 | The tragedy of Sophonisba |  |
SCENE VIII.
Sophonisba, Phoenissa.Sophonisba.
My friend!
In tears, my friend! Dishonour not my death
With womanish complaints. Weep not for me,
Weep for thy self, Phœnissa, for thy country,
But not for me. There is a certain hour,
Which one would wish all undisturb'd and bright,
No care, no sorrow, no dejected passions,
And that is when we die; when hence we go,
Ne'er to be seen again; then let us spread
A bold exalted wing, and the last voice
We hear be that of wonder and applause.
Phoenissa.
Who with the patriot wishes not to die!
Sophonisba.
And is the sacred moment then so near?
The moment, when yon sun, those heavens, this earth
Hateful to me, polluted by the Romans,
And all the busy flavish race of men,
Shall sink at once; and strait another state,
New scenes, new joys, new faculties, new wonders,
Rise on a sudden round: but this the gods
In clouds and horror wrap, or none would live!
How liberal is death!—Methinks, I seem
To touch the happy shore.—Behind me frowns
A stormy sea, with tossing mortals thick;
While, unconfin'd and green, before me lies
The land of bliss, and everlasting freedom:
Where walk the mighty dead; all of one mind,
One blooming smile, one language, and one country.
Oh to be there!—my breast begins to burn;
My tainted heart grows sick.—Ah me! Phœnissa,
How many virgins, infants, tender wretches,
Must feel these pangs, ere Carthage is no more!
The moment, when yon sun, those heavens, this earth
72
And all the busy flavish race of men,
Shall sink at once; and strait another state,
New scenes, new joys, new faculties, new wonders,
Rise on a sudden round: but this the gods
In clouds and horror wrap, or none would live!
How liberal is death!—Methinks, I seem
To touch the happy shore.—Behind me frowns
A stormy sea, with tossing mortals thick;
While, unconfin'd and green, before me lies
The land of bliss, and everlasting freedom:
Where walk the mighty dead; all of one mind,
One blooming smile, one language, and one country.
Oh to be there!—my breast begins to burn;
My tainted heart grows sick.—Ah me! Phœnissa,
How many virgins, infants, tender wretches,
Must feel these pangs, ere Carthage is no more!
Soft—lead me to my couch—My shivering Limbs,
Do this last office, and then rest for ever.
I pray thee weep not, pierce me not with groans.
Do this last office, and then rest for ever.
I pray thee weep not, pierce me not with groans.
The king too here.—Nay then my death is full!
| The tragedy of Sophonisba | |