University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—The Carthaginian fleet approaching the coast of Africa. The galley on board which are Hannibal, Silanus, Pilot, &c.
Sil.
The tawny rocks, the yellow light of Afric!
Yon headland like a couching lion lies,
Waiting the spring. The country of thy birth!
I wish thee joy.

Pil.
Wilt thou land here, my lord?

Han.
What place is this? These coasts are strange to me.

Pil.
This spot is desolate—a place of tombs.

Han.
I'll not land here, the omen is not good.
Seek elsewhere, pilot.

Pil.
Westward, then, so please you,
To Leptis we'll direct our course.

Han.
So be it.

Sil.
'Tis not enough thou tenderly avoid'st
To shock thy soldiers with ill auguries;
Thou shouldst bespeak some favourable omen
To wait thy solemn landing on these shores.
Let me be by—I'll find one on the spot.

Han.
[Turning from him to pace the deck.]
I was not near, my brothers! when you fought
Each your last battle, dying in defeat!
Thou, in a thunderstorm of destiny—
And thou, in a more lingering anguish, like
The fitful fever-sorrow of thy life.
O father! thou didst set these lives on fire—
Thou didst not live to see the after-storm
Come pelting on their ashes!
Where is the phœnix that should rise from them?
Be Afric's battle-plains, corpse upon corpse,
Piled with the pride of Scipio ere we part,
It will not give me these two lives again!—
I welcome thee to Africa, Silanus.

[The fleet continues its course along the coast.]

Scene II.

—Carthage. The house of Gisco. Ada alone.
Ada.
Ah, how the stir of great and loud events,
Which make strong men turn pale, shakes all the strings
Of my fond heart with a soft thrill of dreams,
As if the great sea-winds should deign to play
Sweet music on this little lute of mine!
My Sophonisba! When I heard of thee,
I thought that I should never cease to weep!
I never thought to find one secret joy
In all the horror of this misery!
But he is coming! coming home to save us!—
As one who, pacing up a gloomy street,
Sees suddenly, through a wide-open door,
A flood of sunshine, a green stretch of plain,
And rosy mountain-tops against the sky—
So seem I to emerge from stifling grief,
Into a bright astonishment of rapture.—
And I shall see him—see him in my youth—
See him whilst still my heart is warm to worship—
Yes, see him! Oh, if I might speak to him—
Find utterance for this passion of sympathy!

[Zeinab and Kora rush into the room.
Zein.
O Ada! Ada!

Kora.
Canst thou be so calm?
Hast thou not heard it?

Ada.
Heard what?

Kora.
He is come!
Hannibal's landed!

Ada.
Landed! Oh, when? where?

Zein.
Landed at Leptis—on his way now, doubtless,
To Adrumetum!

Kora.
Oh, we soon shall hear
He has met with Scipio!

Zein.
Ay, and sent him to us,
In chains, like a new Regulus! Hear'st thou
The shouting in the streets? 'tis all for him!

Kora.
We have flung the truce to the four winds. They say
Our government has caused some Roman ships,
Driven by storm into our port, to be
Seized upon straightway; no more waiting now
For Rome's consent to the hard terms of Scipio!
Now, war, war, war! Would I might wear a sword,
And fight myself with Scipio, hand to hand!

Kora.
Now, hearken, Zeinab! Soon as all is over,
And Hannibal in triumph enters Carthage
With all his army, is 't not time our fathers
Should give us each to our affianced bridegrooms?
We'll have a merry wedding.

Zein.
That we will!
And if my wedding finery rivals not
E'en Sophonisba's, queen although she were—
Ha, Ada!

Kora.
She has fainted, just for joy!
Stay, she revives!

Ada.
He is come, Sophonisba!
Where is she?—Oh, my lost, lost Sophonisba!—
Leave me awhile, so best I shall recover.

Kora.
Poor Ada! Ah, thou wert so merry once!
We'll call thy Zilla to thee. [Claps her hands.]
Zilla, Zilla!

[Exeunt Zeinab and Kora.

Scene III.

—The camp of Hannibal at Adrumetum. Hannibal in his tent receiving a Messenger from Carthage.
Mess.
Most urgent is my mission: urgently
The Senate bade me press your swift advance;
They bid you lay by every care but this—
With your best speed to march upon the Roman,
The dread of whom hangs o'er our trembling city,
Now standing on the dizzy brink of ruin.

Han.
You have spoke your errand, sir. Now, then, go back
To those that sent you; tell them they o'erstep
Their province, in so sending; let them order
Their proper business, and leave mine to me—
To halt, to march, to fight the enemy
Whene'er and wheresoever I think fit.
You have had your answer.

Mess.
Is this all the comfort,
My lord, that I am charged with?

Han.
This is all—
Make thou the best of it.

Enter an Officer.
Off.
My lord, the chief
Typhœus, with two thousand cavalry,
Has reached the camp in answer to your summons,
And prays to lay his service at your feet.

Han.
Ay, surely; bring him to my tent forthwith,
With all due ceremony. There, sir, comes
Some comfort for your masters. This brave chief
Brings me what most I need, and what yourselves
Should have been better able to afford me.

Mess.
I am glad of this. Would I could bring back word
King Masanissa had renewed his ties
Of faith to Carthage!

Enter another Officer.
Han.
What, returned so soon!
What says the king?

Off.
I found him on the march,
With all his force, to Scipio's camp at Tunes.
I saw him, but my mission has not prospered.
E'en as you bade me, I adjured the king,
By all the kindly memories of youth,
And in the name of her he loved and lost,
To pledge himself anew to the old friendship,
With promise of full pardon for the past,
And your support in his new-conquered lands;
But vainly; for, said he, 'twixt him and Carthage
All ties had snapped asunder when his bride
Was given to Syphax; and her death he laid
More to the door of Carthage than of Rome.

Han.
Alone you saw him? This was no feigned passion?

Off.
We were alone: the true Numidian ire
Flashed in his rolling eye; no hope from him.

Han.
Then we will do without him.—Tell to Carthage
What she may hope for from the penitence
Of her old friend.

Mess.
You have done your best, my lord,
Nor can we wonder at your ill success.—
My lord, my lord! let me not rouse your wrath,
If I dare plead the cause of these fair lands!
Your horsemen treat them like a conquered soil,
Lay waste our smiling corn, with axe and flame
Spoil our rich olive-yards, and snatch away
Our ripening fruits. Our rich men groan at home
O'er their sweet summer gardens, where your Gauls,
We hear, make havoc as in Italy.
Must these things be?

Han.
They do but as I bid them;
They are less kind to Scipio than yourselves,
And grudge him but one ear of golden maize
Or blade of grass; nor care to leave to him
One tuft of myrtle brushwood on the plains,
One spray of lentisk, that their own deft hands
Can timely rob him of. I am sorry for you;
But if I conquer, you shall yet have time
To sow your corn afresh, and plant new vines.

Mess.
Adieu, my lord. The gods befriend your arms!
[Exit Messenger.

Scene IV.

The camp of Scipio at Tunes.
Enter Masanissa with a train of horsemen. Scipio goes in state to meet him.
Scip.
Hail, noble prince, the faithful friend of Rome!
What means this gloom on Masanissa's brow?

Mas.
[Turning away.]
Well know'st thou what my faithfulness hast cost me.

Scip.
Well do I know how great the sacrifice
That has endeared thee to the heart of Rome,
And mine, and to all hearts that in their fellows
Can honour such fidelity as thine.
Thou standest higher in my State's esteem,
Trust me, than any other of her friends.
I bid thee, then, take comfort.

Mas.
Idle words!
Thou hast not loved like me! Take all my tribe
To serve thee, if thou wilt; but in this quarrel,
I'll never lead them more.

Scip.
And does my friend
Shut to his heart against the words of friendship?
Then must I call upon his nobler self,
And bid him think what Afric looks for in him.
Thou art a man, too wise, I think, and proud,
To make a woman's love, although she were
The pearl of women, thy life's all in all;
With her soft voice she charms successful leisure,
But hinders him who has not reached success.

Mas.
This lesson is no longer needed now—
No danger of a second love for me.

Scip.
The safer for thee, on thy way to greatness,
Whose price in this great sorrow has been paid,
Beforehand, to exacting Nemesis.
Thou art too young, yet, to forego the best,
And having in thy view the golden prize,
To waste regret upon the silver trophy!
Let grief now spur thee to a noble wrath
Against thy wrongers, not against thy friends!
Remember thou hast had one deep revenge
On Syphax, once thy rival, now Rome's captive;
Carthage, whose perfidy bestowed thy bride
On one who could not keep her, has received,
And with thine aid, a signal chastisement;
But more remains for her, when Hannibal
Comes to receive the punishment of pride,
And long relentlessness of enmity;
In which great glory, great should be thy share,
If thou art what I thought thee, Afric's pride,
And not a boyish trifler.

Mas.
Scipio, no!
No boyish trifler is the son of Gala!
Judge not too hastily a wounded heart!
To prove to thee it's still unshaken truth,
I'll strive to tear out of that heart henceforth
The recollection that you would not trust
A Carthaginian bride to Masanissa,
And left your friend's betrothed no last resource,
Save poison, to escape out of your hands.
You feared her charms would yet allure me back
To Carthage—you were wrong—but let that pass!
I shall not mourn for Sophonisba more
Than may become manhood and royalty,
Though I will love no other.

Scip.
Well said, prince!
Now I know Masanissa once again!
Now let all men see how I honour thee.
[He leads him to a curule chair.]
Lo, with this golden diadem I crown thee
The king of all Numidia; in thy hand
I place this ivory sceptre, and array thee
In tunic and in toga, garnished each
With their triumphal Phrygian broidery.
No greater honour could myself receive,
Though entering Rome in triumph. Hail, O king!

[The Numidians raise loud shouts.]
Mas.
O Sophonisba! for such toys as these,
Thinks he, I cast away thy priceless love?

Enter Soldiers dragging in Zeba.
Scip.
Who's this?

Sold.
A spy, O Scipio! Like a cat,
This cunning Berber drops as from the trees,
Into our very midst; with tympanum,
And charcoal brazier, plays demoniac pranks,
Swinging his body round, like one possessed,
In time to a strange tune; next, as I live,
Tastes iron heated red on yonder forge,
As 'twere some dainty morsel; lays it by,
And greedily devours the prickly leaf,
That tears our flesh like poisoned Libyan darts!
A very sorcerer we thought him, yet—

Mas.
This fellow comes to play the serpent-charmer.

Scip.
What is his story?

Sold.
In his broken Latin,
He calls himself King Masanissa's tribesman.

Mas.
Dost thou so? Never has Massylian steed
Borne thee to battle, nor Massylian lion
Been flayed to clothe those limbs, the hangman's due!

Zeba.
I said so—but I lied. A nobler tribe
Than thine rides with me, for it ne'er bred traitors.

Mas.
Take that, thou dog!

[Aims a blow at him.]
Scip.
Hold! Let me question him.
What seek'st thou in my camp?

Zeba.
I came to do
An errand for my lord.

Scip.
Ay, a well-paid one.

Zeba.
Thou liest! I serve him for himself, not gold.
I came to spy thy camp.

Scip.
Good. Thou shalt first
Tell me how many Berber horsemen ride
Along with Hannibal.

Zeba.
What's that to thee?

Scip.
An idle question, doubtless. We will waive it,
And thou shalt tell me of the elephants—
How trained, how numerous.

Zeba.
I've not counted them.

Scip.
But if I fill thy hand with gold?

Zeba.
I'd spit
Upon thy gold and thee.

Scip.
Or bid them scourge thee?
Thoud'st make a guess then?

Zeba.
Not to save my head.

Scip.
Well, keep it for thine errand. They shall lead thee
All round my camp—then haste to Hannibal
And tell him what thou'st seen.—Do him no hurt—
Let him see all, then send him safely forth.

[Exeunt Zeba and Soldiers.
Scip.
Hannibal's first forerunner. In good time!
Nor mean I idly to await his coming,
But, strengthened by your timely reinforcement,
March on Naragara to morrow.

Mas.
Ay!
You will do wrong, assuredly, to suffer
Further delay of battle; everywhere
The country is laid waste, and every day
In which he leaves you isolated in it
Is gain to Hannibal.

Scip.
True; yet my heart
Feels well assured the enemy of Rome
Is marching to his downfall. Pray you enter.

[Scipio and Masanissa enter Scipio's tent.

Scene V.

—Hannibal's Camp at Zama.
Enter Hannibal, Maharbal, and Zeba.
Mah.
The more fool he, for sparing thee!

Han.
For that
I owe him thanks—and thee, for thy brave service.
My heart could scarce have spared my noble Zeba,
Nor could the cause that's dearest to my heart.
What is he like? Couldst thou divine if most
His soldiers love or fear him?

Zeba.
They, methought,
Where'er he passed amongst them, heard his words,
And did his bidding, with a stern contentment.
We worship thee—we are thy slaves, thy children!
To them he seems an honoured elder brother.

Han.
How deals he with the king?

Zeba.
With his cold smile
He charms him, as the Psylli charm the snake,
And the fierce king's his servant. Ask no more—
I hate him! For he bears the evil eye,
And when its blue light dwelt on me I shuddered.
He spared my life, but none the less I hate him,
For he will do thee mischief.

[Exit.
Mah.
Thy new rival
Puts a bold face upon it.

Han.
He has clenched,
By that composed and firm self-confidence,
A resolution I have mused upon—
I mean to meet him first in conference,
Ere we join battle.

Mah.
What's this jest?

Han.
'Tis none.

Mah.
Thou seek a conference with Scipio! Thou
That hast ne'er met a Roman general yet,
But 'twas to send him routed from thee! Thou,
In the gods' name, to what end?

Han.
To offer peace.

Mah.
I'll never wonder more. Were it not well
To make a comfortable compact next,
To marry Scipio's sister?

Han.
Calm thyself!—
I, if I fail, lose Carthage; he will lose
Only his single army and himself.

Mah.
And Rome besides!

Han.
I hope so, in the end.
But Carthage, if I fall, falls in the hour.
'Tis better I should offer peace to-day,
With an unbroken army, than to-morrow
Beg for it, as perhaps I may, with none.

Mah.
Thou beg for peace! Thou doubt of victory!
Go, ask those long-haired giants, or those fellows
In white and scarlet yonder! By my soul,
I do not know thee, Hannibal, to-day!
Peace! Offer peace! What, fold our arms at last,
And stare across the sea, whilst smiling Rome
Plants, sows, and reaps, on our old battle-fields!
For how long, pray thee?

Han.
Till the true hour strike!
Let children find time slow; to a man's faith
The future is the present. Peace no more
Divides us from our rival than yon sea does,
Which with full-swelling sails we o'erstep, when
The winds call, and our armaments are ready.
Why, what is peace to the true heart of hate,
Save leisure time to sharpen a new sword?

Mah.
Why doubt of victory?

Han.
I had not doubted,
Had it been possible to put off battle;
But since it is not, and since Masanissa—
Thou hast heard Zeba's tale as well as I—
To my three thousand of Numidian horse,
Opposes twice three thousand of his own—

Mah.
The villains! They are welcome to my best,
Though they were twice as many!

Han.
That I doubt not.
Thou hast heard, too, he brings six thousand foot.
Well, then, since I, with all these untried levies,
And fresh-caught elephants trained on the instant,
That Carthage in her haste has heaped together,
Am wanting still in cavalry—since thus,
Scipio, with Masanissa on his side,
With my own weapons fights me—I may choose
To pause before I risk against such odds
My country, whose whole self hangs in the balance,
As it hath ever hung, when once a foe
Hath touched her soil.

Mah.
Oh, I vow to the gods!
'Tis Carthage, 'tis herself, I execrate.
But for her folly, her besotted folly,
In so neglecting her defence at home,
Whilst yet the war was distant from her gates,
Thou hadst stayed there, and Scipio ne'er been here.
But so it is, so evermore will be!
Still busy at their paltry money-getting,
Bargaining for their gold trash from the south,
Their shining pebbles, and their elephant-tusks,
Their ostrich-plumes, and grinning Ethiop slaves,
And what not else—or holding jubilee
O'er their Byzacean vintages and harvests—
Their stupid citizens are well content
That all their fighting should be done for them,
By better men than they, whilst, clothed in purple,
They feast and dance, till lo! the conqueror's on them!

Han.
I cannot help it. Such as Carthage is,
I must at present be content to take her.
Haply, I yet may find some time to mend her.

Mah.
I will not ask what terms thou mean'st to offer,
Lest I should choke to hear them.

Han.
Be content;
I shall but offer peace. Let Scipio pause,
Ere he rejects the gift. If he rejects it—
Why, then, let's blow the trumpets, and our hearts
Rush to the revel with the wonted joy.

Mah.
I have no more to say.

[Exit.
Enter Silanus.
Han.
What, thou, Silanus?
Thou find'st me envying Scipio.

Sil.
Scipio's happy.
Why dost thou envy him?

Han.
For having that
Which I have lacked, with all my sounding triumphs—
An army of true brothers, one with him,
In language, race, and hope.

Sil.
Thine army loves thee.
Fast as thy thousands perished, year by year,
Fresh levies flocked, wild from their woods and deserts,
To learn the new religion.

Han.
It loves me.
Where'er I call, they follow. Did I bid them
March to the siege of Carthage, they would fly
As to the sack of Rome. It loves me only—
They love in him their country and their cause.
I have shaken Rome, yet has she stood, and stands,
Not by the energy of single genius,
But by th'accumulated wills of all,
And by the pride her very name still breathes
Into the meanest of her citizens.
The vanquished general that has done his best,
Comes back to Rome to take her thanks for it;
But Carthage pays her thanks in her own way.
Hasdrubal-Gisco wanders now in exile,
Because he has no heart for crucifixion.

Sil.
There have been men that have deserved it less.

Han.
Carthage is fainting, but the soul of Rome,
More iron yet than iron, tried in a furnace
Of seven-fold heated fury, glowed, but bent not.

Sil.
You are of Asia, and of Asia still,
Coloured by cruel Afric's tints of fire,
Will be the fashion of your destinies—
Like a grand summer for a space to reign,
Then roll in thunder from the world away.
From Asia come the base and the sublime,
Whose clashing contrasts, of your country's story
Make the rich poem which mankind will read
Admiring, when your race has passed from earth,
And all you did is lost. You rest on Afric,
Like a great ship on ocean—the winds blow,
And the proud fabric, shattered into fragments,
Vanishes, leaving on the waves no trace.
You are th'enchanter, whose all-potent wand
Preserves the splendid vision to the world;
But let your wand be broken, and perchance
The hand that dropped your dazzling empire here
May snatch it up, with all its marble pride
Of town and temple, gaudy markets, gold
Of summer harvests, luxury of groves
And gardens, pomp of ships, and flashing arms—
To crush it like a child's toy, fling away
The giant ruins where no hand shall find them!

Han.
I yet may dig my state a deep foundation,
I yet may find for her a strength more real
Than the enchanter's wand.

Sil.
'Tis Europe, Europe—
Proclaimed the heir of all the rich-souled East—
Absorbs the past and claims the future.

Han.
Let her!
And let me struggle against prophecy!
I will not be disheartened for my Carthage.
Oh, she, methinks, will turn to bay 'gainst fate!
Nor shall she, whilst I live, send forth her sons,
In that sweet secret island of the west,
Whose key she guards, to hide their vanquish'd heads.
And if she rise again—as once she rose—
Thrust back th'aggressor, chased him to his gates,
And almost pulled to earth his towering pride,
Buried almost, in its tremendous ruins,
That European culture you admire—
'Twill not again be almost.

Sil.
You alone
Can double that strange feat. You dead, how soon
Will the gods send your twin?

Han.
Let me but first
Do all that lies in one man's power, to make
My country lean no longer on one man,
But on the zeal of all!

Sil.
Then does there wait you—
And heartily I wish you luck therein—
A struggle with an enemy as stubborn
As Rome herself—such a charm'd strength resides
In blind and greedy imbecility.
But for your near concern in it, my mind
Could study, not without a curious pleasure,
The problem of such characters as those
You fight against at home.

Han.
I grudge it not to you.

Sil.
Their fellows' welfare—honour—justice—these,
I comprehend, are words that mean to them
No more than might a Sophocleän chorus
To any savage of the Bruttian hills;
But to forego the vanity of country,
That pride in her success's showiness,
Which selfishness itself might love the taste of—
To sell the splendour of their city's crown,
The world's submission, envy, praise, and wonder,
In daily barter for their petty spite,
Their petty greed—nay, e'en their noontide sleep—
That is a bargain which perplexes all
My powers of calculation to conceive of.

Han.
I leave you to sum up the loss and gain;
Long have I ceased to study that hard page.

[Exit.
Sil.
Scipio and Hannibal brought face to face!
Here stands war's passionate heroic poem;
There, its cold logic, pitiless as fate!

[Exit.

Scene VI.

—A rising ground between the camps of Hannibal and Scipio. Hannibal and Scipio are seen approaching from opposite directions.
Enter Zeba and Numidians.
Zeba.
Oh, if this conference should end in peace,
I swear I'll go stab Scipio in his tent!
This battle that we longed for snatched from us!
And I, who burned to see o'er yonder plain
Brave Masanissa like an ostrich run,
Until my spear should catch him—

A Num.
Look, oh, look!
Scipio himself approaching.

Zeba.
He is punctual.

Num.
A stately figure, and a goodly face.
That man, I swear, is fit to lead an army.
Who's this rides to his side and speaks to him?

Zeba.
That's Lælius. Ay, and there goes Masanissa!
Oh, as I live, I'll have that horse of his
To-morrow, and the head of him that rides it,
Or never throw spear more! Presumptuous upstart!
Puffed up by Scipio's gifts and flatteries,
To think himself the greatest prince in Afric!

Enter from opposite sides Hannibal with Maharbal and Numidians, and Scipio with Lælius, Masanissa, &c.
Mas.
At last! Behold the demon-conqueror
Draws near, as by a sorcerer's spell constrained,
With a superb reluctance, to salute thee!
Thou hast conjured well!

Scip.
That is the man I dreamed.

[Hannibal and Scipio approach, dismount, and salute each other, whilst those on either side withdraw to a little distance.]
Læl.
So, that is he!

Mas.
Still silent! How they stand
Each gazing on the other!—There he is, then!
Dead Hasdrubal was like him.—How he seems,
On Scipio's face, with eyes of fire to read,
As in a book, the story of to-morrow!

Læl.
And Scipio, on his face, is studying Cannæ.

Mas.
Can he be doomed? With a half-guilty knowledge,
As of a sacred secret, I foresee
How the stern genius, throned on that man's brow
So splendidly to-day, must fall to-morrow.

Læl.
His time is come.—He speaks.

Han.
Scipio, in you
I see an untried foe, the youthfulest
Of all that Rome has sent to cope with me;
But yet, I think, the noblest.

Scip.
I am proud
That Hannibal so thinks.

Han.
Therefore, I sought
This conference—to offer you a gift
That shall not shame the giver nor the taker.

Scip.
What is this gift? I wait to hear it from you.

Han.
I come to offer peace.

Scip.
Now, Hannibal,
You crown me with a wreath that Rome will envy!
But yet I seek a nobler.

Han.
Not so! Profit
By the brief breathing space destiny still
Leaves you, to choose the future. On that spot
Where now we stand, to both, but most to you,
Wisdom cries, Halt! I bid you hear her voice.

Scip.
Proceed, I pray, and if it be the voice
Of wisdom, I both hear it and obey.

Han.
Shall I remind you, then, of what you know,
How yesterday I was the present dread
Of Italy, the ever haunting spectre
That stood and frowned into her shrinking eye?
The children, born since first I crossed the Alps,
Have grown up as familiar with my name
As with their fathers', and without my presence
Beneath their skies could scarce conceive existence,
Nor knew what peace meant. And how is it now?
The country that has been to me so long
In place of mine own land, sees me no more!
No lover parted from his mistress yet
With such a mighty sorrow as was mine,
To leave the land I scourged for fifteen years—
The land I loved and hated, all those years,
With such a love and hate as never yet
Found room together in the heart of man.
You, who well know, and will not scorn to own,
That Rome watched breathless my departing host,
Nor dared draw nearer by a single step—
That Rome rejoiced, as o'er a hundred victories,
When the sea rolled 'twixt her and Hannibal—
You well can image what that sorrow was.

Scip.
Ay, no man better!

Han.
Yes, I understand you!
By that fierce joy which leaped up in your soul
When first you touched the soil of Africa,
You can conceive what my soul felt, that day
When back on still retreating Italy
I gazed, till Italy was there no more.
Now, whilst you triumph in my grief, I bid you
Prolong that triumph whilst 'tis in your power!
Take peace whilst still with honour you can take it—
Take peace, whilst you can feel that you have won it!
Your arms have brought me here to offer it—
Your arms have brought me here, who once had camped
Before Rome's gates, and offered up for sale
Rome's forum. Well may you be satisfied!
Measure your gain by all that I forego,
Who, face to face with all that most I hate,
Now offer to thrust back into its sheath
A bloodless sword, offer to join the hands
Of Rome and Carthage o'er a million graves,
And enter first the city of my birth,
After a banished life of war with Rome,
The friend of Rome, and not her conqueror.
Let this content you.

Scip.
Well might it content me
That Hannibal seeks peace—yet that he seeks it,
Still persuades war, so great it shows to be
The straits of Carthage.

Han.
Take no heed of that!
Think rather of your own straits, and your country's!
You are alone, far in a hostile land,
Now half deserted, and soon wholly so,
And stripped of all provision—you yourself
Cut off from aid and refuge in the sea:
Behind you Carthage, Utica, and Tunes;
Before you I who speak, with all my army.
Now, with that veteran army at my back,
Unconquered to this hour, I offer peace.
Do you accept it?

Scip.
Name, I pray, your terms.

Han.
These, then, in brief. I offer, in the name
Of Carthage—Spain, Sardinia, Sicily,
And all the isles that lie betwixt the shores
Of Africa and Europe. All for which
Carthage and Rome have warred almost to death—
All this I freely offer up to Rome.
Let her rejoice, thus easily to keep
What she has struggled for at so much cost.
Leave Carthage her possessions on this coast,
So long her own: take all the rest yourselves.

Scip.
Hannibal, trust me, with a grave attention
I have weighed all the words that you have spoken,
And hear no whisper in my heart, that tells me
I am reserved to be a monument
Of youth's presumption signally chastised.
The terms you offer should have come before.
You should have offered them from Italy,
Adding your own departure to the sum,
Since all that you propose to render up
Already has been wrenched away from you.
Before you came, in a most abject terror
Your countrymen did send and sue to me,
With humblest supplications, to spare Carthage,
And not avenge on her one man's ambition.
I granted them the instant truce they asked,
Requiring those conditions you have named,
And more, far more than these, as well you know.
Your humbled citizens, with thanks, agreed;
And I sent home to gain the Senate's sanction.
Meanwhile, before that sanction had arrived,
Came suddenly the news that you had landed;
Then straight their fear was changed to insolence.
Uprose they in their full-blown confidence,
Broke through the truce, seized on some Roman ships,
Then sheltered in their harbour, and withal
Mocked and maltreated those I sent to claim them.
Now, then, shall I, for their ill faith's reward,
Go back from the conditions first proposed,
And grant an easier peace? It cannot be.
I will not even seek my Senate's pleasure
Touching this matter, till you shall agree
To yield up, as preliminary terms,
All that your State did formerly accept.
Nor for Rome's honour can I ask for less,
Though 'tis of Hannibal himself I ask.

Han.
To justify my country I disdain,
Or to fling back your charges on yourself;
I leave them to the page of history,
And bid you welcome to the field to-morrow.

Scip.
So be it. There we'll meet, then.

[They remount their horses.]
Mas.
[advancing.]
Hannibal!

Han.
Who's this that speaks to me?

Scip.
It is the king.

Han.
I know him not.

Mas.
O Hannibal, beseech thee,
Hear thy good genius! Do not fight this battle!
Take Scipio's terms, and save thyself and army.

Han.
Scipio, adieu.

Scip.
Fare thee well, Hannibal.

Mas.
Am I a dog, that he should scorn me so?
No more of lingering pity for her people!
On Carthage fall the blood of Sophonisba!

Zeba.
[pausing for a moment.]
Thou prince of traitors! I will meet with thee,
Be sure, on Zama's field.

Mas.
Thou shalt be welcome!
Count not too surely on thy parting from me.

Mah.
Gods give us a good riddance of ye all!

[Exeunt Hannibal and Scipio, with their attendants.

Scene VII.

—The Plain of Zama. The armies of Hannibal and Scipio drawn out for battle.
Enter Hannibal, Maharbal, Adherbal, and Hanno, riding slowly along the lines.
Adher.
[To Maharbal.]
His battle-smile is there, and cheers the soldiers;
But that is not the young gay heart of Cannæ,
Which lightly jested, till the soldiers caught
The jest too, and laughed with us.

Mah.
Ay, since then,
We all are changed a little.

Adher.
And the times, too.
I feel more strange to-day in Africa
Than e'er I felt in vanquished Italy.
Ay, o'er those blooming plains of asphodel,
Once so familiar to my eyes, I think
The sight of yonder Romans in array
Brings more home-feeling to my soul, this hour,
Than aught I've looked on yet.

Mah.
I vow my heart—
Warms to it kindlier than to wife and children.—
Plague on this horse for stumbling! After battle
I'll choose me out the best of Masanissa's.—
'Tis time I should ride forward to my post.
By heavens, if I should live a century,
I still should take youth with me to the charge.

Hanno.
Ay, go! Put Masanissa to the rout.
I'll do my best by Lælius, and, mayhap,
We'll somewhere meet again in chase of Scipio.

Mah.
[To Hannibal.]
My charger waits the spur!

Han.
Give me thy hand, then.
Farewell! Send Masanissa to his love,
A little more crest-fallen than she saw him,
At their last meeting.

Mah.
Pray the fiends, I may!

[He rides to the left wing.]
Hanno.
Ay, there he goes! I feel, I know not why,
As if I never should behold him more.

Adher.
So would he love to die.—How these wild eyes
Flash up to Hannibal, from rank to rank,
Like the broad, sudden, simultaneous gleam
Of serried spears in sunlight. Oh, this man
Could train the very leopards of the desert
To fight 'gainst Rome for Carthage!

Hanno.
The gods bless him
I, too, must to my post, O Hannibal!

Han.
Greet Lælius well from me. Adieu! adieu!
[Hanno rides to the right wing.]
It is a glorious dawn. Last night the moon
Bathed all the plain with memories of Capua,
And from the thickets of rose-laurel drew
A warm Italian fragrance.

Adher.
We may yet
Breathe that again.

Han.
Perhaps so. Forward now.
[Rides slowly before the front line, pausing from time to time to address them.]
You slingers of the isles! take your best aim!
Let us of Afric see your boasted skill!—
You Moors, beware your tyrant, Masanissa,
Who comes on fire to claim you for his bondslaves!—
Ligurians, now's your time to snatch revenge
For all the thousands of your brethren, still
Cheapened in Roman markets. Let them see
These be the fields you best know how to till—
Gauls, be you faithful to your fathers' feud,
And, as your kindred in mad revel still
Drain from Postumius' skull their sweetest draughts,
So shall the heart, henceforth, of all your race
Feast high with triumph on the fall of Rome!
[All raise loud shouts as Hannibal passes on.]
Now for the men of Carthage! Well for me,
My trust is in those veterans in our rear,
And not upon those countrymen of mine,
Nor on these half-trained savages in front,
Whose shouts are sounding still from a full heart!
Yet they will fly like wild-cats at the foe,
And leave on Scipio's legions many a scratch,
Ere he can hew a pathway through their bodies.

[He pauses before the Carthaginian line.]
Adher.
These should be soldiers—it was in them once.
They are not cowards by inheritance—
A siege of Carthage might make men of them.

Han.
You men of Carthage! You, of all this host,
Have most to fight for—you, no hired allies,
But true-born sons and brothers of the cause!
Those veterans fight for glory, and for me—
You fight for home, for vengeance, and for glory!
For a long future of such blissful hours
As all your envied past was breathed away in—
For wives and children on the temple-floors
Praying for you, with the same hope and horror
As thrice, ere now, have knocked against the hearts
Of Rome's own maids and matrons, and again
Shall knock, be you this day but true to Carthage—
For the sky-rending uproar that shall greet you,
When you come conquerors in, heirs newly crowned,
Of the world's empire, come to struggle through
The praises of the rapture-drunken crowd,
To those that meet you with their dear embrace,
And tell them, We have saved you! we, your fathers,
Husbands, and sons—we conquered, and we saved you!
For this you fight—yes, for the hope of hopes,
Upon the hateful neck of Rome to stamp
With all your strength, and break it—on the winds
Scatter her ashes, and then drag her name
For ever on the broad high-road of Time,
Bound to the chariot-wheels of your renown!
[The Carthaginian line raises a loud and prolonged shout as Hannibal passes on.
Ay, they mean well—

Adh.
So do these elephants,
I doubt not, though they're new to battle too.
Majestic monsters! Fresh from their first schooling,
They understand not how our destinies
Hang on their aptness to perform their lesson.

Han.
I would harangue them too, if they knew Syrian.
Now for the rear.

Adh.
Where lies the hope of Carthage.

Scene VIII.

—The front of the Roman army. The Hastati in the first line, commanded by Octavius, confront the elephants; on the right Masanissa, with Numidian cavalry, confronts Maharbal; on the left, Lælius, with Roman cavalry, confronts the Carthaginian cavalry, commanded by Hanno. Between the two armies the light horse on both sides are skirmishing.
A Hast.
O Jupiter! They stand like a turreted wall!
I have counted eighty of them.

A Standard-bearer.
So have I!
But didst thou ne'er see elephants before?
Thou hast ne'er fought in Spain, then! We can kill them—
They are not gods, nor yet so wise as men,
For all their cunning.

Hast.
We can't kill them all.
May Jove confound them!

Oct.
So he will, be sure.
Fear not the elephants! I have told you how
You shall avoid all mischief from these monsters,
And turn their fury back upon their masters.
Trust me, the music you shall greet them with
Shall send them dancing to far other steps
Than those their masters taught them. If you fail
To drive the whole huge squadron floundering backward,
Take courage still, and watch how easily
Our nimble Velites, unharmed themselves,
Like children at their play—so blind and drunken
These creatures' rage is, when they suffer pain—
Shall tempt them through the avenues we've left them
Into the open plain.

[On the other side.]
1st Eleph. Driver.
Methinks the beasts look well disposed to-day,
For their share of the game!

2nd Eleph. Driver.
To tell the truth,
I never set mine own beast to the charge,
Without an inward creeping! As for these—
Betwixt mock-combats, and an earnest battle,
The best trained find a difference. And of late,
Those cunning Romans yonder have begun
To spy into their little weaknesses.

1st Eleph. Driver.
Nay, nay! The elephants love Hannibal
As we do, and would scorn to fail him.

3rd Eleph. Driver.
Oh!
How merrily those light Numidian horse
Skim o'er the plain, like dancers—round and round,
Backwards and forwards! Zeba's there, be sure.
I vow I envy them those nimble creatures!

4th Eleph. Driver.
The signal! Oh, the signal! To charge!

[The elephants advance, and at the same moment the horses and trumpets of the Romans make a loud clamour, and flights of arrows assail them.]
1st Eleph. Driver.
This way, this way! Infernal din! Push on
Right for the Roman line!

2nd Eleph. Driver.
Oh, here we go,
Pell-mell on our own cavalry!

3rd Eleph. Driver.
We are lost!

[Some of the elephants rush towards the right wing of the Carthaginian army, some towards the Roman line, and trample down the Velites.]
Stand.-bearer.
[caught up in the trunk of an elephant].
The gods receive my soul! Friends, friends, avenge me!

A Hast.
Alas! Ye gods! the Velites! O horror!

Oct.
Stand fast! stand fast, my men! They shall not harm you!
Here is free room between your lines! Heed not
Their roaring! Here is ample room for them!
Velites, look you aim against their trunks!
Right, right! Now dance away from them! Back, back!
They'll follow you into the open plain!
Leave those that have passed through to take their way—
They'll give no trouble now. Well have you stood
The monstrous onset! Rest assured, these giants
Have wrought more harm to their own side than ours!
Well done, you elephants, well done! You see
They trample down the Punic horse like grass!
O Lælius, now's thy time! Now for thy charge!
Ay, there they go! O elephants, we thank you!

[The Hastati advance.]

Scene IX.

—On the Carthaginian left Maharbal and cavalry, the elephants rushing in amongst them.
Mah.
Death and confusion! Here they come on us, too!
Where go you? Forward, forward! To the charge!

Enter Zeba.
Zeba.
Ha, general!

Mah.
Here's disaster, by my life!
The curse of Moloch on these frantic devils!

Enter Masanissa, charging with cavalry.
Zeba.
Base dog, and traitor! I am glad to see thee!

Mas.
Take that, thou slave, whose tribe shall be my bondsmen!
[They exchange darts, and Zeba is wounded.]
Go, feed the jackals! who shall bury thee? [Gallops on.]


Zeba.
My turn at last! Would life but hold awhile,
That I may rally yet my scattered troop,
Or die at least in sight of Hannibal!—
There falls Maharbal! [Rides up to him.]


Mah.
Zeba, I am slain.
If e'er thou shouldst meet Hannibal again,
Wish him good bye for me.

Zeba.
I will, my lord.

Mah.
Tell me, has Hanno's horse been routed, too?

Zeba.
They fly, my lord!

Mah.
The foot, have they advanced?

Zeba.
The front line has gone forward, and fights fiercely.

Mah.
The brave barbarians!

Zeba.
But the second line
Hangs back.

Mah.
The Carthaginian cowards! Curse them!

[Dies.]
Zeba.
Now for a race against departing life!

[Exit.

Scene X.

—The reserve of Hannibal's army drawn up at a little distance in the rear, watching the progress of the battle in front. Adherbal commanding the Spaniards.
1st Span.
Alack! alack! On either wing, the dust
Rolls the wrong way! Good bye to them! There they go—
Lælius and Masanissa at their heels!
As for the elephants, where are they?

2nd Span.
Mad—
Fled—slaughtered! You may ask, where, too, just now,
Are Hanno and Maharbal!

3rd Span.
You'll not find them
In yonder rout, I'll swear! Never Maharbal
Turned bridle from the Roman squadrons yet!
He lies on yonder field, I'll be bound for him.

4th Span.
Ha! The Hastati have found their match methinks!
Well done! well done! Those young troops fight like us!
They'll leave us nought to do!

5th Span.
Cowards! O cowards!
What, will those Carthaginians bear to see
The front line hewn to pieces? Shame upon them!
We fight for him, and not for these.

6th Span.
We know
'Tis us he looks to, for the victory—
And we shall win it too, let cavalry
And elephants fly where they will!

5th Span.
The gods!
'Tis he himself! He dashes to the front!
He'll bring them to the charge! Why, by the gods,
Will he not take us, too?

6th Span.
Must we stand here
Like effigies of soldiers set in line
For children to make sport with?

Adh.
[approaching.]
Patience! patience!
Your time will come! This victory will be yours,
Your winning like the others! Never fear,
It will be yours to rout the Roman legions,
Ere Lælius and the traitor Masanissa
Return from their hot chase.

5th Span.
And we will do it!

[Adherbal passes along the line.]

Scene XI.

—The front of the Roman army. The Hastati engaged with the Gauls and Ligurians in the first line of Hannibal's army. The Principes are drawn up behind. Scipio, &c., watching the conflict in front.
A Tribune.
They yield! they yield! Well done, you brave Hastati!
Right! Drive them back upon the Punic line!—
Scipio! give but the word, and in a second,
We're face to face with our true adversary,
Waiting us yonder!

1st Decurion.
Oh, they turn at last!
Their right gives way ... See, like wild boars they rush
To rend their laggard comrades—right, you Celts!
Ay, fight it out between you!

2nd Decurion.
Ha! who's he,
That fiery horseman, spurring to and fro,
Along the Carthaginian line? He points
His hand this way! He cheers them to the charge!

Scip.
'Tis Hannibal himself—no other.
[A loud shout is heard from the Carthaginian line.]
Ha!
Their hearts are in that thunder.
[The Carthaginian line advances furiously, and the Hastati begin to fall back in disorder.]
Principes!
Advance and follow me.

[The Principes advance to the charge.]

Scene XII.

—Hannibal's reserve drawn up as before. Enter Hannibal and Adherbal. The Carthaginians are seen flying towards the rear in confusion.
Han.
Level your spears! Thrust back these fugitives!
Stand fast, and let them not disorder you!
Well done! So! Let them scatter o'er the plain,
Or run again on Scipio, if they will.

Adh.
'Tis now at last the battle must begin;
I think 'twill be the hardest of our fights.

Han.
I looked for scarce else than the rout of these,
And the first line—still 'twas a furious fight,
And I may trust has told on Scipio's forces.
'Tis vain to mourn now for my cavalry,
But since they are lost, I must strain every nerve
To break those legions, ere the enemy's
Returns to join the contest.

Adh.
Who will bring us
Maharbal back, and Hanno?

Han.
None, I fear.—
My veterans! my heart's comrades! friends and brothers!
Who never yet have known defeat or shame—
Whom Rome of yore flew open-mouthed to meet,
Till back you scourged her like a froward cur—
You, whom her legions now for fifteen years
Have trembled at, like schoolboys at the rod—
You, in whose midst, betwixt bare earth and sky,
Wrapt in my soldier's cloak, I have slept so oft,
In happy haste, upon the battle's brink,
My sweetest sleep, and dreamt my sweetest dreams!—
O you, my life's great boast! in whose dear ranks
I have been proud to feel myself as much
Soldier as general—whose fierce hearts have drunk
In many a draught, from the same cup with me,
The battle's madness, and the victory's rapture—
Whose fiery thirst Rome's fear so long has balked
Of that sweet madness, that dear rapture—now
She offers it once more! She dares at last,
Fresh from a foe less dangerous, on this field
To give and take the deadliest blows of war.
Come, then, surpass yourselves! Come, crown the past!
Come, teach her the old lesson once again,
And teach it once for all!

Sold.
[Shouting.]
We will! we will!

[Hannibal rides forward to survey the Roman army.]

Scene XIII.

—The space between the two armies covered with corpses of men and horses.
Enter Scipio, &c.
Scip.
Sound the recall for the Hastati! Ha!
Here come they, all triumphant from pursuit!
Hence to Octavius! Bid him halt his men,
And form, on that side of the heaps of slain.—
My gallant soldiers! nobly have you fought
To-day for Rome; but there is more to do;
For Hannibal, with all his veterans,
Th'unpunished ravagers of Italy,
The insolent affronters of our pride,
Waits yonder with his last presumptuous sneer,
With his last hope, to unsheath his last sword!
On, then, and double your renown on him!
But, first, ere we can spring to the attack,
These corpses that encumber so the ground
Must be thrust hence, to leave our charge free space.
Undo the work your own good steel hath done,
And push these gory heaps to either side.

A Trib. of the Principes.
My sword already cleaves to my right hand.

A Centurion.
Oh, 'twas no child's play! Hannibal's soul had breathed
Such rage and hate into those savages,
You would have thought they were the Carthaginians,
The Carthaginians were the mercenaries.

A Princeps.
Till Hannibal appeared!

Another.
And then, indeed,
We saw the sorcerer's power!

Cent.
Oh, yes, and felt it—
As on the Punic faint-hearts rushed at last—
By the new fury kindled in ourselves!
To know that every blow we struck was seen
By those proud eyes, and thrilled in that proud soul,
Doubled the ardour caught from Scipio's voice.

A Dec.
'Twas good to see how, in their headlong flight,
They got from Hannibal no better comfort
Than levelled spears to turn them back again!
And yet they had fought well.

Scip.
[Examining one of the corpses.]
Ha! this is he—
This is Maharbal! Yesterday we saw him,
Well I remember, at the conference.

Trib.
The very same! A grim and grisly face—
The dying rage still glaring! Little thought he,
When hotly spurring o'er Italian plains,
His fate reserved him from so many fields,
To bite the dust of Zama!

Scip.
Even so.
A very gallant general was he,
Nor did a nobler band of cavalry
Ride after any man into the field.
Now are they scattered to the winds of heaven,
Never to meet again; or stretched, like him,
Beside their horses, on that field which soon
Ravens and vultures shall dispute with silence.—
Now for the struggle! Now for victory!

[Hannibal, at the head of his reserve, advances to meet Scipio.]
Han.
Now, if you need a war-cry, I will give it!
When you charge Rome, remember Hasdrubal!

[His troops close with the Romans, shouting “Remember Hasdrubal!” The two armies fight furiously.]

Scene XIV.

—The rear of Hannibal's army. Enter Lælius and Masanissa with cavalry and fall upon it from opposite sides, whilst the front ranks are engaged with Scipio.
Enter Hannibal and Adherbal from different directions.
Adh.
By all the fates! a battle lost.

Han.
Not yet.
I'll wrench the victory back from fate itself.
[Exit Adherbal.
Ha! there's a body of Numidian horse
Flying, but still unbroken. They shall yet
Turn back with me.
[His horse is killed by an arrow. Fugitives from the front begin to press upon him.]
My fourth to-day! Indeed,
I think my last.

Enter Zeba, forcing his way through the press.
Zeba.
Where is he? I will pass!
[Dismounts.]
Mount, mount, my lord, and rally to the charge
The last of my brave tribe ... Maharbal's slain ...
I bring thee his farewell ... O Hannibal,
I have ridden my last for thee! Ah, my sweet charger,
Bear my lord safe this day!

Han.
Dear and brave youth,
Thou diest as Hannibal would wish to die.

Zeba.
Then I die happy.

[Dies.]
Han.
[Mounts and rides up to the Numidians.]
Come, revenge your chief,
My desert warriors! Come, then, charge with me!
Oh, charge but once again with me, my children,
And win me back the victory!

Num.
Ay, or die!

[They charge.]
Enter Masanissa, galloping to meet Hannibal.
Mas.
Now, thou world troubler, fallen from thy proud heaven!
I have a word for thee.

Han.
And I an answer.

[They fling their javelins. Masanissa falls from his horse wounded, and is carried off by his followers. Scipio hastens up with troops.]

Scene XV.

—A hillock in another part of the field. A body of Gauls and Spaniards on the summit.
Enter Hannibal, riding up to them.
Han.
My own true soldiers! do not yet despair!
You have done miracles—add yet one more,
And save this day for me!—My glorious Spaniards!
My boyhood's comrades in your own dear land,
The first I loved—follow me once again!
Stand by me now, as you—and you—and you,
Stood by me once around my father's corpse,
When the Vettónes yelled for it like wolves,
And tore at it by hundreds! Must I leave
This field without my victory?

Span.
Never! never!

[They charge down the hill on the Romans led by Scipio.]

Scene XVI.

—Another part of the field.
Enter Adherbal, riding up to Hannibal.
Adh.
All lost at last! The army is destroyed!
Carthage is ruined!

Han.
No, not whilst I breathe!

Adh.
O gods! what possible end to this despair,
Save to bound headlong 'gainst that wall of spears?
The thought is almost joy.

Han.
Hold! dare not waste
The life that's due to Carthage!

Adh.
Let me die!

Han.
I will not let thee die. Why, once I heard thee,
Forsaken by the woman thou didst dote on,
Swear with a smile to find another love
As lovely and more loving! Do, as then;
Smile at thy fate, and live!

Adh.
Live! live! For what?

Han.
Carthage, and vengeance! And to save what's left
Of the most glorious army in the world.
Come, snatch a moment yet from death and fate,
To gather a poor remnant from this field.

[Exeunt Hannibal and Adherbal.

Scene XVII.

—A group of palm-trees in a sandy plain between Zama and Adrumetum. Underneath them is a tent, in front of which sits an aged Hermit.
Enter Hannibal, Adherbal, and a small body of horsemen.
Han.
Take heart, my faithful friends! We will rest here
A moment in the shade. [Dismounting.]
Old man, I greet thee.

Her.
Mine eyes are somewhat dim—what men be you?

Han.
The brightness of our arms is veiled in dust,
Or doubtless, friend, you would have guessed us soldiers.
You have a well, and we are very thirsty,
For we have ridden far. Have you food here?

Her.
No, not a morsel, I'm very old,
And shall not want it long.

Han.
Dismount, dear friends.
Adherbal, thou wilt live for me and Carthage?

Adh.
For whom but thee, then, have I lived so long?

Her.
Methinks I have been dreaming many a day.
Did not a mighty army pass by once?
Methought I saw their spears shine in the distance,
And heard the brazen rattle of their arms.

Han.
We are that army.

A Sold.
Hast thou ever heard,
Old father, of a certain Hannibal?

Her.
If I have heard the name, I have forgotten.

Han.
Alack! 'tis not the time now to remind him.
How far is't, pray thee, friend, to Adrumetum?

Her.
A long day's journey.

Adh.
[Starting up from the ground.]
Bid the trumpets blow!

Han.
The sun has smit his brain. His day is over.
[They surround him and support him as he falls again.]
Know'st thou me, friend?

An Off.
Alas, not even thee!—
He speaks again—can you hear what he says?

Adh.
The battle is not lost!—It is not true
That Hannibal is slain!—Oh, where's Maharbal?

Han.
Soon shalt thou join him, martial spirit!

Adh.
Come!
We march to Rome.

[Dies.]
Han.
'Tis over.

A Sold.
Yet one more
Left by the wayside!

Another.
We would weep for him,
But Zama sears our hearts.

Another.
We need not weep—
We still have thee.

Han.
Now fare thee well, my friend!
I shall have time to mourn thee. Make for him
A soldier's grave. We cannot dig so deep
But 'twill be shallow to that deeper grave
Our long regret shall hollow in our hearts.
[They bury the corpse.]
Now mount again, my friends, and let's be going.

[All mount and exeunt.

Scene XVIII.

—Carthage. A chamber in the house of Gisco opening on a balcony.
Enter Gisco passing hastily through it. Enter Ada as seeking him.
Ada.
O father, whither go you? Ah, one instant!
Tell me if he will pass along this street?

Gis.
Ay, truly. If you choose to add your eyes
To all the thousands that will stare upon him,
Go, get you to your balcony, and thence
You'll see him make his entry very shortly.
A glorious spectacle!

Ada.
Glorious to me.—
The crowd began to gather ere the dawn—
I could not sleep, and watched them from the turret.
O father, I have something yet to say:—
Father, I hear each hour some new sad tale
Of our poor slaughtered citizens, whose wives
And children may expect them now in vain;
And some not slaughtered, but, more wretched still,
Destined to Roman slavery. When I think
On all these things, my heart seems like to burst.
I cannot help the dead, but I can help
A few, a very few. ....

Gis.
How help? Enough;
I cannot wait till you have dried your tears.
Weep for yourself, for me, for all your kin,
For I can promise you 'tis come to that.

Ada.
Father, I would that you would charge yourself
With all my jewels. I shall never more,
Believe me, wear them. Could they help to ransom
But one—but one of those unhappy ones,
Father, 'twould be a joy to me till death!

Gis.
What folly's this? Your poetry has crazed you!
I tell you I am almost mad myself
To think how soon I may be stripped of all;
And then forsooth to fling away your jewels,
As if you thought I had no use for money,
At such a time as this is.

Ada.
Oh, my father!
Have we fought, bled, lost everything for Carthage?

Gis.
Come, come, no more of this. I've no more time
For prating now, for I must to the senate.
And as for you—why, keep your jewels, child.

Ada.
Oh, I will find some way to serve my country!
Zilla!

[She claps her hands.]
Enter Zilla.
Zil.
Here am I, lady.

Ada.
My veil, Zilla!
And come with me into the balcony,
For I will sit there to see Hannibal.

[She passes into the balcony with Zilla.]
Zil.
Heavens! What a sea of faces! What a silence!

Ada.
Ah, what a world of sorrow there below us!

Zil.
Hear'st thou that murmur running through the crowd?
See, see, they turn their faces all one way!
He must be coming—surely he is coming!
Yes, there he is! Already I can see him—
There, at the furthest end of the long street,
Where the great crowd is parting to receive him—
There! there! 'Tis he that slowly rides along
Between two others. Oh, this must be he!
Now, lady!
[Hannibal and a small band of horsemen are seen to enter the street below. The people fling themselves before him with loud cries.]
See, he bends—he speaks to them!

Ada.
Hush, hush!

[Hannibal ceases to speak, and passes on amid a general silence.]
Zil.
Ah me, poor souls, they weep, yet still
Follow him with their weeping eyes! Look, look!
He turns toward us! What a dark, sad brow!

Ada.
'Tis the stern sadness of a god dethroned.

Zil.
How they do press around him! How they seem
To draw a comfort from the least glimpse of him!
They're streaming after him! What, are these all
That's left of his great army?

Ada.
We have him.

Zil.
Now, lady, now we have seen Hannibal!

Ada.
Oh, silence, Zilla, that I still may seem
To hear his low voice roll along the air,
Like music at a martial funeral!
What have I seen? What image have received
From the long passionate regard of eyes,
Blind with their own intensity of vision?
I know not—for that form has blotted out
The picture painted in my soul before,
But leaves me no new picture in its place—
For I was dazzled, and I could not see him.
My dream is vanished—I have lost th'ideal,
And yet I find not the reality.
It may be that the Hannibal I saw
Was nobler than the Hannibal I fancied;
And even now, as his voice, heard no more,
Speaks to me more distinctly through the silence,
So, through the void his parted presence leaves,
Memory begins to trace a clearer shape,
Than that which passed in very deed before me—
That martial strangeness as of foreign lands,
All the proud past still burning in his eyes,
Through the dark shadow of a solemn pity,
And the strong patience of a hero's grief,
Pathetic in its very awfulness.
But life is changed, for ever changed, for me!
Now shall I never lay me down, nor wake,
Without remembering Carthage holds her hero;
And I no longer am alone on earth!

[She withdraws into the house.]

Scene XIX.

—Scipio's camp at Tunes. His tent, into which enter Scipio and Lælius.
Scip.
The Carthaginian deputies, I guess,
Are here, as I appointed?

Læl.
Even so;
And much, I doubt me, troubled in their mind,
With expectation of their interview.
The poor men have awaited you some days.
As for the soldiers, they no whit refrained
From jeers and tauntings at the sight of them.

Scip.
I shall not keep them now much longer waiting.
But I must dine first, ere I give them audience.

Læl.
Doubtless you had a joyous voyage hither?

Scip.
I told you, did I not, I turned aside
Into their pleasant harbour, and surveyed
The city at my leisure? There it was,
The galley which conveyed these deputies
Met me all wreathed about with olive boughs.
I bade them meet me here, and so passed on.

Læl.
I doubt 'tis long since they have come to dinner
With such a hearty appetite as yours.
Scipio, shall it be vain once more to urge
That which in council you have overruled?
May I not once more tell you, there are those
Will blame you that you have admitted Carthage
Too easily to terms? I will be bold
To say, you rob yourself of half your glory;
And it may be, that after-times will think
In this you too much followed Hannibal,
Whose lingerings after Cannæ saved our Rome.

Scip.
If Rome was saved so, I ne'er knew as much.

Læl.
If I were Scipio, I should scarce be glad
To come to Rome with nothing but a treaty,
Instead of marching glorious through the streets,
With the great spoil of Carthage.

Scip.
I shall have
Wherewith to triumph nobly, as it is,
In the brave pageant I shall show to Rome.
Not but in Sophonisba I have lost
Its rarest ornament.

Læl.
And yet there are
As fair as she, still hidden from the day,
In all the gorgeous palaces of Carthage.
Pass but the city gates, and you may choose
As many of these beauties as you will,
To dazzle Rome with in your hour of triumph.
To lead the daughters of the land in chains,
To offer up to Jove Capitoline
Censors and flagons torn from Moloch's altar,
Would be the crowning glory after Zama.
With one hand might you point and say, Behold
The spoils I took from Hannibal's own camp!
And with the other, Lo, the sack of Carthage!
If this nought moves you, would you not desire
To punish to the uttermost extreme
The long o'erweening pride of Hannibal,
Which, for requital, should have nothing less
Than the entire extinction of his state?

Scip.
My greedy rivals will not wait for that;
The envious fathers that did first oppose
My coming hither, are already restless
With haste to send me out my successor.
I should be superseded long before
The painful siege of Carthage were achieved.
This business, to be well accomplished, must
Be soon accomplished. I'll not trust another;
For Hannibal is there to forge despair
Into a deadly weapon of resistance.
I choose to think I am the man, by fate
Designed, to put him down, and mean to bit
His fiery ambition whilst I may,
Nor run the risk that some unpractised hand
May let it go unbridled hence again.
Enter an Attendant.
Go, bring those Carthaginians to my presence.

[Exit Attendant, and re-enter with the Carthaginian Deputies.
Scip.
You, sirs, it seems, are those your senate sends
With her submission?

1st Dep.
Noble Scipio, yes.

Scip.
I have not yet forgot a former day
When some of you on a like embassy,
And with a like abasement, sought my camp.
Nor have I yet forgotten that which followed
My ready acquiescence in their prayer.

2nd Dep.
Most noble Scipio, then forget it now;
Or but remember it to enhance your triumph,
That so you may the more incline to mercy.

Scip.
Let me, in brief, hear what you have to say.

1st Dep.
This only, Scipio, that we beg for peace!
Upon your clemency we fling ourselves
In utter failure of all other hope.
We own we have been wrong from first to last;
Wrong in the first beginning of the war,
Misled by Hannibal's ambition and
Hereditary hate; and, lastly, wrong
In breaking through the truce you granted us
In our late terror. Yet have mercy now!
For we are humbled to the dust before you!
Oh, be contented with earth's greatest triumph!
You have already surpassed Hannibal—
Stay, then, your hand, nor urge us to despair!

Scip.
I am aware, sirs, this will ever be
The fashion of your nation, insolent
In their success, and abject in defeat;
And, lastly, quick to break the promises
Through fear extorted.

2nd Dep.
What then shall we say?
How further shall we humble ourselves before you?

Scip.
I have fixed my part already, wholly moved
By my own will and pleasure, by regard
To the uncertainty of human greatness
And to the sovereign dignity of Rome,
To me this day committed; not at all
By anything that you have said to me,
Or any pity for deserved misfortune.
I mean to spare your city; on what terms
You shall hear from me in yon inner chamber.
Await me there one instant. I will follow.
[The Deputies pass within.]
Think you these men are enough humbled, Lælius?

Læl.
Ay, for a time; but once your sword withdrawn,
They will break out in curses. Wait and see
What then shall follow. Clemency is wasted
On hounds like these.

Scip.
Well, they shall now learn from me
How great is this same clemency you speak of.
Pray you, if Masanissa comes, receive him
With kindly welcome.

[Scipio passes within.]
Enter Octavius.
Oct.
How fares Scipio, pray thee,
After his voyage?

Læl.
Marvellously well.
But that he is somewhat sunburned, I can see
No change in him after his victory.
He is within there, with those Carthaginians,
Giving them lessons of humility.
Vainly I urged him to deny them peace,
And instantly begin the siege of Carthage.

Oct.
He knows his business best. He has subdued
And humbled Hannibal, has crushed his Carthage,
And won himself a triumph. He may rest.

Læl.
I dare not hope they will be mad enough,
Though Hannibal should urge, to spurn these terms.

Oct.
If it be madness, Hannibal himself
Will save them from it; and if he resists,
Hard is the task before us; though I know
Thou burn'st to drive the ploughshare o'er the ashes
Of Esmun's temple and Hamilcar's palace.

Læl.
If a true lasting peace is to be looked for,
The foremost article insisted on
Should have been this same Hannibal's surrender.

Oct.
Nay, base and pitiful as Carthage is,
It were impossible that even she
Should, whilst the breath is left in her, abandon
The man in whom alone she can find help—
The man whose life has been devoted to her;
Cruel, perfidious, mischievous to Rome,
But faithful to his country.

Læl.
On which country
He has brought utter ruin.

Re-enter Deputies and pass out.
Oct.
These, I think,
Have scarcely found our Scipio too forgiving!

Re-enter Scipio.
Scip.
I greet thee well, Octavius.

Oct.
And I thee.

Scip.
Thou smilest, Lælius.

Læl.
As I stood but now,
By the tent-door, I heard the soldiers mock
Those hapless deputies. One said, “Poor souls!
Has Scipio soundly buffeted their ears
To teach them manners?” And another—Ha!
In good time; here comes the Numidian king.

Enter Masanissa.
Scip.
I greet thee heartily, King Masanissa!
How fares thy wound?

Mas.
That wound has ceased to pain me.

Scip.
Then, has thy soul a wound?

Mas.
More than one, Scipio.

Scip.
I know that his escape has troubled you.

Mas.
It had been better far that he had left
His proud heart's blood upon the field of Zama.

Scip.
For us, assuredly. Yet he, methinks,
Did well to live after his great defeat.
I know our Roman heroes are ashamed
To outlive their calamities; and I,
Perhaps, myself had followed the old fashion,
If his case had been mine. Yet Hannibal,
Having done all that lay in man, before
And during battle, to insure success,
Did surely act more nobly not to sink
Under a shame, his fate, not his deserts,
Procured him.

Mas.
Scipio, 'twill be found that Rome
Shall have no peace nor safety whilst he lives,
Nor whilst his city stands on her foundations.

Scip.
His city stands, indeed; but such a State,
So maimed, so crushed, can only serve to us
For a perpetual triumph, and to you.
You may content your hatred whilst you live,
With seeing your proud enemy abased,
And with the thought of all that you have done,
By your own arms, to bring her down thus low.—
Tell me, I pray you, did you recognize
Your friends amongst those Punic deputies?

Mas.
Not one, but I remembered face and name.

Læl.
I guessed as much, Octavius, by his eye,
When he came into us. It was not loving.

Scip.
'Tis time to make the circuit of the camp.
I pray you, friends, give me your company.

[Exeunt omnes.

Scene XX.

—The Senate of Carthage. Senators pouring in confusedly. Enter Gisco, Bostar, &c.
1st Sen.
I scarce could make my way here, for the crowd.
Do you know anything?

2nd Sen.
No more than you—
That Scipio grants us peace—on what conditions,
It sickens me to guess.

1st Sen.
They say the twelve
Showed in the streets such faces of despair,
The mob were thunderstruck.

2nd Sen.
What's to do now?
If Hannibal and all his warlike faction
Renounce at last the struggle in despair,
What's left but to give Scipio all he asks?
And what will he not ask?

1st Sen.
Wise young Bomilcar,
Who frets for ever for the good old times,
In all societies gives out forsooth,
We suffer simply for the nation's sins;
So he and his young converts go about,
And preach that all we need is to restore
The human sacrifice. In former days,
As they remind us, in all great reverses,
Moloch had human victims for a bribe,
And then a blessing fell upon our doings.

3rd Sen.
There's one such victim might at least bribe Rome.
But if they think so, let them lead the way.
Let their young wives come with their sweetest smiles,
To lay their infants on those brazen arms;
Well kissed and petted, they will give no trouble,
And Moloch, we are told, likes merry victims;
And then their purple dresses look so well.
I warrant you there are old priests yet left,
Would gladly put on scarlet, and go heat
The furnace up to roaring. Tell him so.

4th Sen.
I heard to-day another doctrine preached;
'Twas by that Hebrew slave with the white beard—
A captive here they say these forty years—
Whom on the temple steps we see so oft,
In sullen silence sitting, hour by hour.
This day at last he lifted up his voice,
And cried, “Woe to the worshippers of Baal!”
And as he spoke, methought his eyes glared curses.

5th Sen.
Thou hadst done well there to have smote him dead.
Enter the two Suffetes, followed by the twelve Deputies.
Hark! Hark! Hear you the shouting of the mob?
Be sure 'tis Hannibal.
Enter Hannibal.
Is this the air,
With which a conquered general takes his place?

Bost.
The evil genius of the land, returned
To look upon the ruin he has wrought!

5th Sen.
He gazes round him, like a banished king
Surveying from his car reconquered subjects,
And choosing out his victims.

6th Sen.
Rather, say
A lion from the wilderness, for once
Compelled amongst the haunts of men to seek
A refuge from the mighty hunter's darts—
And finding them as strange as they find him.

[Silence is proclaimed.]
1st Suff.
Senate of Carthage! we salute you all!
In sackcloth and in ashes we are met,
This woefulest of all the days of woe,
That yet have fallen on Carthage, since the first
Beginning of these long and ill-starred wars.
Rome has prevailed. At Scipio's feet we lie
Prostrate, and on his pleasure we depend.
What shall I say more? Hannibal himself
Has bid us beg for peace. Enough. You know
The strait wherein we stand. Know then, to-day
Has Scipio's answer been received by us,
Who, with the hundred elders of the State,
Now deem it fitting to appeal once more
To the united voice of this assembly,
The Senate and nobility of Carthage.
Hear, then, the terms on which he grants us peace,
Whose legions at our very threshold wait—
Whilst Hannibal amongst us stands within,
Without an army, without hope or help,
Save his great name and fame. Now, sir, do you
Repeat to this assembly what you are charged with.

1st Dep.
These are the terms: “Carthage must make amends
For all the injuries to Romans done,
Pending the truce with Scipio—must restore
All prisoners and deserters—must give up
All her war-galleys, saving only ten—
Likewise her elephants, with promise given
To train no new ones for the line of battle—
Must wage no war beyond the bounds of Afric,
Nor any war without consent of Rome—
Must yield to Masanissa all that he
Or any of his fathers have possessed—
Must feed the Roman army for three months,
And pay it until it be carried home—
Must pay each year for fifty years to come,
To Rome, a tribute of two hundred talents—
And give one hundred hostages to Rome,
Betwixt the ages of fifteen and thirty,
To be selected at her general's pleasure.”
These are the terms by his own lips set forth.

[A loud and confused murmur from the assembly.]
2nd Suff.
Upon these terms, it seemeth, senators,
May Carthage be permitted to exist,
A miserable mockery of herself,
Till Rome think fit to blot her image out
For ever from the earth.

Senators.
[Speaking confusedly together.]
Must we bear this?
O Moloch, must we bear it?—Curst be Scipio!
What does he think the neck of Carthage made of,
That he should lay on it a yoke like this?—
What, by the gods, must we be yielded up,
Bound hand and foot, after this sort, to Rome,
To be first plundered, and then hewn in pieces?—
Children and money—all to go together!
Is this the end, O Baal?

Gis.
'Tis too much!
If Scipio takes away my money from me,
He may go take my daughter for a hostage,
For aught I care. As good be dead at once,
As have our blood drawn from us, drop by drop!
[Mounts the tribune.]
I, for one, senators, will ne'er consent
To this iniquity. I do lift up
My voice against it, and I call on you,
I say, on all of you, here present—

Han.
Silence!

[He drags Gisco from the tribune, amidst loud exclamations.]
2nd Suff.
For shame! Dost thou treat thus a senator,
And elder of thy city?

Gis.
By what right,
Dar'st thou cut short my speaking?

Han.
Pardon me,
My countrymen and fellow-citizens.
I do not know the usages of Carthage.
I left you, four-and-thirty years ago,
A child, for the rude company of soldiers,
And all that time have been too busy fighting
To learn good manners. I will mend my fault,
Trust me, before I go to war again;
But meanwhile hear me patiently this once,
And let me speak my thoughts upon this matter,
Wherein I pray you to believe e'en I
May have some small concern.

First Suff.
Speak on! We hear thee.

Han.
I say, then, fellow-citizens of Carthage,
We have no choice, and must accept these terms.
I say it, for I stand before you, vanquished
Not merely in a battle, but a war.
Our army is destroyed, nor have we means
To raise another. We have no allies—
Too much our neighbours hate us, for a hope
Of any help from others in a siege,
E'en were the dread of Scipio less prevailing.
Our citizens have not been trained to war,
To danger, nor to hardship. We have long
Dealt out these evils upon other lands,
Which, when brought home, we have no strength to bear,
Having neglected to provide for them.
The terms which Scipio offers us this day
Are hard, but may be better borne, I think,
Than instant and entire extermination.
We must accept them; yet, I say, take courage,
And make such sternly patient use of peace,
That we may hope to stand in arms once more,
Still strong with hate, and wiser from defeat.
For me, I swear to spend those energies
I hitherto have lavished on your wars,
In building up your strength and hopes at home.
If, therefore, as I think, I may have earned
Some right to claim my country's confidence,
By old successes, even though I stand
This day before you, as a conquered man,
You will, like me, hold out against despair.
This is my counsel—rather say your fate.

First Suff.
Ye have heard Hannibal. Too true it is,
'Tis madness but to whisper of resistance.
He tells you so, who has tried Rome so long,
And knows her better far than you or I;
He calls for prudence—shall we counsel rashness?
He bids us hope, and shall we then despair?

Sen.
Alas! alas! To this, then, war has brought us!
Bereaved, impoverished, shamed!—A Libyan boy,
A false Numidian, raised to rival us!—
Two hundred talents! Hear it, ghost of Dido!—
Was't not enough he treads us to the dust,
And must he rob us of our all besides?

Gis.
Temple of Hercules! for fifty years!
Woe, woe, is us! The substance we have heaped
With so much toil together! Luxury
And splendour, such as far outdazzled Tyre!
A day of tears indeed! Who shall not weep?
By all the gods, thou smilest, Hannibal!

Second Suff.
Smilest thou o'er the country thou hast ruined?

Han.
Your pardon, sirs! Could hearts be read like faces,
Then might you read in mine such shame for you,
As sheds no tears but tears of blood within.
Weep, if you will, then—not for Zama's slain,
Not for your children to be torn from you,
Not for your standards trailed through Rome in triumph,
Not for your war-ships which made Carthage great,
Not for your elephants which made Rome tremble,
Not for your ruined majesty in Afric—
Weep not for these, but for your paltry purses;
And let me laugh, who cannot weep with you.

First Suff.
If any man rejects the terms of Scipio,
Let him lift up his hand. Not one. Be it resolved
We send an embassy with our submission.

[The Senate breaks up.]

Scene XXI.

—The assembly of the people at Carthage in the market-place.
Enter the Suffetes, Gisco, Bomilcar. After them enter Hannibal.
First Suff.
People of Carthage! We have called you here
Upon a business which concerns all Carthage.
Some of our elders are prepared this day
To claim your judgments on a most grave charge
Against your sometime general, Hannibal.
Gisco, deliver what you have to say.

Gis.
[Mounting the tribune.]
Good people of the city! Well you know—
Nor need I to remind you—in what plight
Our country stands. You know that we are conquered,
Insulted, trampled on, by Rome and Scipio.
We have no army, scarce a territory;
We are bereaved, impoverished, plundered, ruined;
We are a jest to all the nations round!
Who, then, is he to whom we owe all this?
There stands the man! Methinks he should be much
Ashamed to look this people in the face!
But we can see no humbleness in him.
Does any man forget how we have been
Wont, heretofore, to deal with those vile bunglers,
Whose shameful failures have disgraced the State?
Have we been wont to raise them to high places,
Or have we given them the death of a dog?

[Loud murmurs are heard amongst the audience. Gisco descends from the tribune, and Bostar takes his place.]
Bos.
People of Carthage! I beseech you be not
Cheated by loud professions or vain shows.
This Hannibal pretends to be your friend,
And calls himself a mighty general—
How is it, then, that he has ruined us?
'Tis true that fifteen years ago he won
What all his friends called a great victory.
But did it conquer Rome for us? Did Rome
Send, after Cannæ, to sue him for peace,
As we, forced by his shameful overthrow
At Zama, sued to Scipio? By no means.
'Tis true, his boastful Mago at our feet
Showered down a goodly heap of golden rings—
The spoil, he told us, of slain Roman knights;
That much we got by Cannæ! For the rest,
Whilst all his flatterers, for fifteen years,
Have talked so big of his prodigious doings,
And he, with ceaseless importunity,
Has begged for men, and money, and what not,
Never has he been nearer, by a step,
To the accomplishment of that great project
He boasted of, ere yet he crossed the Alps.
These sons of Barca have deluded you!
'Tis not so very long since Hasdrubal,
Through his own rashness, and his brother's sloth,
With all his army has been cut to pieces.
Yet still, without a hope, without a plan,
In Italy he lingered on and on—
And why? Because he dared not to come home,
And face our just displeasure. Might we not
At least have trusted that his presence on
The soil of Italy would keep at home
The arms of Scipio? Nay, but we were brought
To ruin's very brink, whilst yet he dozed
Beneath the pleasant skies of Bruttium. Well,
What next? We send for him—he lands at last;
But in the place of marching night and day,
To save his country in her imminent peril,
He suffers us, with oft-repeated instance,
To urge his swift advance; yet tarries on,
Day after day, whilst Scipio over-runs
Our country, and takes all our towns from us,
And his own rude unruly hirelings treat
Our lovely land like conquered Italy.
At last he changes wavering for rashness,
Refuses—mark me—Scipio's moderate terms—
For Scipio, you shall know, then offered peace—
Stakes all upon one field, and loses it!
People of Carthage, I denounce this man,
To all your faces, as a traitor to you!
Adjudge him, people, to a traitor's death!

[Confused and contradictory clamours arise. Bomilcar takes Bostar's place in the tribune.]
Bom.
O people, how the gods groan over us!
They see us shamed, betrayed by him we trusted,—
That broken reed, that reed which stabs the hand!
They call us to reject our ruiner,
The demon that beguiled us, our land's curse,
The plague that has afflicted us to death!
Their wrath is on us, whilst we suffer him
To lift his proud head unrebuked before us!
Oh, hear the loud cry of those holy priests
Who, prostrate at the altars, night and day,
Fast, weep, and pray for their lost land in vain!
They bid us yield their victim to the gods.
Give the great gods their victim! Whilst he lives
They suffer pain; they wreak their pain on us,
Who cling to our destruction and our death.
Wake from your dream! Do as our fathers did,
Surrender to the gods their sacrifice,
And send the mighty traitor to his doom!

Peo.
[Shouting clamorously.]
Hannibal! Speak for thyself!

Gis.
[To Bostar.]
Ah, ha! we knew them well—the same for him
As all the rest! Now let him rue his Zama!

Han.
People of Carthage! You have heard all this
These men have found to charge me with this day.
Judge for yourselves if they have reason with them!
Judge for yourselves if they have lied, or no!
I will not set my knowledge against theirs.
Doubtless, whilst they have sat at home at peace,
They have learnt all that books and talk could teach them
About that art of war which I, alas!
In the rude soldier-fashion of my father,
Have only studied on the battle-field.
But let that pass. 'Tis true that I am conquered;
True, for twelve hours I fought for you at Zama,
And for twelve hours at Zama fought in vain—
True, for twelve hours I saw, one after one,
The bravest soldiers and the dearest friends
That ever man has mourned for, perish round me—
True, on the twelfth I saw my life's hope blasted,
Scipio victorious, and my country fallen!
On me then fall the blame—to me ascribe,
If it so please you, all that you have suffered,
And let these enemies that, year by year,
Have sought to ruin me, stand clear this day.
They hate me, so does Rome. Long as I live,
Nor they, nor Rome, will know a moment's peace;
Do them and Rome a pleasure, then, this day!
But by the souls of those we slew at Cannæ,
And by my father's soul, I swear to you,
And by the souls of Hasdrubal and Mago,
Carthage will, in the last son of my father,
Lose the last friend of Carthage! Here I stand, then!
There stand mine enemies! Give them their answer;
And if one voice cry, “Down with Hannibal!”
Let the whole city lead me to my doom!

[The assembly breaks out into loud cries of “Long live Hannibal!” “Down with his enemies!” “We will not put it to the vote.”]
Han.
I thank you. I will profit by your trust
To make both you, and my own heart, amends
For my disaster as a general,
By my good service as a citizen.

[Exit.
Gis.
[To Bomilcar and Bostar.]
Foiled utterly! We had best take our leave.
Now for a revolution in the State!
Now for mob government!

Bom.
Let us be gone,
And get back home as quietly as may be.

[The assembly breaks up, a vast crowd flocking after Hannibal, with shouts.]