Regulus :: :: University of Virginia Library

Regulus, Metellus, &c.
Regulus.
O great Metellus! welcome to my Arms!
Thou Scourge of Africk, and thou Pride of Rome:
I thank thee for my Country, for myself,
Her's, and my great Avenger—O methinks!
I see thee fighting in Sicilian Fields,
With Valour and Discretion on each Side;
I see the routed Carthaginians fly—
I see them plunge into the foaming Deep—
(A milder Fate than to encounter thee)
While Fear-wing'd Asdrubal forsakes the Field,
And hardly reaches Lylibæum's Walls:
I swear the bare Imagination fires me;
Ev'n Age, long frozen, feels this second Youth,
And melts before its artificial Heat.

Metellus.
Whatever Benefit our Rome has reap'd
From that well-meant, that fortunate Exploit,
Is doubly grateful, as it was the Means
Of seeing Regulus again at Rome:
So much, so long I panted for thy Presence;—

Believe me, in the Heat of martial Ardor,
(Had not the Senate's Orders check'd my Purpose)
I had embark'd my Legions—march'd them on,
And paid my Greeting in the Streets of Carthage.

Regulus.
I thank thy generous Love:—A fitter Juncture,
I hope will find thee thund'ring at her Gates:
Mean time, I can but wish thee to proceed;
Do to thy Country yet more Acts of Service,
Greater thou can'st not.

Metellus.
You o'er-rate me much,
Unmindful of your own heroick Deeds,
My great Examples:—Thou hast sure forgot—
Recall thy naval Victory to mind,
When Hanno fought, and when Hamilcar fled;
Heraclea, scarce recover'd from the Fright,
Still stands a Witness of the God-like Action:—
Then change the Scene to Africk, and remember
With what Rapidity you march'd along
From Place to Place:—Fame flew before your Arms,
And only sounded Regulus—to conquer:
An hundred Cities own'd the Roman Sway—
Ev'n Carthage—

Regulus.

Stop thee there, Metellus:
O spare my Shame, the deep Reproach of Regulus:—
And yet repeat it—Every Son of Rome,
Shou'd bear the Memory of that about him,
As the best Caution against headlong Rashness:

What Glory might I not have gain'd my Country?—
What did I lose her in one shameful Day?

Metellus.
You pass too hard a Censure on yourself:
The Gods determine Victory—not we:

Our Rome, unlike to Carthage, better knows
Th'Uncertainty of Fortune, than to think,
That we should share the Counsel of that Pow'r
Who fastens the Event to every Cause:
Short-sighted Man, scarce farther sees before him,
Than the blind Mole, Tenant of Earth's dark Womb,
Who scorns the Beam of Light—he can't enjoy.

Regulus.
And yet this Man, short-sighted as he is,
Will, in Presumption's Prospect, plume his Hopes,
(Unconscious of the Weakness of his Being)
And wing his daring Flight at heav'nly Knowledge;
Will arrogate Perfection to himself,
And strip the Shrines of Worship to adorn him.

Metellus.
This Subject better will employ our Leisure;
The present Moments are of more Importance:
As I was posting hitherward to Rome,
I heard of thy Arrival, and resolve
Again to leave us to return to Carthage:
But wherefore wilt thou go?—Thy Country holds thee;
Do not with Force irreverent break away!—
Thy Country calls thee—O regard her Voice!—
Look on thy common Parent, whose white Age
Demands thy filial Care to help her Weakness—
Support her—save her from th'impending Ruin.

Regulus.

Alas, Metellus!—'tis thy Friendship's Warmth,
And not thy Reason that wou'd keep me here:
Look on me shatter'd—can I help my Country?—
Sinking myself—am I a Prop for her?—
Wou'd not the trusted Weight, in crushing me,
Precipitate her Fall?—Thou art Metellus,
Her great Restorer;—thy reviving Hand,
Infusing the rich Cordial, lifts her up,

And makes her stand alone with youthful Vigour.

Go on, Metellus! lead her to the Field,
Warm her with Action—place her on some Mountain,
From whose fair Brow, she may behold her Sons
Struggling for Conquest—Let her see thee there,
Her youngest, her best lov'd;—ev'n in the Heat,
The Madness of the Fight—yet cool as Counsel
With all the Warmth of Glory at thy Heart.—
One Legion, hardly press'd, regains Advantage
By Succours timely sent by thee—Another,
Upon the Point of flying, wheels about,
And rallies at the Generals not the Trumpet's Voice;
Then quick thine Eye pierces far distant, and beholds
Where other Dangers call—nor call they long:
See, reinforc'd they press upon the Foe,
And in their Turn, compel 'em into Flight:
All their Necessities, like those of Nature,
Are scarcely felt before reliev'd;—and though thy Person
At the same time can only fill one Space—
Thy Care—like that of Heav'n—is universal.

Let her see this, and bless thy happy Birth.

Metellus.

No more, my Friend; thou speak'st against thyself;
Thou, who can'st plan so fair a Draught of Glory;
So many speaking Images of Fame—
Can'st yet perform thy Part:—Nor is thy Arm,
Thy Execution, what we chiefly want;
(Tho' great Camillus shew'd what Age cou'd do,
Ev'n in Confusion, and in flying Rout.)

By nobler Services Success is woo'd
By cool Deliberations, well-weigh'd Thoughts,
Prevented Accidents, foreseen Advantage,
Judgment correct, that only waits upon
Gray-hair'd Experience, and slow-teaching Time:—
Possess'd of these, Rome still demands thy Care,

Still wants her Regulus—still claims his Counsel.

Regulus.

It cannot be—Persuasion has no Breath
To alter my Resolves;—urge it no more:
Death might as soon be mov'd to give again
The Child to Life whom the fond Parent weeps for:
Therefore no more—let us address the Gods,
With Roman Piety, and Roman Firmness;
Be it our Wish to make ten thousand happy—
One is too poor a Care for noble Minds.

Go on, Metellus—leave me to my Fate—
Conquer for Rome—thou'rt follow'd to the Field
By shouting Millions, born the Sons of Conquest;
Sprung from those god-like Men, whom ev'n when dead
The mighty Pyrrhus' self beheld with Fear:
He saw their Wounds all honest—all before;
The Hand in Death, still clutch'd the faithful Sword,
And in the Face, Pain stagnated to Terror.

Metellus.
But why this strict Adherence to thy Honour
With Carthage, noted for her Breach of Faith
In private Friendships, and in publick Leagues,
The Proverb's Mark and Brand of Perfidy?
Is it a Merit to destroy ourselves,
And compliment our Foes with Foreign Virtues?
(Virtues they never heard of—or ne'er practis'd)
War is allow'd Deceit, its honest Guile,
And meritorious Falshood—shall an Oath
An Oath extorted—

Regulus.
No 'twas not extorted:
It was a Compact betwixt me and Carthage:
And mention not her Perfidy, Metellus,
With the most savage Foes maintain your Faith.

Metellus.
Still more I wonder

Regulus.
Wherefore, good Metellus?
Shall I do more than Rome has seen before?
When I look backwards, what Examples rise!
Did not Posthumius, not an Age ago,
To break the Candine Treaty, dedicate
Himself and Colleague to the Samnite Foe,
When Roman Glory panted for Revenge?
Shall Rome degenerate?—and have our Fathers,
Done Deeds beyond the Spirit of their Sons!
O 'tis a People's deepest Infamy,
Poorly to boast the Virtues of their Sires;
As if their Worth descended with their Lands,
And Fame and Glory were Inheritance.

Metellius.
Alas! I pity thee;

Regulus.
And wherefore pity me?
The Man who rises above Pain and Death,
Laughs at the soft Reproach of Pity's Tear.
Ha! Decius—why this Haste?—what are thy Tydings?—