 | The Banishment of Cicero |  |
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.
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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.
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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,
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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
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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.
| The Banishment of Cicero | |