University of Virginia Library

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Virginius.
Virginius.
At last I am arrived: and with what speed?
It seem'd as if the pity of a father,
Fear, hope, and love, had wing'd my very feet.
My fears increase as I approach my dwelling.
'Tis almost night: I hasten to embrace,
If I possess her yet, my only daughter,
The only comfort of my weary age.

SCENE THE SECOND.

Icilius, Virginius.
Ici.
Oh! ... whom do I behold? ... Virginius?
The gods of Rome have sent thee to our aid.
Methinks thy coming here so rapidly
Is an auspicious omen.

Virginius.
From the camp
I fled, Icilius! ... Do I come in time?
I scarcely dare to ask it, am I yet
A father?

Ici.
Hitherto thy daughter lives
Unhurt, and free.

Virginius.
Oh, unexpected joy!
Beloved daughter! then I breathe at last ...

Ici.
Thou hast a daughter, but in tears she lives
With her afflicted mother. They exist
Trembling, of their approaching destiny
In horrible suspense: alternately
They, in their anxious bosoms, wish and fear
The moment of thy coming.

Virginius.
Oh ye gods!
Then ye have listen'd to my fervent prayers;
Ye that have lent to my exhausted frame
An unaccustom'd strength, by means of which
I have arrived in time to save my daughter,
Or for her to expire.—

Ici.
I also will
Save, or die for her. But thou art a father;
Thou hast a weapon not on me bestow'd,
And with the people much may it prevail—
Paternal tears.

Virginius.
But say, of our affairs
What is the posture now?

Ici.
The self-same spot
Where now thou standest, was, this very morn,
The scene of this iniquitous transaction.
Here first we breathed defiance. Marcus spake,
And, with a thousand subterfuges, strove
To hide the cruel lust of Appius.
Whate'er was needful to delude the people
All was resorted to; bribed witnesses,
Claimants, and laws, and precedents, and proofs.
Already, in himself, the impious judge
Thought, without obstacle, to pass the sentence.
I dared the first to manifest the fraud,
And for Virginia claim'd her father's presence.
With what a terrible shout the people rent
Heaven's echoing concave when they heard thy name!
An unperturbed deportment he assumed;
But in his heart, and in his every vein,
Trembled the impious judge. At length he paused,
And promised to await thee. Now I fear'd,
That thy return to intercept, the wretch
Might plant an ambush'd train; and thus, at last,
That to thy daughter, to myself, and Rome,
Thou mightst be ever lost ... At last thou'rt come,
And not in vain, the gods thy safety will'd.
He hath assign'd the sixth hour of to-day
For the vile sentence: let the rising sun,
Among the multitude, a trembling father,
See thee then mix'd, soliciting with tears
Thy genuine offspring. Nor do thou elsewhere,
Save in the people's hearts, for pity seek.
The people only to the father can
Restore his daughter, to myself my wife,
To herself honour, liberty to Rome.

Virginius.
Thou know'st, Icilius, how much I love thee ...
My choice of thee to be my son proves this.
Within my unspoil'd heart there yet remain
Three objects of pre-eminent regard:
Rome, my own kindred, and thy rectitude.
I pledge myself, if need there be, to brave
With thee each peril, each high enterprise ...
But thy impetuous hardihood, thy soul
Magnanimously prodigal of life. ...

Ici.
Can virtue then be carried to excess?

Virginius.
Yes, when 'tis vain; when it betrays to ruin
Him who possesses it, and profits not
Him who doth not possess it. I hear thee,
Icilius, with a noble rage inflamed,
Thy oppress'd country, and my injured daughter,
In one confound.

Ici.
And should they be disjoin'd?
The cause is one: thou art thyself a father,
And dost not thou feel this? or Rome is Rome,
Then thou hast there a daughter; I have there
Life and a consort; or Rome is not Rome,
Then we have nothing there except a sword.

Virginius.
But too emphatically now indeed
Is Rome enslaved: I fear for her through thee;
For every present shock exacerbates
Her deep and dangerous wounds. I fear lest thou,
'Mid different measures, as the most secure,
Shouldst chuse the most tremendous. Ah, could we,
At once, my daughter rescue, nor disturb
The safety of my country ...

Ici.
Hold thy peace:
What name dar'st thou pronounce? Is there a country,
Where only one rules, and where all obey him?
Penates, children, honour, country, freedom,
Once precious names, ah, ill do ye become
The mouths of those who are, like us, enslaved,
While that one breathes that makes us all his prey.
Now slaughter, rapine, violence, and shame,
Are inconsiderable evils; worse,
A far worse evil is the palsying fear
That weighs upon the universal heart.
Scarce dare the anxious and mistrustful people
Look at each other, much less converse hold:
So deep is their suspicion and their dread,
Brother fears brother, parents fear their children;
The base are bribed, the good are overwhelm'd,
The weak neglected, and the valiant slain,
And all degraded: see what are become
Those once proud citizens of Rome, of yore
The terror, now the scorn of Italy.

Virginius.
Thy words are true, and from mine eyes they draw
Not only tears of sorrow, but of rage ...
But what, 'mid such a multitude of slaves,
Can two alone perform?

Ici.
Avenge their country,
Then die like men.

Virginius.
The recent tyranny
Is not establish'd yet: we may attempt,
But never can we consummate revenge.
What cruelties, e'en in the very camp,
Dare not the decemviri perpetrate?
But yet the choicest of our warriors,
Who there are station'd, arm'd, what do they do?
They shudder, and they act not. I desire
The lying allegations to confute,
And save my daughter from the claws of Appius.
If it be indispensable, I am
Most willing, and I ought to die: not so
For thee; if thou wert dead, who then remains
To rescue Rome, or to avenge us?

Ici.
We: ...
Living by arms, or by example dead.
More cannot be endured: we have adherents;
Though all may be enslaved, all are not slaves:
The daring of the many stands in need
Of one to dare the first; that one am I.
This is the field in which we're called to fight;
Here let us seek for honour or for death.
In following longer our oppressor's banners,
Thou wilt but purchase to thyself disgrace:
Our foes are in the heart of Rome; in Rome
Then let us combat; and although th'event
Be deem'd precarious, certain is its glory.—
Need I say more to thee?

Virginius.
No: I am always
Prepared to die; and now I only grieve
To have lived too long. I hope my passionate cries,
And my conclusive reasons, will avail
To check e'en Appius. Rome, meanwhile, shall see me
Through all the streets, displaying to the people
My bosom full of honourable scars:
And Rome I will adjure, and all her gods;
Adjure the blood which in her cause I've spill'd,
Both of my own and of her enemies.
Trembling and hoary, in a squalid garb,
To every father I will tell the tale
Of my misfortunes: finally, by me,
Each warrior shall learn the recompence
That Rome awards to those who fight her battles.—
This, this I swear to do ... But oh, to stain
My sword with civil blood, and to involve
So many innocents in my hard lot,
Involve in vain ...

Ici.
Yet, perhaps, thou wilt be forced
To do e'en this: our children, liberty,
Deserve, methinks, that we should shed the blood
Of more than of one citizen. If they
Die valiantly, they are too good for slaves;
If cowardly, they merit not to live.
But let us now press forward, to embrace
Thy desolate wife and daughter. Sure I am,
That thou, from their affliction, wilt derive
A fury great as, greater far than, mine;
And that in thee a comrade I shall find,
Whatever be the enterprize.

SCENE THE THIRD.

Numitoria, Virginia, Icilius, Virginius.
Nu.
Oh sight! ...
If I see well ... No, I am not deceived;
'Tis he, 'tis he: oh joy! Virginius!

Virginia.
Father!

Virginius.
Oh heaven! ... Daughter, ... is it thus?
Consort! ... I clasp you to my bosom? Ah!
I feel myself o'ercome ...

Virginia.
Yes, I embrace thee,
Since I am allowed to call thee father.

Nu.
Anxious for thee, and doubtful of thy coming,
A longer tarriance here was death to us;
Hence we set out, impatient till we met thee ...

Virginia.
Trembling and apprehensive. ... Now at least
Distant from thee I shall not breathe my last.
I fear'd that I should never more behold thee.

Ici.
Afflicted father! he can scarcely breathe,
Much less address you.

Nu.
Ah, how different now
Is thy return to what it was before,
When from the camp thou cam'st so many a time
The conqueror of our foes? Bent to the earth,
Now I behold, alas, thy honour'd brow,
Erewhile with laurels, now with grief weigh'd down,
And black and fatal thoughts: thou art reduced
To such extremity, that thou dost wish
Thou never hadst had either wife or daughter;
Though formerly, alas, the much-loved objects,
For whom thy glory and thy life were dear.

Virginius.
Ladies, to be a husband and a father,
I ne'er shall grieve: most blessed are these ties,
Although a bitter penalty awaits them.
If it must be ascribed to guilt in Rome
To be possess'd of children, I, in this,
Would first be criminal, of this abuse
Would first obtain redress. Upon the day
When I became a husband, Rome was free.
Free on the day, when thou didst give to me
The sure and single pledge of thy chaste love,
Mine own Virginia; yes, mine, too much!
Born, and since bred, beneath the sacred shade
Of thine own country's laws, thou wert, oh, daughter!
My fondest hope: the magistrates were then
The guardians of our lives, our wealth, our honour;
Are they not now become their plunderers?
Ah, daughter, ... check thy tears; compel me not
To weep;—Not because weeping I esteem
Unworthy of a Roman soldier; no,
When tainted honour, or the outraged laws,
Or a wrong'd daughter, from his struggling heart
Wring the unwilling tear; but with these tears
Redress is not procured.

Virginia.
And thinkest thou,
Had I been, haply, of the stronger sex,
That I, a child of thine, to those who dared
Insult me with the epithet of slave,
Had made rejoinder with effeminate tears?
Weak, and a woman, am I; and I lose
My consort, and my father, all, yes, all! ...

Ici.
Thou hast lost nothing yet. Hope yet remains:
Us, and the people, and the gods themselves,
Thou hast in thy defence: but if in vain,
If there remain no means for thee t'escape,
Except with us, thou die; ... I speak it trembling, ...
Thy parents speak it to thee by their silence ...
Thou, then, with us shalt die. Thy noble hand
I with my sword will arm, with my own blood,
Yet warm and reeking: and thou then shalt hear
My last free words, recalling to thy mind,
That thou wer't daughter of a valiant Roman,
Thyself free, Roman, and my spouse. Oh thought,
That freezes my sad heart! thank heaven, it is
Yet premature.

Virginia.
It is the only thought
That can sustain my life. Oh! if thou seest
My tears, 'tis not my destiny I weep,
But thine. For loftiest enterprizes born,
Thou wert design'd to be the pride of Rome:
I weep to see thee, and in vain, reduced,
For my obscure and private wrongs to combat;
To see, for thee, each path to real fame
Closed up for ever; finally, to see
In thee a soul so eminently Roman,
Since Rome is now no more.

Virginius.
And thou art not
My daughter? Let those hear thee who deny it!

Nu.
She is the prop of our declining age;
The only prop. Oh daughter! I would die
A thousand, thousand times, rather than lose thee.

Ici.
Beloved Virginia, strong that love must be
That is express'd so strongly; of us both
'Tis worthy; similar to mine it glows.
But these hard times forbid all interchange
Of soft affection. Our sole mutual pledge,
Of conjugal and of parental love,
Must be a promise of united death.

Virginius.
Ah, my own children! ... must it then be so?
And must such virtue perish? ... Numitoria,
And those the real sons of Rome, and ours,
That might from them be born, a generous race!
Shall we ne'er clasp them in our tremulous arms?
Oh what a seed of heroes dies with them,
If plants like these, so noble, lofty, generous,
Be doom'd indeed to perish prematurely!

Ici.
If we had children, we must weep indeed,
But in another guise: to an extremity
We should be brought, or forced to leave them slaves ...
My children slaves! ... Ah! I would kill them first.
I am not a father, if I were ...

Virginius.
Thy words
Flash'd like a horrible lightning on my breast:—
I do beseech thee cease.

Nu.
I am a mother,
And feel what thou dost say in all its force.
Reduced to tears alone, why have not we,
Sad mothers! strength proportion'd to our grief.

Ici.
Fathers and husbands have like grief to you,
And greater boldness. Still do I retain
The hope to rescue her. Perchance alone,
Virginius and myself in Rome now stand,
But we suffice to rouse in a whole people
Passion and life.

Virginius.
Alas! 'tis not in words,
(However strong and passionate they be,)
To rouse a people that in fetters languish;
Or to elicit from their slumb'ring soul
Actions of steady masculine revenge:
Excess of injury and blood alone
Can work this miracle in callous hearts.
'Twas indispensable to rescue Rome
From th'impious Tarquins, that an innocent lady,
Basely contaminated, by her own hands
Should fall transfix'd on earth, in blood immers'd,
Victim at once, and pledge of victory.

Virginia.
If it be requisite that innocent blood,
But not contaminated yet, be shed,
To rouse this people from its lethargy,
Strike; husband, father, strike: behold the breast.
Am I too dear to you? fear ye to plunge
The weapon in my bosom? I fear not;
Give, give the sword to me. Collected Rome
My death shall witness: such a spectacle
Will reillume their ancient love of freedom;
The banner of revenge shall flout the air
Empurpled with my blood: the men of war
In it shall emulously dip their swords,
And in the tyrants bosoms, to the hilt
Shall plunge those swords anointed to revenge.

Virginius.
Ah daughter, ... what perplexity of dread,
And new-born ardour dost thou make in me!

Ici.
Tear not by little and by little thus
A father's heart already truly Roman.
What boots it to exhort each other now
To death? From our great ancestors are we
Degenerate? We shall have ascertain'd,
In a few hours, whether we ought to die.
Thou, oh Virginius, with thy wife and daughter,
Do thou return to see, once more, thy dwelling.
This is the last night, perhaps, in which to thee
So great a consolation will be granted.
Ah, hapless father, transient is the time
For the indulgence of thy deep affections!

Virginius.
Oh bitter night! ... Let us depart, Icilius;
By dawn to-morrow thou shalt see me here.

Ici.
Here first shall I be to dispose a few,
But hardy spirits, to sublime endeavour.
Now go: thou also wilt be well convinced
To-morrow, that no scheme remains for us,
Excepting mine, of blood. Living or dead,
Oh spouse, we shall be fully blest to-morrow.

Virginia.
With thee, living or dead, I'm always bless'd.