University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A street in Servia.
Enter Brutus and Cassius.
Brutus.
Is this the once fam'd mistress of the north
The sweet retreat of freedom? dearly purchas'd!
A clime matur'd with blood; from whose rich soil,
Has sprung a glorious harvest.—Oh! my friend,
The change how drear! the sullen ghost of bondage,
Stalks full in view—already with her pinions,
She shades the affrighted land—th' insulting soldiers,
Tread down our choicest rights; while hoodwink'd justice
Drops her scales, and totters from her basis.
Thus torn with nameless wounds, my bleeding country
Demands a tear—that tear I'll freely give her,

Cassius.
Oh! Brutus, our noble ancestors,
Who liv'd for freedom, and for freedom dy'd:
Who scorn'd to roll in affluence, if that state
Was sicken'd o'er with the dread name of slaves:
Who in this desart stock'd with beasts and men,
Whose untam'd souls breath'd nought but slaughter—
Grasp'd at freedom, and they nobly won it;
Then smil'd and dy'd contented, Should these heroes,
Start from their tombs and view their dear possessions,
The price of so much labor, cost and blood,
Gods! what a pang 'twould cost them; yes, they'd weep,
Nor weep in vain. That good old spirit,
Which warm'd them once, would rouse to noble actions.
E're they would cringe they'd bathe their swords in blood;
In heaps they'd fall, and on the pile of freedom,
Expire like heroes, or they'd save their country.

Brutus.
Oh! Cassius, you inspire a noble passion,
It glows within me, and every pulse I feel,
Beats high for glory.—I sprang, and Oh! it fires me,
I sprang from men, who fought, who bled for freedom:
From men, who in the conflict laugh'd at danger:
Struggl'd like patriots, and through seas of blood,
Waded to conquest.—I'll not disgrace them.
I'll show a spirit worthy of my sire.
Tho' malice dart her stings;—tho' poverty
Stares full upon me;—tho' power with all her thunder,
Rolls o'er my head,—thy cause my bleeding country
I'll never leave—I'll struggle hard for thee,
And if I perish, perish like a freeman.

Cassius.
You're not alone—there are, I know, ten thousand,
Ne'er bow'd the knee to idol power—Repeated insults
Have rous'd the most lethargic. E'en the old man
Whose blood has long creep'd sluggish thro' his vains,
Now feels his warmth renew'd—his pulse beat quick—
His eyes dart fire—he grasps his sword,
And calls on youth to aid him—yea my son,
My little son, who sportive climbs my knees,
Fondly intreats my aid, and lisps out freedom.
But see our friends—their generous bosoms glow.
With manly Sentiment:—I will accost them.
Patriots hail!—

Enter Junius and Portius.
Portius.
All hail my friends!—
Well met I trust, and with one heart and mind,
We have lately seen a piece of pageantry,
Near Imports mansion, big with mighty meaning.
The period dawns, when all those parricides,
Who long had sported with their country's, ruin,
Begin to tremble—Shame, contempt croud on them.
The boy despises, and the stripling smiles.

Brutus.
'Tis well—here lies my hope:—let but a sense,
A manly sense of injur'd freedom wake them,
The day's half won. The cold inactive spirit
That slumbers in its chains,—at this I tremble.
Oh! patriots rouse. The distant branches lop'd,
The root now groans—let not the thought of power,
Ungenerous thought! freeze up the genial current.
'Tis not a conquest, merely, leads to fame—
Th' attempt enobles. Yes, the suffering patriot
Tow'rs while he bleeds, and triumphs while he dies.

Junius.
When Brutus speaks, old age grows young.
Whatever right I've lost! I've still a dagger,
And have a hand to wield it—'tis true it shakes—
With age it shakes: Yet in the cause of freedom,
It catches vigor. You shall find it strike
The tyrant from his Throne.

Brutus.
Thou good old man.
Thy words a noble ardor kindle in me.
Come patriots, let the bright example fire you.
By all that's sacred! by our father's shades!
Illustrious shades! who hover o'er this country.
And watch like guardian angels o'er its rights:
By all that blood, that precious blood they spilt,
To gain for us the happiest boon of Heaven:
By life—by death—or still to catch you more,
By LIBERTY, by BONDAGE. I conjure you.

All.
Nor is it vain. We swear, e'er we'll be slaves,
We'll pour our choicest blood. No terms shall move us.
These streets we'll pave with many an human skull.
Carnage, blood and death, shall be familiar,
Tho' Servia weep her desolated realms.

Brutus.
'Tis bravely spoke. And now thou power supreme!
Who hatest wrong, and wills creation happy,
Hear and revenge a bleeding country's groans;
Teach us to act with firmness and with zeal:
'Till happier prospects gild the gloomy waste.
While from our fate shall future ages know,
Virtue and freedom are thy care below.

[Exeunt.