Читать книгу Cato: A Tragedy, in Five Acts - Джозеф Аддисон, Addison Joseph - Страница 2

Por. The dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs,

And heavily in clouds brings on the day,

The great, the important day, big with the fate

Of Cato and of Rome – Our father's death

Would fill up all the guilt of civil war,

And close the scene of blood. Already Cæsar

Has ravaged more than half the globe, and sees

Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword:

Should he go farther, numbers would be wanting

To form new battles, and support his crimes.

Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make

Among your works!

Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius,

Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,

In the calm lights of mild philosophy;

I'm tortured e'en to madness, when I think

On the proud victor – ev'ry time he's named,

Pharsalia rises to my view! – I see

Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field,

Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter;

His horse's hoofs wet with patrician blood!

Oh, Portius! is there not some chosen curse,

Some hidden thunder in the stores of Heav'n,

Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man

Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?

Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness,

And mix'd with too much horror to be envied:

How does the lustre of our father's actions,

Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,

Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness!

His sufferings shine, and spread a glory round him;

Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause

Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.

His sword ne'er fell, but on the guilty head;

Oppression, tyranny, and pow'r usurp'd,

Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them.

Marc. Who knows not this? but what can Cato do

Against a world, a base, degenerate world,

That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæsar?

Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms

A poor epitome of Roman greatness,

And, cover'd with Numidian guards, directs

A feeble army, and an empty senate,

Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.

By Heav'n, such virtue, join'd with such success,

Distracts my very soul! Our father's fortune

Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.

Por. Remember what our father oft has told us:

The ways of Heav'n are dark and intricate,

Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors;

Our understanding traces them in vain,

Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search;

Nor sees with how much art the windings run,

Nor where the regular confusion ends.

Marc. These are suggestions of a mind at ease: —

Oh, Portius! didst thou taste but half the griefs

That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly.

Passion unpitied, and successless love,

Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate

My other griefs. – Were but my Lucia kind —

Por. Thou see'st not that thy brother is thy rival;

But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Aside.

Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince,

With how much care he forms himself to glory,

And breaks the fierceness of his native temper,

To copy out our father's bright example.

He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her;

His eyes, his looks, his actions, all betray it;

But still the smother'd fondness burns within him;

When most it swells, and labours for a vent,

The sense of honour, and desire of fame,

Drive the big passion back into his heart.

What! shall an African, shall Juba's heir,

Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world

A virtue wanting in a Roman soul?

Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind them.

Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, show

A virtue that has cast me at a distance,

And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?

Por. Marcus, I know thy gen'rous temper well;

Fling but the appearance of dishonour on it,

It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.

Marc. A brother's suff'rings claim a brother's pity.

Por. Heav'n knows, I pity thee – Behold my eyes,

Ev'n whilst I speak – Do they not swim in tears?

Were but my heart as naked to thy view,

Marcus would see it bleed in his behalf.

Marc. Why then dost treat me with rebukes, instead

Of kind condoling cares, and friendly sorrow?

Por. Oh, Marcus! did I know the way to ease

Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains,

Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it.

Marc. Thou best of brothers, and thou best of friends!

Pardon a weak distemper'd soul, that swells

With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in calms,

The sport of passions. But Sempronius comes:

He must not find this softness hanging on me.

Sem. Conspiracies no sooner should be form'd

Than executed. What means Portius here?

I like not that cold youth. I must dissemble,

And speak a language foreign to my heart.[Aside.

Good-morrow, Portius; let us once embrace,

Once more embrace, while yet we both are free.

To-morrow, should we thus express our friendship,

Each might receive a slave into his arms;

This sun, perhaps, this morning sun's the last

That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty.

Por. My father has this morning call'd together

To this poor hall, his little Roman senate,

(The leavings of Pharsalia) to consult

If he can yet oppose the mighty torrent

That bears down Rome and all her gods before it,

Or must at length give up the world to Cæsar.

Sem. Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome

Can raise her senate more than Cato's presence.

His virtues render our assembly awful,

They strike with something like religious fear,

And make even Cæsar tremble at the head

Of armies flush'd with conquest. Oh, my Portius!

Could I but call that wond'rous man my father,

Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious

To thy friend's vows, I might be blest indeed!

Por. Alas, Sempronius! wouldst thou talk of love

To Marcia, whilst her father's life's in danger?

Thou might'st as well court the pale, trembling vestal,

When she beholds the holy flame expiring.

Sem. The more I see the wonders of thy race,

The more I'm charm'd. Thou must take heed, my Portius;

The world has all its eyes on Cato's son;

Thy father's merit sets thee up to view,

And shows thee in the fairest point of light,

To make thy virtues or thy faults conspicuous.

Por. Well dost thou seem to check my ling'ring here

In this important hour – I'll straight away,

And while the fathers of the senate meet

In close debate, to weigh th' events of war,

I'll animate the soldiers' drooping courage

With love of freedom and contempt of life;

I'll thunder in their ears their country's cause,

And try to rouse up all that's Roman in them.

'Tis not in mortals to command success,

But we'll do more, Sempronius – we'll deserve it. [Exit.

Sem. Curse on the stripling! how he apes his sire!

Ambitiously sententious – But I wonder

Old Syphax comes not; his Numidian genius

Is well disposed to mischief, were he prompt

And eager on it; but he must be spurr'd,

And every moment quicken'd to the course.

Cato has used me ill; he has refused

His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.

Besides, his baffled arms, and ruin'd cause,

Are bars to my ambition. Cæsar's favour,

That show'rs down greatness on his friends, will raise me

To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato,

I claim, in my reward, his captive daughter.

But Syphax comes —

Syph. Sempronius, all is ready;

I've sounded my Numidians, man by man,

And find them ripe for a revolt: they all

Complain aloud of Cato's discipline,

And wait but the command to change their master.

Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste;

Ev'n while we speak, our conqueror comes on,

And gathers ground upon us every moment.

Alas! thou know'st not Cæsar's active soul,

With what a dreadful course he rushes on

From war to war. In vain has nature form'd

Mountains and oceans t'oppose his passage;

He bounds o'er all.

One day more

Will set the victor thund'ring at our gates.

But, tell me, hast thou yet drawn o'er young Juba?

That still would recommend thee more to Cæsar,

And challenge better terms.

Syph. Alas! he's lost!

He's lost, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full

Of Cato's virtues – But I'll try once more

(For every instant I expect him here)

If yet I can subdue those stubborn principles

Of faith and honour, and I know not what,

That have corrupted his Numidian temper,

And struck th' infection into all his soul.

Sem. Be sure to press upon him every motive.

Juba's surrender, since his father's death,

Would give up Afric into Cæsar's hands,

And make him lord of half the burning zone.

Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate

Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious;

Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern

Our frauds, unless they're cover'd thick with art.

Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal

My thoughts in passion ('tis the surest way);

I'll bellow out for Rome, and for my country,

And mouth at Cæsar, till I shake the senate.

Your cold hypocrisy's a stale device,

A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought in earnest,

Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury!

Syph. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs,

And teach the wily African deceit.

Sem. Once more be sure to try thy skill on Juba.

Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste;

Oh, think what anxious moments pass between

The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods!

Oh, 'tis a dreadful interval of time,

Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death!

Destruction hangs on every word we speak,

On every thought, till the concluding stroke

Determines all, and closes our design.[Exit.

Syph. I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason

This headstrong youth, and make him spurn at Cato.

The time is short; Cæsar comes rushing on us —

But hold! young Juba sees me, and approaches!

Jub. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone.

I have observed of late thy looks are fall'n,

O'ercast with gloomy cares and discontent;

Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me,

What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns,

And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince?

Syph. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts,

Or carry smiles and sunshine in my face,

When discontent sits heavy at my heart;

I have not yet so much the Roman in me.

Jub. Why dost thou cast out such ungenerous terms

Against the lords and sov'reigns of the world?

Dost thou not see mankind fall down before them,

And own the force of their superior virtue?

Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,

Amidst our barren rocks and burning sands,

That does not tremble at the Roman name?

Syph. Gods! where's the worth that sets these people up

Above your own Numidia's tawny sons?

Do they with tougher sinews bend the bow?

Or flies the javelin swifter to its mark,

Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm?

Who like our active African instructs

The fiery steed, and trains him to his hand?

Or guides in troops th' embattled elephant

Laden with war? These, these are arts, my prince,

In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.

Jub. These all are virtues of a meaner rank:

Perfections that are placed in bones and nerves.

A Roman soul is bent on higher views;

Turn up thy eyes to Cato;

There may'st thou see to what a godlike height

The Roman virtues lift up mortal man.

While good, and just, and anxious for his friends,

He's still severely bent against himself;

And when his fortune sets before him all

The pomps and pleasures that his soul can wish,

His rigid virtue will accept of none.

Syph. Believe me, prince, there's not an African

That traverses our vast Numidian deserts

In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow,

But better practises those boasted virtues.

Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase;

Amidst the running stream he slakes his thirst;

Toils all the day, and, at the approach of night,

On the first friendly bank he throws him down,

Or rests his head upon a rock till morn;

Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted game,

And if the following day he chance to find

A new repast, or an untasted spring,

Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.

Jub. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern

What virtues grow from ignorance and choice,

Nor how the hero differs from the brute.

Where shall we find the man that bears affliction,

Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?

How does he rise against a load of woes,

And thank the gods that threw the weight upon him!

Syph. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul;

I think the Romans call it stoicism.

Had not your royal father thought so highly

Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's cause,

He had not fall'n by a slave's hand inglorious.

Jub. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh?

My father's name brings tears into my eyes.

Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills!

Jub. What wouldst thou have me do?

Syph. Abandon Cato.

Jub. Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan

By such a loss.

Syph. Ay, there's the tie that binds you!

You long to call him father. Marcia's charms

Work in your heart unseen, and plead for Cato.

No wonder you are deaf to all I say.

Jub. Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate;

I've hitherto permitted it to rave,