University of Virginia Library

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.