University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

An inner Apartment.
CICERO
, is discouered alone.
And what is Rome? There's breathing space enough
Without the walls of Rome; then Rome farewell:
I've said it; and my heart performs its office
As steadily as ever: But, O Nature,
With what voice shall I say, Farewell, Terentia,
Tullia, farewell? how heavily that sounds!
There, there's the pang: And yet there lies beyond it,
Something too horrible for thought—to page
Ambitious Cæsar's heels, to lick the dust
Of Pompey's hall, and cringe for sordid life.
O death to Honour! Come thou, Clodius, rather,
And rip this breast: Yet on these slavish terms
Live all in Rome; be exile then my choice!
Enter ATTICUS.
Hah! by my soul's best hopes, my Atticus!
Blest be the guiding hand of Heav'n that brought thee,
From peaceful climes, and philosophic scenes,
Safe thro' a boist'rous and discordant world
To this storm-beaten hut.

ATTICUS.
Still are you here?
Up, up, my friend, and disappoint these traitors:
Break from the toils just ready to enclose you,
And follow Virtue in her flight from Rome.

CICERO.
What, art thou come to chide me, my Pomponius?
But do it freely; it becomes thy friendship.

ATTICUS.
I cannot flatter; I am wean'd from Rome,
And Roman arts; I think that Cæsar's oaths
Are empty words; and would not build my faith
On Pompey's promises, which drop as fast
From his oil'd lips, as flakes of snow from clouds;
And, oh! the sorrow, melt away as soon.

CICERO.
Both are ambitious, faithless both, and cruel;
Yet Cæsar's bold oppression irks me less,
Than Pompey's pliant falshood. 'Twas this morn
I sought him on mount Alba, (do I live
To own it?) waited like a needy client
In his proud hall, whilst he escap'd unseen
Like a detected criminal, and left me
To think on faith, and ponder o'er my wrongs.

ATTICUS.
Where is the ancient Roman spirit fled?
What are these mighty men, but as you make 'em?
Like a blind doating mother you have nurs'd
Growing Oppression, with the milk of Freedom,
Which now ingrateful, factious and adult,
Spurns at the breast it fed on: Hapless Rome,
Like a tame jade, hath giv'n her patient back
To each aspiring rider, and now spent
And giddy with the course of their ambition,
Sinks with her weight, and bleeds at every stroke.

CICERO.
I can no more: These hands, that once already
Have giv'n their country life, now want a shield
To fence themselves from ruin. O Pomponius,
The inevitable day comes on apace,
When this tyrannic league shall burst asunder;
And yon cemented friends, like ravening dogs,
Contending for their prey, drag different ways
The mangled remnant of expiring Freedom,
And drench the world in blood.

ATTICUS.
Then make from Rome;
Seek out a shelter e're the night comes on,
And the wild uproar of the storm begins;
Call up the injur'd shade of great Metellus;
Hear him repeat his last departing words,
And let him point the road to glorious exile.

CICERO.
No more; it is resolv'd; thus, my Pomponius,
I banish Rome; behold! indignant thus
I cast behind me every tender thought
Of this degenerate country; never more
Shall these sad eyes behold th'all-glorious Sun
Rise on her guilty domes, till bath'd in tears,
Her proud head with repentant ashes strow'd,
This base unnatural Daughter lowly comes
To call her Father to his native home.

ATTICUS.
Come then, my friend, and in some distant land,
Where Freedom and the liberal Graces dwell,
We'll make ourselves a home, and call it Rome;
And fear not, Marcus, but the same bright Sun
That crowns the lofty Capitol, shall stoop
His gracious head with beams of orient gold
To kiss our humble dwelling; there together,
As Scipio and his Lælius idly pac'd
The shores of soft Laurentum, we will walk
The vacant beach, and as the thronging waves,
Like morning clients, bow their curled heads
To kiss our feet, we'll spurn the flatterers from us,
And blush to think we ever were ambitious.

CICERO.
O happy friend! thy calm and temperate mind,
With Attic wisdom fraught, can look with scorn
On base Ambition and its empty joys;
But all in vain, I struggle to get free,
The guilty world still hangs about my heart;
The pageantry of office, the loud shouts
Of the throng'd Forum, and the frequent Senate
With one voice, hailing me their Country's Father,
Still echo in my ears; bear with my weakness,
Rome yet sits heavy here.

ATTICUS.
O happier state!
To follow Nature in her simple haunts;
With early steps to climb the shaggy sides
Of some hoar cliff, and meet the dewy breath
Of Morning, issuing from the flow'ry vale:
Or soft reclining on the mossy turf,
In solemn musing rapt, or sacred song,
Careless to lie, and as the dimpling brook
Steals gently by, with motionless regard
To eye the floating mirror; while as fast
Down Meditation's smooth and silent tide,
In easy lapse your tuneful moments flow,
Clear and untroubled as the passing stream.

CICERO.
What ho! Terentia; come, thou best of women;
And thou, my dearest Tullia, come. Behold,
My daughter and my wife! now judge me, Atticus,
And tell me if these sorrows are unseemly.