University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The Procession of the Conspirators to Death. Night. The Forum, by Torchlight, lined with Troops. A Range of Scaffolds in the distance, with Executioners; the Multitude crowding round them; distant Trumpets sounding from time to time; the Way from the Palatine, by the Via Sacra, illuminated; People in the Balconies and on the Roofs; a rush of the Citizens to the front of the Stage; distant Shouts.
FIRST MAN.
Those shouts are for the Consul. Clear the way!

SECOND MAN.
This is a perilous crowd;—all Rome's abroad.

THIRD MAN.
Long health to Cicero!—But for him, our necks
Would have been headless now.

FOURTH MAN.
The rebels' swords
Would have made sport among the citizens.
[A burst of trumpets.
Hark!

FIRST MAN.
They're nigh at last.

SECOND MAN.
They left the Palatine
An hour ago, and scarce could make their way
Through thousands strewing garments on the ground,
And kneeling to kiss Cicero's hand. The air
Is thick with chaplets showering from the roofs
And tapestried casements, where our noblest dames
Send their prayers after him.

THIRD MAN.
Stand back. He comes!

[The Crowd divide; the Procession advances, headed by Trumpets, blowing a funeral March; then follow Troops, Priests, Lictors; Cicero, with a drawn Sword, leading

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Lentulus, in Chains; Senators, in their robes, leading each a Prisoner. As they pass, the dialogue continues.
FIRST MAN.
That's Lentulus, the Cornelian!—Cinna's blood.
A kingly epicure!—See his tangled hair
And flushing cheek, as if the last night's drink
Still fever'd him.

SECOND MAN.
How stately Cicero looks!

THIRD MAN.
If ever man look'd like a god, 't is he!

FOURTH MAN.
If ever man felt like a god, 't is he!

FIRST MAN.
See old Autronius: he was Consul once,—
A jester even in bonds.

SECOND MAN.
Who's he that stoops?—
Pale as a beaten slave.

THIRD MAN.
That's Marcus Cassius;
Last year he canvass'd against Cicero.

FOURTH MAN.
Those two are Sylla's nephews.

FIRST MAN.
How the first
Glares like a tiger chain'd! He would have worn
His uncle's thirstiest sword.—His brother's eye
Is lofty, and he treads the ground like one,
Who would have had his nobler part, and been
Rome's hero.

[The Procession continues to the Foot of the Scaffolds; the Conspirators ascend: the Trumpets give the Signal for Death. The People shout—“Hail, Cicero.—Father of his Country!” The Scene closes.