm but a servant—

2d. Senator.
But stop, Rapatio, stop.
'Tis the cause of freedom they defend:—
Thy very life's connected with the issue.
They will not suffer unreveng'd:
You too may fall—
Go mark the gloom that broods on every feature.
Where mournful echo heaves along the wall,
And strikes with all the elegance of woe.
No headstrong opposition actuates.
They cooly weigh, and cautiously determine;
Speak what they feel, and what they feel they act.

Rapatio.
Well, I'll see Bagshot, as he advises
So will I act—

[Exit.
3d. Senator.
Unhappy state of mind!
What tho' ten thousand pleasures beam around him,
The gilded couch—the airy post of honor:
No balm of peace, can mitigate his pain.
The ghost of freedom haunts his midnight hours.
This is thy state, O guilt—to stop, is ruin—
To follow on is death—give me but virtue,
That sun-shine of the soul—enough—I'm happy.

Scene changes to a private apartment—
Enter Rapatio and Bagshot.
Rapatio.
The cause is lost! the Patriot's up in arms,
Pant for revenge—the soldier must retire—
Say, Bagshot. Can you stand the gathering storm?

Bagshot.
'Tis an hard case indeed—what can I do?
A soldier's honor should remain unsulied.
True to his post, should laugh at every danger,
Enjoy his fate, and smile amid the storm.
But when ten thousand furies burst upon me,
Despise my utmost force, and breathe defiance—
Honor says, stand—but prudence says, retire.

Rapatio.
But, Bagshot! how this scoundrell mob will triumph.
Rather rouse up some noble purpose in you;
Burn down their airy towers, and let the flames
Light thee to conquest.

Bagshot.
These are charming words.
Close in his cell, the calm philosopher
Enjoys the storm, grasps at the palm of glory,
And fights the distant battles of the world.
It will not, cannot do—if they're determin'd,
We yield to conquering fate, and curse our fortune.

Rapatio.
Bagshot farewell—I'll to the hall.

[Exeunt.