University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Enter Priest.
Priest.
Too soon thy omens are accomplish'd, Jove!
O wretched parents! O devoted race!

Enter Lucius.
Lucius.
Cornelia comes, impatient of thy stay.

Priest.
How shall my tongue perform a faithful office,
And tell Cornelia what my eyes beheld?
Her sons I saw surrounded by the foe;
And their small troops seem'd like a bank of sand,
Which, by the flowing tide encompass'd round,
Each moment wastes and lessens to the view.
Their wretched father saw, and could not save them.
For full oppos'd to him the tyrant stood
With half his host embattled. Thrice Æmilius
Came to the front of his remaining troops,
As if he meant to rush upon the foe,
And thrice the consul pull'd the father back:
Then looking down and leaning on his sword,
The tears fast trickling down the warrior's cheeks,
He paus'd a while, and turn'd him to the city.

Enter Cornelia.
Cornelia.
Thou bring'st no comfort! Terror and dismay
Are written on thy brow! Haste, tell me, Flamen.

Priest.
Behold a soldier bleeding from the field.

Enter Gartha wounded.
Cornelia.
'Tis the Numidian chief!

Gartha.
Lady, these wounds,
Which bleed to death, make Gartha not asham'd
That he alone revisits Aquileia.
Involuntary messenger am I
Of tidings harsh to tell. My fiery steed,
Gall'd with an arrow, bore me from the plain,
Where still your valiant sons maintain the fight,
And with amazing actions fate suspend.
The boldest soldiers of the tyrant's host
Shrink from their rage. Lady, I speak with pain.
This to the consul, I advis'd the sally,
And fell into the ambush. I rejoice
That I shall not survive it.

Priest.
Help! he faints.

Gartha.
Oh would I had fallen at the feet of Titus!

[Enter Attendants.]
Priest.
Support, and bear him hence.

Cornelia.
O generous Gartha!
Too dearly hast thou prov'd thy constant faith.
[Exit Gartha supported.
No more I hear the shouts of distant war,
'Tis horrid silence all. The work of death
Is over; doubt and fear are at an end.
Now certain anguish and despair prevail.
Enter Æmilius attended.
My husband!

Æmilius.
Oh! Cornelia! wretched dame!
Look not to me; I bring no consolation,
I cannot comfort thee. I could not save
My children from destruction. Rigid duty
Made me spectator of their overthrow.
O fatal ensigns of unhappy power!
O had Æmilius been a poor Centurion,
He might unheeded have forsook his station,
And perish'd with his children.

Cornelia.
They are dead.
Paulus and Titus dead. Their mother lives!
Ye all directing gods, whom we adore,
Whom I with spotless hands have ever serv'd,
Is misery like this my just reward?
Your dearest gifts are to destruction turn'd.
Had I not been the fond, the happy mother
Of sons, for whom all mothers envy'd me,
I had not been above all women wretched.

Priest.
Great are thy woes, Cornelia, great indeed!
Yet not unfrequent in this changeful world
Are woes like thine; and greater still than thine.
The famous matron of thy name and blood,
The first Cornelia, saw her godlike sons
In Rome betray'd, and slain by Roman hands.
And oft in every age have wretched mothers
Surviv'd their families', their country's ruin,
And liv'd sad captives in a foreign land:
No kindred ear to hear, no eye to weep
In pity of their woes: no human face
For them to look on, but the hateful face
Of foes, who made them childless, widows, slaves.
To thee remain thy husband, and thy country,
In whose defence thy sons so greatly died.
Thee Rome shall honour, and revere in thee
The sacred memory of her heroes slain.

Æmilius.
It is the right, the birthright, of our house,
For Rome to die: in every signal strife,
In every struggling period of the state,
My sires have bled. My sons have chose their time;
Bravely they fought, and nobly were they slain.
Rome still shall stand, tho' the Æmilii fall.
The tyrant's works are levell'd with the ground,
And his proud tower yet smokes upon the plain.
Our ramparts now his fierce assaults defy;
The Roman army, like a gather'd storm,
Rolls towards him. My sons shall be reveng'd;
My eyes shall see, my sword shall share, the vengeance.

Cornelia.
Mean while, unburied on the bloody field,
Amidst the common heap, my children lie.
Majestick Paulus, and my lovely Titus,
Is this the end of all your mother's care?
Some fierce barbarian now insults the dead;
Adding dishonest wounds. O! might not gold
Their dear remains redeem? Alas! alas!
'Tis the sole consolation I can hope for,
To save them from the beasts and birds of prey,
That howl and scream around these fatal walls.
To fold once more their bodies in my arms;
To lay them decent on the funeral pile,
And o'er their ashes pour a parent's heart.

Æmilius.
Mindful of that sad duty, I sent forth
A herald to the tyrant, and expect
Each moment his return. The trumpet sounds.
(Enter Herald, with an Officer of Maximin's.)
'Tis he, and with him one whose lofty port,
And splendid arms, bespeak his high command.

Cornelia.
Forgive, O chief unknown, a mother's grief,
Which, short'ning the respect thy presence claims,
Hastes to enquire, ‘if Maximin will give
The bodies of her children to the tomb?

Officer.
Far be its dismal honours from your offspring!
Lady, your valiant sons survive the field.

Cornelia.
Are they not dead? were not the Æmilii slain
On yonder field? Their father saw them fall.

Officer.
Faint with long fighting, and encompast round,
Opprest with numbers, and born down they fell;
Not slain, nor greatly wounded. Captives now,
In their behalf, from Maximin I come.

Cornelia.
O! sire of gods and men! eternal Jove!
For ever prais'd be thy protecting arm!

Officer.
Upon their father now depends their fate;
'Tis his to grant what Maximin requires.

Cornelia.
Let his demands be boundless as the wish
Of avarice itself, they shall be granted.
Treasures there are from age to age preserv'd,
The acquisition of our frugal sires;
Well are the treasures of our house bestow'd,
If they redeem their lives who should possess them.

Officer.
It is not gold that Maximin requires.
To thee, Æmilius, I address my words:
Imperial Maximin, lord of mankind,
Charges the senate and the Roman people
With breach of vows, and unprovok'd rebellion;
But chiefly thee, who first withstood thy sovereign,
And stopt the progress of his just revenge.
The righteous gods, he saith, to thee averse,
Have made thy sons the captives of his arms;
Them he has doom'd to death, and will this day
The sentence execute, unless their father,
Before the sun shall set, give up the city.

Cornelia.
Relentless tyrant! O all-seeing gods!
How dire a prospect opens to Cornelia!

Æmilius.
I stand not now in equal lists with Maximin,
Nor mean I here to plead the cause of Rome:
'Twould but offend thine ear. Yet tell thy lord,
He knows Æmilius not, and therefore wrongs him
By this unworthy trial of his faith:
Unhappy, most unhappy, he may make me,
But he and fortune cannot make me base.

Officer.
Is this the answer I must bear to Maximin?

Æmilius.
What other answer could he hope from me?

Officer.
Think of the consequence of this defiance.

Æmilius.
I'll meet it when it comes: now I must think
Of trust repos'd in me by injur'd Rome.

Officer.
Stout are thy words. But will this pride of spirit
Sustain thee through the horrors that surround thee?
Thy lips have now pronounc'd thy children's doom,
Which executed, as it soon must be,
Will move the sternest soldier of our camp
To tender pity. Never yet were seen
So brave a pair as thy unhappy sons;
Nature on them has pour'd out all her gifts,
And drest their virtue in the fairest form.

Cornelia.
O thou, whose tongue in Roman accents speaks,
Whose gentle aspect shews a mind humane!
Take pity on the most unhappy parents,
That ever bore the name. This fatal day
Has prov'd too well the worth of these my sons,
Whom nature, tho' they less deserv'd, would love.
O! soften to the tyrant this refusal.—
I know not what to say; I have no right,
But that which signal misery confers,
To beg from thee assistance. If thou hast
At home an anxious mother, or sad spouse,
Who daily trembles for thy noble life,
Think of her state, and listen to Cornelia,
Whose tongue till now did never plead for favour.

Æmilius.
O generous stranger! our misfortunes touch
Thy manly mind.

Officer.
No stranger I: behold
A Roman, and a friend. This helmet off,
Perhaps Cornelia may remember Varus.

Cornelia.
Varus! my friend! companion of my youth!
O heavy change of times! on other terms
In Rome, delightful Rome, we wont to meet.

Varus.
Most true, Cornelia.

Cornelia.
And is Varus come
To aid the tyrant's arms against his country?
Come the fierce herald of his kinsmen's doom?

Varus.
With the same heart, the same unalter'd mind
To all that e'er he lov'd, is Varus come.

Æmilius.
Permit me, gallant Varus! still to claim
Thy friendship, tho' I stand the tyrant's foe.

Varus.
Æmilius! fortune rules the lives of men.
Had I been consul, and possess'd in Rome
Of civil dignity; perhaps, like thee,
I should have arm'd me in the senate's cause;
Whilst thou, a soldier on the distant frontier,
Perhaps, like me, hadst fought thy leader's quarrel.
The armies of the north acknowledge Maximin.
I lead the British legions to the war:
But more of this hereafter. Thou hast heard
My horrid message, and hast made such answer
As well becomes a Roman and a consul.

Æmilius.
Barbarian as he is—forgive me, Varus!
He cannot mean this threat'ning to fulfil.

Varus.
O! trust not the humanity of Maximin.
If he's not cruel, why art thou in arms?
Besides, his temper, ever fierce and savage,
Is now incens'd, enrag'd almost to madness,
By the wide wasting havock of this day.
His works are levell'd, his best legions thin'd,
His nephew Algar slain by Titus' hand.
In the first transport of his furious wrath,
He did devote to the infernal gods,
And Algar's shade, the pris'ners of the field.
An old Ligurian, captain of his guards,
Step'd in and interpos'd this crafty counsel.—
Your answer I will bear, but give it colours
That may denote the dawning of submission,
And so retard—

Enter an Officer.
Officer.
An herald from the camp
Requires the tribune forthwith to return:
Impatient Maximin stands on the plain,
Known by his purple and gigantick stature.

Cornelia.
Dreadful impatience! most inhuman rage!
By the dear sympathy of Roman blood,
Which in our veins from the same fountain flows,
Let me entreat thee, Varus, to appease
The angry tyrant. Represent Æmilius
Dispos'd to yield all that his honour can.
And if stern Maximin prefers revenge
To profer'd gold, yet try if wealth can win
His friends and favourites to be more gentle.

Varus.
He has no friends nor favourites; from fear
His soldiers serve, his officers obey.
I must be gone, for Maximin brooks not
His orders slighted. Trust my zeal, Cornelia!
Had I but equal power, your sons were free,
Consul.

Æmilius.
Let me conduct thee to the gate,
And tell thee, as we go, what yet remains
Untold of our condition.

Exeunt Æmilius and Varus.
Cornelia.
Interpreter of heaven's mysterious will,
Augur rever'd! how will the evening close
Of this distressful day? Haste to repeat
The sacred rites, and prove thy art divine.

Priest.
Such is my purpose, soon as Phœbus bows
From his meridian height. Lady, my mind
Has ponder'd Maximin's abhorr'd demand.
One only course there is to end the strife,
The dreadful strife of nature and of duty,
In great Æmilius' mind; and reconcile
The children's safety with the father's honour.

Cornelia.
'Tis that I wish for, but of that despair.

Priest.
The Roman host, by Gordianus led,
In three days hence reach Aquileia's walls;
Their near approach to Maximin unknown.
Therefore the consul, without breach of honour,
Without injustice to the Roman state,
May stipulate with Maximin, to yield
The city on the fourth returning day;
If not reliev'd. Ere that the chance of war
Raises the siege, or makes resistance vain.

Cornelia.
Wise are thy words; and now the dawn of hope
Breaks on my darksome mind. Believe me, priest,
The loss of my dear sons in battle slain,
As once I thought them, was less terrible
Than the dire apprehension of that death
To which the tyrant dooms them; worse to me,
And worse, far worse to them. Alas! my sons!
Uncertain is your fate! who can foretel
The savage motions of the tyrant's will?
And yet this counsel seems the only means
Of preservation. Minister of heaven!
Let us retire, and at the altar bow
Of Jove eternal, who thy heart inspir'd.

Exeunt.