University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Palace of the Consuls.
TITUS, MESSALA.
MESSALA.
No; friendship sensible to every touch,
Here feels th'inflicted wound. He who conceals
Half of his secrets, telling me too much,
Or not enough, both injures, and suspects me.

TITUS.
No more: my heart relies upon thy faith,
Unboundedly relies. Reproach me not.

MESSALA.
Hah! Thou, whose wrongs deep-piercing and severe
Urged thee so late with me t'inveigh against
The rigid Senate; trusting to my breast
Rome's most important secret, the complaints
Superior excellence pours forth, the tears
Indignant heroes shed; say, how so long
Couldst thou, within thy labouring bosom, hide
A grief more tenderly affecting? Pangs,
To whose nice touch the heart is all alive?
And e'en from me lock up th'imprison'd flame?
Say, could ambition, which imperious rules
O'er every thought, extinguish in thy mind
The soft, the dear sensations? Or the pain
The Senate caused, was that more exquisite?
And thy resentment stronger than the love
Thou bear'st to Tullia?

TITUS.
Oh! I love with transport,
And hate with fury; to their wild extremes
My passions always hurry me, I own it.
And conscious of the failings of my heart,
I struggle to subdue them.

MESSALA.
But why thus
Exasperate the wound, and give it force
By anguish self-applied? Conceal thy love,
And yet disclose thy injuries?

TITUS.
What mean
These questions, my Messala? Tho' I look'd
With indignation on this jealous Senate,
For them with lavish waste I spilt my blood.
Thou know'st it, and thy ardent bosom shared
With me the victory. Pleasing was the theme,
By my renown inspired; my heart elate,
Glowing with bright success, and trophies won,
Found a superior lustre in the thought
Of fighting for th'ungrateful. Ills o'ercome
We readily impart, but who can bear
Oppress'd and vanquish'd, to recount his shame?

MESSALA.
What is thy shame? Whence springs this mighty cause
For deep contrition, and repentant gloom?
What feelings of thy soul demand a blush?

TITUS.
I blush at my own weakness; at this rash,
This fond, this foolish passion, which rebels
Against my duty.

MESSALA.
Are ambition then,
And love with all its train of warm desires,
Passions unworthy of a noble mind?

TITUS.
Ambition, love, resentment, all conspire
To rack my soul; these senators, these kings,
Scoff at my youth, and with disdain refuse
The rank for which my valour sues in vain,
And purchased by my blood. Then while my heart
Is with this insult torn, that I may lose
All I hold dear, they snatch my Tullia from me.
From me! O fond delusion of the mind!
What right hast thou, or what pretence to mark
With jealous tongue the blessing as thy own?
Ah! I perceive the fire so long conceal'd,
Bursting from it's restraint, more fiercely burns,
And will not be extinguish'd. Yes, Messala,
I had sustain'd the conflict, she had left me,
Methought my heart already had subdued
This fatal passion, I beheld again
My native freedom, and rejoiced to find
That bondage was no more. Just Heaven! are these
Thy limits fix'd? Must resolution stop
E'en here, and pass no further? Hah! must I,
The son of Brutus, the sworn foe of kings,
Stoop ignominious to the Tarquin race?
Th'ungrateful fair rejects too with disdain
My offer'd love. On all sides scorn'd, my shame
Glares equally conspicuous. Rage, revenge,
Confusion, and desire, by turns possess
My soul, and rouse tumultuous faction there.

MESSALA.
Say, may I interrupt thee, and disclose
My thoughts with confidence?

TITUS.
To thy advice
I always listen'd with attentive awe,
For Prudence is thy guide; speak, let the sense
Of all its follies strike my conscious heart,
And all its devious frenzy.

MESSALA.
I approve
Thy love and thy resentment. Is it meet
That Titus should impart authority
To the tyrannic senate, whose proud souls
Would bend us to the earth? If thou must blush,
Blush at thy patience only, not thy love.
Is this the recompence of matchless valour
And warm affection? Without rank or power
A common citizen! A hopeless lover!
Thus to behold thee drooping and forlorn!
A victim of the state! By Tullia slighted!
Insulted by the senate! Oh! Were thine
Such sentiments, as haply I could give!
How speedily might'st thou possess the one!
And on the other satisfy revenge!

TITUS.
Lost as I am, why thus with flattering voice
Awake vain hope? What efforts can I try
To soothe her scorn of mind? Or overcome
Its settled principles?—No more—no more.
Observe what fatal barriers rise between us;
Our fathers, and our duty. Then reflect
That her disdain is equal to my love.
And must she go?

MESSALA.
She must, this day.

TITUS.
Indeed!
But I will not complain; for heaven is just
To her exalted merit; she was form'd
To grace a throne.

MESSALA.
The will of heaven perhaps
Had for her head propitiously decreed
A fairer crown, and had not this proud senate,
Had not these wars, nay had not Titus' self—
Forgive me; but thou know'st th'inheritance
Which is her due. Her brother being dead,
The throne of Rome became her legal right.
What have I said?—Yet if to serve my friend,
If to ensure his happiness, my life
Were needful; if my blood—

TITUS.
No—my resolves
Are fix'd; to duty's all-commanding voice
Lowly I bend. The man who hath determined
To gain his freedom, is that moment free.
I own this dangerous poison for a time
Forced reason from her native seat. But still
A warrior's heart can combat and o'ercome
Each soft insidious charm. Love, tyrant love
On our own weakness rears his boasted power.

MESSALA.
Lo! Where the Heuxrian envoy comes! to thee
This honour paid—

TITUS.
O fatal honour! say,
Wherefore? And what with me? He bears from hence
My much-loved Tullia; he makes sure my doom;
Compleats the sad misfortunes of my life,
And casts th'accumulated load upon me.

SCENE II.

TITUS, ARUNS.
ARUNS.
Having essay'd the senate, and in vain
Strove to preserve this hapless state; permit me
Off'ring to virtue and transcendent worth
Due homage, unforbidden to admire
That generous courage, that protecting arm
Which shielded Rome, and stopt its headlong fall
When to the steep abrupt of danger lead
By its blind rulers. Of a nobler prize
Ah! how deserving! Of a different foe!
And cause more just! How would that dauntless valour
Have shone in other fields? At its return
How crown'd with more becoming wreaths! My tongue
Shall tell, and tell thee boldly, that I mean
The juster cause of kings, who would intrust
Their empire to thy hands, nor dread the virtue
Which they admire; which I have seen excite
Rome's fervid transports, while the senate shook
With anxious jealousy. It grieves my soul
That thou should'st bend beneath these savage masters,
Whom merit but provokes, on whom good deeds
Are cast away; who, born to serve, esteem it
Among their sordid honours to stretch forth
The hand of power on their deliverer.
If they had not usurp'd the regal sway,
From thee they ought those orders to receive
Which now they give.

TITUS.
For this attentive care,
These generous thoughts t'ward me, accept my thanks;
Their aim too may be guess'd. They need no comment.
The lure of subtle policy to arm
My discontent against the public state,
Flattery's sweet bait to call my passion forth,
And urge it on to rash pernicious deeds,
Offspring of thoughtless rage. This waste of art
Will ne'er intrap sincerity; it glares
Too visibly apparent. All my soul
Is undisguised, nor owns a sentiment
It wishes to conceal. The partial senate
Hath injured me, that injury demands
My hatred, and that hatred I confess;
Yet is my ready arm obedient still;
When prompted by the common cause we seek
The crimson field, Rome in her daring sons
Extinguishes at once each latent spark
Of private animosity; we move
Victors of every passion, link'd in bonds
Of firmest union, not a foe is ours,
But tyrants, Aruns, and the friends of tyrants.
See what I am, and what I will be. Sway'd
Whether by pride of heart, or conscious virtue,
Or haply, as thou deem'st, by prejudice,
Yet born a Roman, I for Rome will die.
This rigorous senate, tho' to me unjust,
Full of suspicious jealousy and fear,
I love beyond the splendour of a court,
And the proud sceptre of a single lord.
I am the son of Brutus, and my heart
Deep-graven bears the love of liberty,
And hate of kings.

ARUNS.

TITUS.
I have seen his court,
And seen it with contempt. I might have cringed,
Have humbly begg'd, and gain'd no doubt his favour,
Been his first slave, and tyrannised beneath him.
But, thanks to heaven, such weakness, manhood's stain,
Resides not here. My soul aspires to greatness,
But not by sordid steps. I feel within
An energy which tells me I was ne'er
Destined to base subjection. Be it mine,
Opposed in glorious war, to meet these kings,
Go thou and serve.

ARUNS.
I cannot but approve
This bright excess of constancy. Yet think,
Reflect a moment on thy tender age,
On Tarquin's love, how interested then
In all thy welfare. Often he recalls
Those pleasing scenes, and when he mourn'd with me,
But yesterday, his son's untimely death,
His own misfortunes, Titus (he exclaim'd)
Would have sustain'd my sinking family.
He only would with justice have deserved
My kingdom, and my daughter.

TITUS.
Hah! His Daughter!
Ye Gods! My Tullia! Oh disastrous love!

ARUNS.
I bear her hence to Tarquin; to the king
Thou hast rejected, soon to be removed
Far from her country, far from thee, to bless
Ligurian's monarch, and partake his throne.
Meanwhile be this thy residence, here serve
Thy favourite senate, persecute her father,
And desolate her realm. But oh! May soon
Avenging fires these arched roofs destroy!
Level yon capitol in ashes! Sink
These stately towers! May their commingled flames
The senate's and the people's tombs illumine!
Triumphal torches to our happy nuptials!

SCENE III.

TITUS,
MESSALA.
What stings, Messala, hath he left behind!
What scorpion stings? Would Tarquin then to me
Have given her! Oh! Heart-rending thought! To me!
And might I!—No—insidious minister
It was thy purpose with malignant search
To pierce the foldings of my soul, and find
The secret passion there! Alas! Unveil'd
And obvious, what observer's transient glance
Would it elude! E'en in my eyes he read
The warm desires which prey upon my frame.
Conscious of all my weakness, he returns,
My idle hopes, and rash successless love
The theme of his derision, and the jest
Of Tarquin's court.—And might I then have gain'd
This matchless blessing! All my future days
To her devoted! All my being hers!
Had heaven decreed that Tullia should be mine!
Oh! Multiplied distress!

MESSALA.
Thou may'st be happy,
Aruns thy virtuous passion will approve,
Nay give his aid; believe me.

TITUS.
Banish far
The vain delusion. Rome with loud acclaim
Invites me to the capitol; the people
Seek the triumphal arches rais'd on high,
Thick with my glory crown'd, and full adorn'd
With all my labours, underneath their shade
Convened, they wait my presence to begin
The sacred rites, the strict coercive oath,
Inviolable surety of our freedom.

MESSALA.
Go, serve these lordly masters.

TITUS.
I will serve them;
It is the sacred mandate of my duty,
And that shall be obey'd.

MESSALA.
Whence then that sigh?

TITUS.
'Tis a hard victory.

MESSALA.
And too dearly purchased.

TITUS.
Therefore more glorious.—Oh! Forsake me not
In this extremity!
[Exit Titus.

MESSALA.
With speed pursue!
Cleave to his steps! Imbitter every pang!
And tear the wound which festers in his heart

SCENE IV.

BRUTUS, MESSALA.
BRUTUS.
Messala, stay I shall not long detain thee.
A few brief words.

MESSALA.
With me?

BRUTUS.
With thee Messala!
A secret-working venom o'er my house
Hath spread its baleful influence. Tiberinus
Incensed against his brother, hath withdrawn
The veil, and all his jealous rage bursts forth.
While Titus' frenzy takes a different course,
Against the senate his audacious heart
Swells with resentment. Thus disposed, their weakness
Could not escape this Tuscan minister;
No doubt he hath observed it, and with pleasure;
Hoping by dextrous management to gain
Some profit to his cause. Thus circumstanced,
He hath address'd them both, and I suspect
A statesman's soft insinuating tongue,
Old in dissimulation, and each art
Of a corrupted court. Tho' limited
To-morrow to return, yet oft a day
Is more than should be granted to a traitor.
Think not, Messala, that I therefore fear
Aught he can do; but e'er th'approach of night,
Go thou, and tell him to depart from hence.
It is my will.

MESSALA.
Prudence no doubt requires
This step, and readily I bear your orders.

BRUTUS.
A moment longer.—In the strictest ties
Friendship hath knit my son with thee. I know
The strong prevailing power of amity
Over his heart. Without deceit himself,
He never harbour'd a mistrustful thought.
His unsuspicious youth is yielded up
To thy experience; and the more his soul
Confides in thee, the more I may expect
Form'd as thou art, with aptest talents blest,
Safe to direct his steps, not lead aside;
Thou never wilt his greener years betray,
Or take a mean advantage of his errors,
To nurse ambitious hopes, and taint his mind.

MESSALA.
That was e'en now the subject of our converse.
Thee he would wish to imitate, to serve
And gain the esteem of Rome; he blindly loves
His father, and his country.

BRUTUS.
So he ought.
But above all, the laws. Their willing slave;
Rejoiced to bear each burthen they impose.
He who would aim to violate the laws,
Can never love his country.

MESSALA.
What his arm
Hath done to serve that country we have seen
And both can witness it.

BRUTUS.
He did his duty.

MESSALA.
Rome had done hers, if haply she had graced
The citizen who claims her warmest thanks
With higher honours.

BRUTUS.
No; the consulate,
The state's first office, is a dignity
Above his age, and I refused my voice
E'en to my son. Believe me the success
Of his ambition, would have paved a way
For vile corruption; virtue's just rewards
Would have been deem'd hereditary titles;
And oft we should have seen the worthless son
Of a renowned father, sure to fill
A station which his merit ne'er could gain,
Sit careless down in luxury and sloth
Waiting his future greatness. Can we find
A more conspicuous, a more striking proof,
Than our last Tarquin gave? How rarely those
Deserve th'imperial robe, who first behold
The light inwrapp'd in purple! Oh! From Rome
This fatal partiality remove,
Kind heaven! The cradle of voluptuous softness,
The grave of virtue!—If thou lovest my son
(As I with joy persuade myself) display
Before his eyes in all its genuine charms
His real glory; stifle in his soul
Th'extravagance of pride; to serve the state,
That is his best reward. A son of mine
Is in a more peculiar manner bound
To set a bright example to the world
Of every mental excellence. The shield,
The guardian of his country, such the light
In which I view him, and the more his deeds
Deserve that character, the higher still
I rise in my demands. My thoughts thus known,
And what I wish he should be, judge, Messala,
Of the true love I bear him. Temper thou
Th'impetuous ardour of his youthful mind.
Who flatters him, supplies his mortal bane,
And injures Rome.

MESSALA.
The conduct I observe
Is limited, to follow in the field
Where Titus leads, to imitate his valour,
But not instruct him; little is my power
Over his mind! tho' would he lend an ear
To my advice, Rome soon should be convinced
That all his thoughts are fix'd upon her glory.

BRUTUS.
Go then, but scatter not upon his errors
The incense of applause; for know tho' great
My hate t'ward tyrants, I hate flatterers more.

SCENE V.

MESSALA.
[Alone.
A more detestable, relentless tyrant
No where exists, than the severity
Of thy harsh-moulded soul. But e'er long
I may behold groveling beneath my feet
The over-bearing pride of thy false virtue.
Yes, thou Colossus, raised to such an height
By the vile people; that huge bulk perchance
These hands may crush; the thunder is prepared.