 | Sylla |  |
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SCENE VIII.
SYLLA,—Alone.
Unhappy, said he!
'Tis true....I am so...and is this to live,
To undergo these torments of my greatness?
To punish, to shed blood, to stifle treasons...
No sleep by night, and no repose by day!—
My mind, for ever led away by sad
Forebodings, like a timid infant, fears
The shades of night!...I'll rest me 'neath this porch;—
More calm methinks I'll here await, till morn
Beams in the eastern sky...Oh! could I sleep!—
Yet whence this weakness? For my son I tremble.
Vain fears, away!—my tenderness shall ne'er
Disarm th'unyielding courage of my soul.
I am a father, say'st thou? No—I am
Dictator; and for what! to march for ever
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Of living on the edge of such a precipice!
I wish—but they will kill me.—What, all mighty,
All glorious as I am, what of the Gods
Henceforward can I ask?—that peace of death
To which I sometimes look, that boundary of
My ills, that end of this long, long delirium.
To die, perchance to sleep!—what are to me
Days whose whole course is one empoison'd tædium?
But I perceive my soul, at length less heavy,
Allows my thoughts to wander unrestrained.
[He lies down.
O unknown blessing! both alike sink down,
O'ercome by gentle sleep, my eyes—my spirits.
[He falls asleep, and whilst dreaming, cries out.
What see I? and what power, in these dark chambers
Reanimates the shades of those my proscripts?
Spirits of the tomb! what would ye have with me?
Is it to me your grizzly band holds forth
The torches of the tomb? Your crimes I've punish'd,
Th'associates of your crimes! and tremble yet
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I see you all—your arms raised o'er my couch—
Th'uplifted poniard brandished o'er my breast,
As if prepared to strike—Oh! Heavens! here, lictors!
[He rises up in his sleep.
Here—I've proscribed their heads.—Do I again
Behold them? Chase them hence, these perverse phantoms!
With blood-stained whips hence drive them back to Pluto!
'Tis Sylla wills—commands it—quick, obey!
[He falls down again on the couch.
| Sylla | |