University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

CLODIUS, GABINIUS.
CLODIUS.
Yet further, Aulus—let these walls not listen,
Nor the pale prying spirits, that unseen
Course up and down beneath the shadowy moon,
Hover about me: rather let me stand
With night and desolation all around,
While in thy listful ear I drop my words,
More lightly than the vernal dew descends
On the soft lap of Hybla.

GABINIUS.
Spare your preface,
And to the purpose, Clodius.

CLODIUS.
Know then first,
Cæsar—the God, whom we poor mortals worship,
Hath a kind wife.

GABINIUS.
Kind wife?—

CLODIUS.
I know her kind.
Nay, never stare and stagger with amaze,
'T has been the lot of many a better man.

GABINIUS.
Ye Gods! the great Triumvir?—

CLODIUS.
Yes, Gabinius!
Like a bold bird of prey, I have dislodg'd
This tame domestic fowl from off his nest,
And rifled all his brood of nuptial joys.

GABINIUS.
Now thank the Gods! for if Pompeia's false,
There's not one true in Rome; brave men shall flourish,
Posterity shall bless us; no man's wife
Censure her neighbour; money-hoarding knaves
Bequeath their usuries to the spendthrift's son,
And no house want an heir. But say, my Clodius,
Tell me, dear youth, how, when, and where you met.—

CLODIUS.
Ay, there my story rises into wonder;
There, there, Gabinius, I am more than Clodius;
What man yet never dar'd, yet never saw,
These eyes beheld undaunted. Know, last night,
My Genius (call it good or evil) led me
Without the city walls to seek Pompeia:
She then was busied in those sacred rites,
Which the sex pay to the mysterious Goddess,
Whom they call Good.

GABINIUS.
That was a bar betwixt you,
As high as is mount Athos.

CLODIUS.
Yes, Gabinius,
It is a bar to men of common souls,
Whom base tradition awes, and holy tales
Told by the dreaming nurse; but you and I,
And spirits cast in our ambitious mould,
Will leap such petty bars, and boldly scorn
Religion's weak enclosure.

GABINIUS.
You're my witness
I dare do much; but this—forbid it, Gods!
It chills my blood. Oh! if thou hast profan'd
These unreveal'd solemnities, farewell;
If there be wrath in Heaven, expect it.

CLODIUS.
I,
I have done this and live.

GABINIUS.
Hang the Heav'ns o'er us?
Have those eyes speculation, and that heart
Motion and sense of life?

CLODIUS.
Whole and untouch'd
I mock the wrath of Jove. Do you avoid me?
Survey me well; where has the light'ning pierc'd?
Wast thou the friend of Catiline? Like children,
Who talk of goblins, till they think they see 'em,
Ye draw your Gods with thunder in their hands,
Till your own fancies fright you. What, d'ye think,
If there be Gods, will their immortal natures
Take thought of such a sorry thing as Clodius,
And taint the peace of their celestial dwellings
With earthly occupations? No, Gabinius,
Serene they sit above this noisy world,
And yield the reins to chance.

GABINIUS.
Alas, my friend,
My wishes, not my reason, are convinc'd.

CLODIUS.
There then abide, and never seek to know,
What known will leave thee hopeless. But no more
I should have told thee under what disguise
I enter'd; how betray'd; and with what art
I 'scap'd; but that thy inauspicious looks
Have chill'd the pregnant functions of my brain,
And strangled the brave story in its birth.

GABINIUS.
There in oblivious silence let it lie,
Lest Rumor's ever-open ears should hear it,
And all her thousand mouths proclaim the deed.
How would your foes exult? The Sacred College,
How would they rise against you? What dire ills
Would the prophetic Figulus denounce?
How would the Praetors punish? Above all
Think you hear Cicero declaim against you,
With all the energy of voice and action,
And tears and words, that give the thing they speak,
And realize description: All around
The list'ning Senate hang upon his lips;
Whilst you, as Catiline did once, with shame
And blushes cover'd underneath his lash
Sit like a chidden school-boy; or, contending,
After faint struggle, you are borne along
Down the strong torrent of his eloquence,
Like the light trash that rides upon the flood,
When the Alps pour their deluge on the plains.

CLODIUS.
Yet, yet, I am before you: Come, my friend,
And I will lead you up to glorious action;
The garish sun is set, this night concludes;
To-morrow, I or Cicero am nothing.

(Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in Cicero's Palace.
TULLIA, FRUGI.
TULLIA.
Why do you meet me thus with alter'd looks?
Your full heart labours with unvented sorrow,
And in the silent language of the eyes
Tells me, I never shall know comfort more.

FRUGI.
I cannot speak to her.

TULLIA.
Do' you shun me, Caius?
Ah! that cold look has froze me into horror.
Am I grown stale? has this poor form of mine
Lost all its little merit? have these tears
Quite, quite effac'd the roses of my cheeks?

FRUGI.
Heav'n be my witness, how thou wrong'st my love!
No, thou'rt more welcome to my sight, and fairer,
Than yon all-blessed sun; more dear thou art
To this sad breast, than are the vital drops
That fall in tender pity from my heart.

TULLIA.
Oh! had you known the visions of last night—
Under how many dismal shapes of horror
Did that dear image haunt my sleepless eyes!
Methought I saw thee lie an out-stretch'd corse,
Stuck full of wounds and welt'ring in thy blood;
Strait I beheld the traitress Clodia take
A secret dagger from her cursed bosom
Dripping with blood, and smile upon the point:
Then at a thought the scene of blood was shifted,
And all was revelry, and all was love;
I saw my Frugi lying in her arms,
Gazing with lifted eyes upon her face;
Aloud I call'd thee; thou with feeble tone
Coldly replied, “Alas! unhappy Tullia!”
And sunk again into her arms.

FRUGI.
No more;
My blood runs back with horror at the thought:
While thus I strain thee to my throbbing bosom,
Blest as I am, and honour'd in thy love,
At this dear moment my presaging heart,
Quailing and sinking with unusual softness,
Feels all the pangs that parting souls endure,
When rigid Fate exacts her stern demands,
And Nature bids a last farewell to life.

TULLIA.
What are thy thoughts? O tell me whence they rise,
What is it shakes thy noble nature thus?
Ah! now I see, I read it in thy looks;
It must be so; destruction is complete,
And my great father falls.

FRUGI.
Rome is no more;
Dire Clodius reeking with a mother's blood,
Plants the last wound in her expiring breast.
Peace, Science, Virtue, mutual Faith and Freedom,
Each Art, and every Grace is on the wing;
Before 'em flies the day, and at their back
Hellish Corruption sows the land with death,
Making a void more hideous and more dark
Than central Night.

TULLIA.
My father, O my father!

FRUGI.
I came this instant from the godlike man.
Silent long time the musing patriot sate,
His big heart lab'ring with contending cares;
While from his eyes the sacred pity fell,
Like Heav'n's blest dew upon a thankless soil,
And all the Father of his Country mourn'd.

TULLIA.
Ah! what does he resolve?

FRUGI.
To leave this city,
To leave Terentia, and thy weeping self,
A voluntary Exile.

TULLIA.
Hah! an Exile?
It must not, can not be.

FRUGI.
Alas! my Tullia,
Not built on fear, or Passion's slippery base,
His cool mature resolves are fix'd as Fate.
I heard the final sentence pass his lips;
To-morrow sees him turn his back on Rome,
Self-doom'd, to search for some more friendly shore,
There to abide till better days succeed,
And Rome deserves his presence.

TULLIA.
Leave his Country,
Forsake his friends, forsake his houshold Gods,
And tear asunder each dear natural tie
That wraps about his heart? Heav'n will forbid it,
His bitterest foes will kneel to hold him back,
The very walls of Rome will rise against him,
And meeting close their great preserver in.

FRUGI.
Alas! thou know'st not what a world thou liv'st in.
Dwells there in this base city one so bold,
Who dares to own himself the friend of Virtue?
The Public Body is diseas'd and foul,
Rotten at heart, and ripe for dissolution;
Our Magistrates are slaves, our Nobles beggars,
Our Courts of Justice made a public mart,
Where black Corruption holds her damning traffic
In the broad eye of day.

TULLIA.
Then what am I?
Where can the fatherless look out for pity?
Ah! where can friendless Virtue hide her head?

FRUGI.
Never, while these fond arms have strength to move,
Or this poor bleeding heart has sense to beat,
Shall that dear head be left without a shelter.
Come, Clodius; come, Gabinius; to your swords
My willing breast I offer; spare my Tullia,
My dying lips shall bless you for the stroke,
And call its torture mercy.

TULLIA.
No, my Caius!
Blest Hymen joys not in unequal bands.
O had I known thee in those happier days,
When Fortune smil'd upon my father's house,
Without a blush I should have told my love,
And thou with honour claim'd me for thy wife.
But now, instead of pow'r, and fame, and wealth,
To bring thee want and ruin for my portion,
Honour forbids it, and my heart that loves thee,
Scorns to be such a debtor.

FRUGI.
Dearest maid,
Dearer in all thy wrongs, than if thou cam'st
Deck'd in the splendor of thy fullest fortune,
My soul almost rejoices in thy sorrows:
Ambition else had shar'd my thoughts with thee,
And Interest stol'n some portion of my love;
But now Adversity's refining fire
Melts down the base alloy of earthly passions,
And purifies the temper of the heart.

TULLIA.
No more; I must not hear that flatt'ring tongue;
My father now demands my duty—leave me.
Still are you here?—Farewell.

FRUGI.
Forgive me, Tullia,
I cannot leave thee. O I could unfold
A tale of horror.—The grim night comes on,
And the dark ministers of Hell are busy:
Let me not leave thee.

TULLIA.
If my hour is come,
And ruin hangs o'er this devoted head,
Make from the fall; live thou to think on me,
And grace my memory with a noble sorrow;
If I had lov'd thee less, we had not parted;
Now take my last embrace: Break, break, my heart!
Farewell, (alas! and must I say) for ever?
(Exit Tullia.

FRUGI.
And hast thou left me? Yet I will be near thee,
Glide after thee with still and ghost-like steps,
Haunt the lov'd spot, and hover o'er my treasure.
(Exit Frugi.

SCENE III.

An inner Apartment.
CICERO
, is discouered alone.
And what is Rome? There's breathing space enough
Without the walls of Rome; then Rome farewell:
I've said it; and my heart performs its office
As steadily as ever: But, O Nature,
With what voice shall I say, Farewell, Terentia,
Tullia, farewell? how heavily that sounds!
There, there's the pang: And yet there lies beyond it,
Something too horrible for thought—to page
Ambitious Cæsar's heels, to lick the dust
Of Pompey's hall, and cringe for sordid life.
O death to Honour! Come thou, Clodius, rather,
And rip this breast: Yet on these slavish terms
Live all in Rome; be exile then my choice!
Enter ATTICUS.
Hah! by my soul's best hopes, my Atticus!
Blest be the guiding hand of Heav'n that brought thee,
From peaceful climes, and philosophic scenes,
Safe thro' a boist'rous and discordant world
To this storm-beaten hut.

ATTICUS.
Still are you here?
Up, up, my friend, and disappoint these traitors:
Break from the toils just ready to enclose you,
And follow Virtue in her flight from Rome.

CICERO.
What, art thou come to chide me, my Pomponius?
But do it freely; it becomes thy friendship.

ATTICUS.
I cannot flatter; I am wean'd from Rome,
And Roman arts; I think that Cæsar's oaths
Are empty words; and would not build my faith
On Pompey's promises, which drop as fast
From his oil'd lips, as flakes of snow from clouds;
And, oh! the sorrow, melt away as soon.

CICERO.
Both are ambitious, faithless both, and cruel;
Yet Cæsar's bold oppression irks me less,
Than Pompey's pliant falshood. 'Twas this morn
I sought him on mount Alba, (do I live
To own it?) waited like a needy client
In his proud hall, whilst he escap'd unseen
Like a detected criminal, and left me
To think on faith, and ponder o'er my wrongs.

ATTICUS.
Where is the ancient Roman spirit fled?
What are these mighty men, but as you make 'em?
Like a blind doating mother you have nurs'd
Growing Oppression, with the milk of Freedom,
Which now ingrateful, factious and adult,
Spurns at the breast it fed on: Hapless Rome,
Like a tame jade, hath giv'n her patient back
To each aspiring rider, and now spent
And giddy with the course of their ambition,
Sinks with her weight, and bleeds at every stroke.

CICERO.
I can no more: These hands, that once already
Have giv'n their country life, now want a shield
To fence themselves from ruin. O Pomponius,
The inevitable day comes on apace,
When this tyrannic league shall burst asunder;
And yon cemented friends, like ravening dogs,
Contending for their prey, drag different ways
The mangled remnant of expiring Freedom,
And drench the world in blood.

ATTICUS.
Then make from Rome;
Seek out a shelter e're the night comes on,
And the wild uproar of the storm begins;
Call up the injur'd shade of great Metellus;
Hear him repeat his last departing words,
And let him point the road to glorious exile.

CICERO.
No more; it is resolv'd; thus, my Pomponius,
I banish Rome; behold! indignant thus
I cast behind me every tender thought
Of this degenerate country; never more
Shall these sad eyes behold th'all-glorious Sun
Rise on her guilty domes, till bath'd in tears,
Her proud head with repentant ashes strow'd,
This base unnatural Daughter lowly comes
To call her Father to his native home.

ATTICUS.
Come then, my friend, and in some distant land,
Where Freedom and the liberal Graces dwell,
We'll make ourselves a home, and call it Rome;
And fear not, Marcus, but the same bright Sun
That crowns the lofty Capitol, shall stoop
His gracious head with beams of orient gold
To kiss our humble dwelling; there together,
As Scipio and his Lælius idly pac'd
The shores of soft Laurentum, we will walk
The vacant beach, and as the thronging waves,
Like morning clients, bow their curled heads
To kiss our feet, we'll spurn the flatterers from us,
And blush to think we ever were ambitious.

CICERO.
O happy friend! thy calm and temperate mind,
With Attic wisdom fraught, can look with scorn
On base Ambition and its empty joys;
But all in vain, I struggle to get free,
The guilty world still hangs about my heart;
The pageantry of office, the loud shouts
Of the throng'd Forum, and the frequent Senate
With one voice, hailing me their Country's Father,
Still echo in my ears; bear with my weakness,
Rome yet sits heavy here.

ATTICUS.
O happier state!
To follow Nature in her simple haunts;
With early steps to climb the shaggy sides
Of some hoar cliff, and meet the dewy breath
Of Morning, issuing from the flow'ry vale:
Or soft reclining on the mossy turf,
In solemn musing rapt, or sacred song,
Careless to lie, and as the dimpling brook
Steals gently by, with motionless regard
To eye the floating mirror; while as fast
Down Meditation's smooth and silent tide,
In easy lapse your tuneful moments flow,
Clear and untroubled as the passing stream.

CICERO.
What ho! Terentia; come, thou best of women;
And thou, my dearest Tullia, come. Behold,
My daughter and my wife! now judge me, Atticus,
And tell me if these sorrows are unseemly.

SCENE IV.

CICERO, ATTICUS, TERENTIA, TULLIA.
ATTICUS.
I own them just.

CICERO.
Let me embrace you both:
O Clodius, thou hast conquer'd.

TERENTIA.
Still on Clodius?
Come to your peaceful bed; the night is dang'rous;
Strange screamings up and down the streets are heard,
Our Lares fall untouch'd, and your Minerva,
Chief of the tutelar Deities, dissolves
In drops of blood.

CICERO.
Gods, I obey your omens!
Come, lead me to the altar, my Terentia,
And let me see these prodigies; farewell,
Ye much-lov'd walls, ye shall not long survive
Your master's fall: no more of sleep within you:
Ye are my witness, 'tis not the first time
That I have watch'd for this ingrateful country.
O Friend, when I am gone, protect my wife,
And be a father to my helpless daughter.

TERENTIA.
Will you forsake me, Tullius? On my knees
I beg you stay: Your friends are great and many;
Your hopes yet fresh and smiling, while the faction
And their cause drop; murder not then your fame,
Abandon not your friends, your wife, your country,
But live our glory, and your foes confusion.

(Terentia and Tullia kneel to him.
CICERO.
Dost thou too kneel, thou weeping, speechless maid?
(To Tullia.
Rise, rise, ye pow'rful pleaders! in your hands
I rest my cause. When I am gone from Rome,
And Envy that now tears me from her side,
Sated with vengeance, sleeps; arise you then,
And in the melting accents of distress
Tell my sad story, till at length you see
The soft infection stealing on your hearers,
And pitying Rome restores me to your arms.