 | Brutus |  |
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SCENE VII.
BRUTUS, PROCULUS, TITUS.[At the farther End of the Stage, conducted by the Lictors.]
PROCULUS.
See where he comes!
TITUS.
Hah, Brutus! how I sink
Beneath th'oppressive weight of grief and shame.
These trembling limbs—Open, thou solid earth,
And in thy central darkness ever hide me!
Wilt thou permit thy son—
BRUTUS.
Presumptuous, hold!
No farther! Lately I possess'd two children,
How dear to this fond heart, witness, ye gods,
Who gave them to me! One, alas! is lost.
One, said I? Oh, thou most unhappy Titus!
Speak, have I yet a son?
TITUS.
No son is thine.
BRUTUS.
Now then, attend thy judge, attend and answer,
My stain, and my disgrace!
[He seats himself.
Could'st thou resolve
T'enslave thy country? To betray thy father
Into the hands of lawless power? To sport
With perjury, and break thy sacred oaths?
TITUS.
I had resolved on nothing; but my soul
With deadly poison fill'd, its very essence
Infected, plague-struck, to its horrid force
Compell'd to yield; the knowledge of myself
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E'en now for recollection. Wand'ring still
In a delirious maze, my heart which then
By frenzy urged, left reason far behind,
Was guilty for a moment. That short space
O'erwhelm'd me with eternal shame, and stamp'd
Deep on my brow the mark of treason. Gods!
Of treason to the country which I prized
With sumless estimation.—Madness fled;
Reason soon came, and with it brought remorse,
Dreadful its stings, its tortures are immense,
And equal to my crime; Rome could not take
Severer punishment in its just vengeance.
Pronounce my doom. The common-weal requires
My forfeit life; all eyes are fix'd on thee,
And an example ought to be display'd
Great and conspicuous; so, withheld by terror
At my deserved fate, no son of Rome
Shall dare hereafter to pursue my steps.
And as thro' life, so in the hour of death,
I still shall serve my country. While the blood
Always expended for her sake, unstain'd
In its pure course till this pernicious day,
Shall, as it wont, be from my heart pour'd forth,
And only flow for liberty.
BRUTUS.
I hear
With wonder! How, with perfidy so base,
Accords this generous ardour! Blackest crimes,
(Horrid assemblage!) with the brightest virtues
In union join'd!—Heaven! With the laurels crown'd,
And mid the trophied ensigns, to my eyes
More beauteous for the sanguine stains they bore,
What envious demon breathed into thy heart
This levity and fickleness so dire,
And so unparallel'd?
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All, all the passions
With inimical power; the thirst of vengeance,
Ambition, hatred, the fierce sudden rage
Of madly-wild despair—
BRUTUS.
Unhappy youth!
Proceed!
TITUS.
One error more transcending all.
A flame which captive led, and still retains
O'er my subjected senses uncontroul'd
An absolute dominion; which at first
Quicken'd my guilt, and now perhaps augments it.
But wherefore should I thus confess my shame?
Odious to thee, and painful were th'avowal,
Rome needs it not; the sire and son must blush
At th'unbecoming tale. Now my misfortunes
Are at their height, th'emotions of my soul
Can in their furious progress rush no farther.
My crimes, my desperation, and my life
Here terminate at once; a life to thee,
To me, reproachful, teeming with disgrace.
A flame which captive led, and still retains
O'er my subjected senses uncontroul'd
An absolute dominion; which at first
Quicken'd my guilt, and now perhaps augments it.
But wherefore should I thus confess my shame?
Odious to thee, and painful were th'avowal,
Rome needs it not; the sire and son must blush
At th'unbecoming tale. Now my misfortunes
Are at their height, th'emotions of my soul
Can in their furious progress rush no farther.
My crimes, my desperation, and my life
Here terminate at once; a life to thee,
To me, reproachful, teeming with disgrace.
But if in battle I have trod thy steps,
If I have strove to emulate thy deeds,
If I have loved my country, if my guilt
Pursued by keen remorse, I feel the pang
Sufficiently severe; Oh, deign one more
In thy paternal arms to clasp a son
[Kneeling.
Bent to the ground with anguish! Say, at least,
Thy father hates thee not; that word alone
Shall snatch my memory from the gulph of shame
In which I now am plunged. It shall be told
To late posterity, that Titus sunk not
To the dark regions of the dead, unblest
By a kind look from thee, the great reward
Of his sincere contrition; that he still
Preserved an interest in thy heart, and bore,
Spite of his crimes, bore with him to the tomb
Thy favour and esteem.
If I have strove to emulate thy deeds,
If I have loved my country, if my guilt
Pursued by keen remorse, I feel the pang
Sufficiently severe; Oh, deign one more
In thy paternal arms to clasp a son
[Kneeling.
Bent to the ground with anguish! Say, at least,
Thy father hates thee not; that word alone
Shall snatch my memory from the gulph of shame
In which I now am plunged. It shall be told
To late posterity, that Titus sunk not
To the dark regions of the dead, unblest
By a kind look from thee, the great reward
Of his sincere contrition; that he still
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Spite of his crimes, bore with him to the tomb
Thy favour and esteem.
BRUTUS.
I feel his anguish!
It overpowers me!—Must it be?—O Rome!
O genius of my country!—Proculus—
Call thou the lictors hither, bid them lead
My son to death.—Rise, wretched Titus! Rise!
Object of my aversion, of my love
And tenderest sympathy! My age's hope!
Dear to its partial sight! And fondly deem'd
Its sure support!—Approach! Embrace thy father!
Who could not but condemn thee! yet had seal'd
Frankly thy pardon, had he not been Brutus.
Witness these sighs, these tears, which as I speak,
Descend upon thee!—Go, and meet thy fate
With steadier fortitude? Go, look on death
Calm and unmoved, with more of Roman firmness
Than I can boast! And while thy country claims
Its vengeance due, let it admire thy fall.
TITUS.
This last embrace! Farewel! the mortal stroke
Impends—Enough! I meet it with a soul
Still worthy of my father.
| Brutus | |