 | The Death of Caesar |  |
SCENE II.
BRUTUSalone.
What baseness, Heaven! What ignominy! See,
My wretched country, your protectors! See
What successors are yours, Horatius, Decius,
And thou, th'avenger of our laws, whose blood
Beats in this kindred heart, unrivall'd Brutus!
What poor remains, just gods! of the once great,
Once aweful majesty of Rome! Before
The hand which braces on our chains we crouch
Abject, and trembling. All is Cæsar's, all—
Our very virtues he hath ravish'd from us,
And in the midst of Roman citizens
I seek for Rome in vain.—You, whom these eyes
Have seen expire, whose fortitude still lives,
And shall to the end of time! You truly great!
Whose statues I approach, while down my cheek
Rolls the warm tear of sympathy and love!
Pompey's illustrious, and untainted race!
Thou, divine Cato! Thou, the last whose veins
Th'heroic blood of Scipio fill'd! from you
On me descending, spring again to life
The sparks of those bright virtues which so strong
Enkindled your immortal souls, you still
Survive in Brutus; you, within my bosom
Have stored up all that honour, which the tyrant
Hath from the Roman name unseemly torn.
My wretched country, your protectors! See
What successors are yours, Horatius, Decius,
And thou, th'avenger of our laws, whose blood
Beats in this kindred heart, unrivall'd Brutus!
What poor remains, just gods! of the once great,
Once aweful majesty of Rome! Before
The hand which braces on our chains we crouch
Abject, and trembling. All is Cæsar's, all—
Our very virtues he hath ravish'd from us,
And in the midst of Roman citizens
I seek for Rome in vain.—You, whom these eyes
Have seen expire, whose fortitude still lives,
And shall to the end of time! You truly great!
Whose statues I approach, while down my cheek
Rolls the warm tear of sympathy and love!
Pompey's illustrious, and untainted race!
Thou, divine Cato! Thou, the last whose veins
Th'heroic blood of Scipio fill'd! from you
On me descending, spring again to life
The sparks of those bright virtues which so strong
Enkindled your immortal souls, you still
Survive in Brutus; you, within my bosom
Have stored up all that honour, which the tyrant
Hath from the Roman name unseemly torn.
339
What do I view? What paper, at the foot
Of Pompey's statue placed? My name it bears,
What is its import?—“Dost thou sleep then Brutus,
“And Rome in fetters?”—No, I do not sleep,—
My eyes are always open, Rome, for thee.
Cast not on me the vile reproach of bonds
Which I detest. Another scroll?—“No longer
“Boast thou the name, thou art not Brutus.”—Gods?
How keen the taunt! deep, deep it pierces here.
Now, Cæsar! tyrant! tremble! it is fix'd.
Thy mortal wound behold!—“Thou art not Brutus!”
I am, by earth and Heaven above, I am,
I will be Brutus. I devote myself
To death, my countrymen, to glorious death,
Or you shall live free as the air you breathe,
Unshackled by a master.—I perceive
With joy, that Rome still fosters virtuous hearts.
She calls aloud for vengeance, upon me
She turns her eyes, she stimulates my soul,
And nerves with double strength this tardy hand;
She calls for blood,—her voice determines,—Rome,
Thou shalt be satisfied.
Of Pompey's statue placed? My name it bears,
What is its import?—“Dost thou sleep then Brutus,
“And Rome in fetters?”—No, I do not sleep,—
My eyes are always open, Rome, for thee.
Cast not on me the vile reproach of bonds
Which I detest. Another scroll?—“No longer
“Boast thou the name, thou art not Brutus.”—Gods?
How keen the taunt! deep, deep it pierces here.
Now, Cæsar! tyrant! tremble! it is fix'd.
Thy mortal wound behold!—“Thou art not Brutus!”
I am, by earth and Heaven above, I am,
I will be Brutus. I devote myself
To death, my countrymen, to glorious death,
Or you shall live free as the air you breathe,
Unshackled by a master.—I perceive
With joy, that Rome still fosters virtuous hearts.
She calls aloud for vengeance, upon me
She turns her eyes, she stimulates my soul,
And nerves with double strength this tardy hand;
She calls for blood,—her voice determines,—Rome,
Thou shalt be satisfied.
| The Death of Caesar | |