 | Cato |  |
56
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Cato solus, sitting in a thoughtful Posture: In his Hand Plato's Book on the Immortality of the Soul. A drawn Sword on the Table by him.
It must be so—Plato, thou reason'st well!—
Else whence this pleasing Hope, this fond Desire,
This Longing after Immortality?
Or whence this secret Dread, and inward Horror,
Of falling into Nought? Why shrinks the Soul
Back on her self, and startles at Destruction?
'Tis the Divinity that stir's within us;
'Tis Heav'n its self, that point's out an Hereafter,
And intimate's Eternity to Man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful, Thought!
Through what Variety of untry'd Being,
Through what new Scenes and Changes must we pass!
The wide, th'unbounded Prospect, lie's before me;
But Shadows, Clouds, and Darkness, rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a Pow'r above us,
(And that there is all Nature cries aloud
Through all her Works) He must delight in Virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when! or where!—This World was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of Conjectures—This must end 'em.
[Laying his Hand on his Sword.
Else whence this pleasing Hope, this fond Desire,
This Longing after Immortality?
Or whence this secret Dread, and inward Horror,
Of falling into Nought? Why shrinks the Soul
Back on her self, and startles at Destruction?
'Tis the Divinity that stir's within us;
'Tis Heav'n its self, that point's out an Hereafter,
And intimate's Eternity to Man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful, Thought!
Through what Variety of untry'd Being,
Through what new Scenes and Changes must we pass!
The wide, th'unbounded Prospect, lie's before me;
But Shadows, Clouds, and Darkness, rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a Pow'r above us,
(And that there is all Nature cries aloud
Through all her Works) He must delight in Virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when! or where!—This World was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of Conjectures—This must end 'em.
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Thus am I doubly arm'd: my Death and Life,
My Bane and Antidote are both before me:
This in a Moment brings me to an End:
But this inform's me I shall never die.
The Soul, secur'd in her Existence, smile's
At the drawn Dagger, and defie's its Point.
The Stars shall fade away, the Sun himself
Grow dim with Age, and Nature sink in Years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal Youth,
Unhurt amidst the War of Elements,
The Wrecks of Matter, and the Crush of Worlds.
My Bane and Antidote are both before me:
This in a Moment brings me to an End:
But this inform's me I shall never die.
The Soul, secur'd in her Existence, smile's
At the drawn Dagger, and defie's its Point.
The Stars shall fade away, the Sun himself
Grow dim with Age, and Nature sink in Years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal Youth,
Unhurt amidst the War of Elements,
The Wrecks of Matter, and the Crush of Worlds.
What means this Heaviness that hangs upon me?
This Lethargy that creeps through all my Senses?
Nature oppress'd, and harrass'd out with Care,
Sinks down to Rest. This once I'll favour her.
That my awaken'd Soul may take her Flight,
Renew'd in all her Strength, and fresh with Life,
An Off'ring fit for Heav'n. Let Guilt or Fear
Disturb Man's Rest: Cato knows neither of 'em,
Indiff'rent in his Choice to sleep or die.
Enter Portius.
This Lethargy that creeps through all my Senses?
Nature oppress'd, and harrass'd out with Care,
Sinks down to Rest. This once I'll favour her.
That my awaken'd Soul may take her Flight,
Renew'd in all her Strength, and fresh with Life,
An Off'ring fit for Heav'n. Let Guilt or Fear
Disturb Man's Rest: Cato knows neither of 'em,
Indiff'rent in his Choice to sleep or die.
But hah! how's this, my Son? Why this Intrusion?
Were not my Orders that I wou'd be private?
Why am I disobey'd?
Were not my Orders that I wou'd be private?
Why am I disobey'd?
Port.
Alas, my Father!
What means this Sword? this Instrument of Death?
Let me convey it hence!
Cato.
Rash Youth, forbear!
Port.
O let the Pray'rs, th'Entreaties of your Friends,
Their Tears, their common Danger wrest it from you.
Cato.
Wou'd'st thou betray me? Wou'd'st thou give me up
A Slave, a Captive, into Cæsar's Hands?
Retire, and learn Obedience to a Father,
Or know, young Man!—
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O Sir, forgive your Son,
Whose Grief hangs heavy on him! O my Father!
How am I sure it is not the last Time
I e'er shall call you so! Be not displeased,
O be not angry with me whilst I weep,
And, in the Anguish of my Heart, beseech you
To quit the dreadful Purpose of your Soul.
Cato.
Thou hast been ever good and dutiful.
[Embracing him.
Weep not, my Son. All will be well again.
The righteous Gods, whom I have sought to please,
Will succour Cato, and preserve his Children.
Port.
Your Words give Comfort to my drooping Heart.
Cato.
Portius, thou may'st rely upon my Conduct.
Thy Father will not act what misbecome's him.
But go, my Son, and see if aught be wanting
Among thy Father's Friends; see them embarqued;
And tell me if the Winds and Seas befriend them.
My Soul is quite weigh'd down with Care, and asks
The soft Refreshment of a Moment's Sleep.
[Exit.
Port.
My Thoughts are more at Ease, my Heart revives.
Enter Marcia.
O Marcia, O my Sister, still there's Hope!
Our Father will not cast away a Life
So needful to us all, and to his Country.
He is retired to Rest, and seems to cherish
Thoughts full of Peace. He has dispatcht me hence
With Orders, that bespeak a Mind composed,
And studious for the Safety of his Friends.
Marcia, take care that none disturb his Slumbers.
[Exit.
Marc.
O ye immortal Powers, that guard the Good,
Watch round his Couch, and soften his Repose,
Banish his Sorrows, and becalm his Soul
With easie Dreams; remember all his Virtues!
And show Mankind that Goodness is your Care.
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Luc.
Where is your Father, Marcia, where is Cato?
Marc.
Lucia, speak low, he is retired to Rest.
Lucia, I feel a gently-dawning Hope
Rise in my Soul. We shall be happy still.
Luc.
Alas, I tremble when I think on Cato,
In every View, in every Thought I tremble!
Cato is stern, and awful as a God,
He knows not how to wink at humne Frailty,
Or pardon Weakness, that he never felt.
Marc.
Though stern and awful to the Foes of Rome,
He is all Goodness, Lucia, always mild,
Compassionate, and gentle to his Friends.
Fill'd with Domestick Tenderness, the best,
The kindest Father! I have ever found him
Easie, and good, and bounteous to my Wishes.
Luc.
'Tis his Consent alone can make us bless'd.
Marcia, we both are equally involv'd
In the same intricate, perplex'd, Distress.
The cruel Hand of Fate, that has destroy'd
Thy Brother Marcus, whom we both lament—
Marc.
And ever shall lament, unhappy Youth!
Luc.
Has set my Soul at large, and now I stand
Loose of my Vow. But who knows Cato's Thoughts?
Who know's how yet he may dispose of Portius,
Or how he has determin'd of thy self?
Marc.
Let him but live! commit the rest to Heav'n.
Enter Lucius.
Luc.
Sweet are the Slumbers of the virtuous Man!
O Marcia, I have seen thy Godlike Father:
Some Pow'r invisible support's his Soul,
And bear's it up in all its wonted Greatness.
A kind refreshing Sleep is fall'n upon him:
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In pleasing Dreams; as I drew near his Couch,
He smiled, and cry'd, Cæsar thou can'st not hurt me.
Marc.
His Mind still labour's with some dreadful Thought.
Luc.
Lucia, why all this Grief, these Floods of Sorrow?
Dry up thy Tears, my Child, we all are safe
While Cato lives—His Presence will protect us.
Enter Juba.
Juba.
Lucius, the Horsemen are return'd from viewing
The Number, Strength, and Posture of our Foes,
Who now encamp within a short Hour's March.
On the high Point of yon bright Western Tower
We kenn them from afar, the setting Sun
Plays on their shining Arms and burnish'd Helmets,
And cover's all the Field with Gleams of Fire.
Luc.
Marcia, 'tis time we shou'd awake thy Father.
Cæsar is still disposed to give us Terms,
And waits at Distance 'till he hears from Cato.
Enter Portius.
Cæsar is still disposed to give us Terms,
And waits at Distance 'till he hears from Cato.
Portius, thy Looks speak somewhat of Importance.
What Tidings dost thou bring? methinks I see
Unusual Gladness sparkling in thy Eyes.
What Tidings dost thou bring? methinks I see
Unusual Gladness sparkling in thy Eyes.
Port.
As I was hasting to the Port, where now
My Father's Friends, impatient for a Passage,
Accuse the ling'ring Winds, a Sail arrived
From Pompey's Son, who through the Realms of Spain
Call's out for Vengeance on his Father's Death,
And rouse's the whole Nation up to Arms.
Were Cato at their Head, once more might Rome
Assert her Rights, and claim her Liberty.
But heark! What mean's that Groan! O give me way,
And let me fly into my Father's Presence.
Luc.
Cato, amidst his Slumbers, think on Rome,
And in the wild Disorder of his Soul
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Heav'n guard us all—
Marc.
Alas, 'tris not the Voice
Of one who sleep's! 'tis agonizing Pain,
'Tis Death is in that Sound—
Re-enter Portius.
Port.
O Sight of Woe!
O Marcia, what we fear'd is come to pass!
Cato is fall'n upon his Sword—
Luc.
O Portius,
Hide all the Horrours of thy mournful Tale,
And let us guess the rest
Port.
I've rais'd him up,
And placed him in his Chair, where pale, and faint,
He gasp's for Breath, and, as his Life flow's from him,
Demand's to see his Friends.
And placed him in his Chair, where pale, and faint,
He gasp's for Breath, and, as his Life flow's from him,
Demand's to see his Friends.
His weeping Servants,
Obsequious to his Orders, bear him hither.
Obsequious to his Orders, bear him hither.
[The Back Scene opens, and discovers Cato.
Marc.
O Heav'n assist me in this dreadful Hour
To pay the last sad Duties to my Father.
Juba.
These are thy Triumphs, thy Exploits, O Cæsar!
Luc.
Now is Rome fall'n indeed!—
[Cato brought forward in his Chair.
Cato.
Here set me down—
Portius come near me—are my Friends embark'd?
Can any thing be thought of for their Service?
Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain.
—O Lucius, art thou here?—Thou art too good!—
Let this our Friendship live between our Children;
Make Portius happy in thy Daughter Lucia.
Alas poor Man, he weeps!—Marcia, my Daughter—
—O bend me forward!—Juba loves thee, Marcia.
A Senator of Rome, while Rome survived,
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But Cæsar's Arms have thrown down all Distinction;
Whoe'er is Brave and Virtuous, is a Roman—
—I'm sick to Death—O when shall I get loose
From this vain World, th'Abode of Guilt and Sorrow!—
—And yet methinks a Beam of Light breaks in
On my departing Soul. Alas, I fear
I've been too hasty. O ye Pow'rs, that search
The Heart of Man, and weigh his inmost Thoughts,
If I have done amiss, impute it not!—
The best may Erre, but you are Good, and—oh!
[Dies.
Luc.
There fled the greatest Soul that ever warm'd
A Roman Breast. O Cato! O my Friend!
Thy Will shall be religiously observ'd.
But let us bear this awful Corps to Cæsar,
And lay it in his Sight, that it may stand
A Fence betwixt us and the Victor's Wrath;
Cato, tho' dead, shall still protect his Friends.
A Roman Breast. O Cato! O my Friend!
Thy Will shall be religiously observ'd.
But let us bear this awful Corps to Cæsar,
And lay it in his Sight, that it may stand
A Fence betwixt us and the Victor's Wrath;
Cato, tho' dead, shall still protect his Friends.
From hence, let fierce contending Nations know
What dire Effects from Civil Discord flow.
'Tis this that shakes our Country with Alarms,
And gives up Rome a Prey to Roman Arms,
Produces Fraud, and Cruelty, and Strife,
And robb's the Guilty World of Cato's Life.
What dire Effects from Civil Discord flow.
'Tis this that shakes our Country with Alarms,
And gives up Rome a Prey to Roman Arms,
Produces Fraud, and Cruelty, and Strife,
And robb's the Guilty World of Cato's Life.
[Exeunt Omnes.
End of the Fifth Act.
| Cato | |