Puslapio vaizdai

Norv. And I. and Ong

Glen. Norval, 1.

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Let not our variance mar the social hour,
Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph.
Nor frowning anger, nor yet wrinkled hate,


Shall stain my countenance. Smooth thou thy brow;
Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame.

Norv. Think not so lightly, sir, of my resentment;
When we contend again, our strife is mortal.

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And. Too daring prince!-Ah! whither dost thou run? Ah! too forgetful of thy wife and son !

And thinkest thou not how wretched we shall be ?

A widow I, a helpless orphan he !

For sure such courage length of life denies ;
And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice.

Hec. Andromache! my soul's far better part,
Why with untimely sorrow heaves thy heart?
No hostile hand can antedate my doom,

Till fate condemn me to the silent tomb.

And. Greece in her single heroes strove in vain :
Now hosts oppose thee-and thou must be slain.
Oh! grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom,
All I can ask of Heaven-an early tomb!

So shall my days in one sad tenor run,
And end with sorrows as they first begun.
No parent now remains my griefs to share,
No father's aid, no mother's tender care;
Yet, while my Hector still survives, I see
My father, mother, brethren, all in thee!
Alas! my parents, brethren, kindred, all,
Once more will perish, if my Hector fall.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy dangers share-
Oh! prove a husband's and a parent's care.
Hec. My early youth was bred to warlike pains;
My soul impels me to the martial plains.
Still foremost let me stand to guard the throne,
To save my father's honours and my own.

And. That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy,
Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy :
Thou from this tower defend the important post;
There Agamemnon points his dreadful host:

Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given,
Or led by hopes, or dictated from Heaven.

Let others in the field their arms employ;

But stay, my Hector, here, and guard his Troy.

Hec. How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned, And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, Attaint the lustre of my former name,

Should Hector basely quit the field of fame!
No more-but hasten to thy tasks at home;
There guide the spindle and direct the loom.
Me glory summons to the martial scene;
The field of combat is the sphere for men.

Hec. [Solus. Yet come it will; the day decreed by fates! (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!)

The day, when thou, imperial Troy! must bend,
Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end.
And yet, no dire presage so wounds my mind,
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,
Nor Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore,
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore,
As thine, Andromache!-Thy griefs I dread!
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led.-
May I lie cold before that dreadful day,
Pressed with a load of monumental clay;
Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep,
Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.

POPE'S Homer's Iliad.


Cato. FATHERS, we once again are met in council.

Cæsar's approach has summoned us together,
And Rome attends her fate from our resolves.
How shall we treat this bold aspiring man?
Success still follows him, and backs his crimes.
Pharsalia gave him Rome: Egypt has since
Received his yoke, and the whole Nile is Cæsar's.
Why should I mention Juba's overthrow,

And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands
Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree
What course to take. Our foe advances on us,
And envies us even Libya's sultry deserts.

Fathers, pronounce your thoughts: are they still fixed
To hold it out and fight it to the last?

Or are your hearts subdued at length, and wrought

By time and ill success to a submission?
Sempronius, speak.-

Sempronius. My voice is still for war.
Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
Which of the two to choose, slavery or death?
No; let us rise at once, gird on our swords,
And at the head of our remaining troops,
Attack the foe, break through the thick array
Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him.
Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest,
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.
Rise, fathers, rise! 'tis Rome demands your help;
Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens,
Or share their fate! the corpse of half her senate
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we
Sit here deliberating in cold debates

If we should sacrifice our lives to honour,
Or wear them out in servitude and chains.
Rouse up, for shame! our brothers of Pharsalia
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud-To battle!
Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow,
And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us!
Cato. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal
Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason:
True fortitude is seen in great exploits
That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides:
All else is towering frensy and distraction.
Are not the lives of those who draw the sword
In Rome's defence intrusted to our care?
Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter,
Might not the impartial world with reason say,
We lavished at our deaths the blood of thousands,
To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious?
Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.

Lucius. My thoughts, I must confess, are turned on peace.

Already have our quarrels filled the world

With widows and with orphans: Scythia mourns

Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions

Lie half-unpeopled by the feuds of Rome:

'Tis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind. It is not Cæsar, but the gods, my fathers,

The gods declare against us, and repel

Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle, (Prompted by blind revenge and wild despair,) Were to refuse the awards of Providence,

And not to rest in Heaven's determination.
Already have we shown our love to Rome;
Now let us show submission to the gods.
We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves,
But free the commonwealth; when this end fails,
Arms have no further use: our country's cause,

That drew our swords, now wrests 'em from our hands,
And bids us not delight in Roman blood,
Unprofitably shed: what men could do

Is done already: heaven and earth will witness,
If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.

Semp. This smooth discourse, and mild behaviour, oft
Conceal a traitor-Something whispers me

All is not right-Cato, beware of Lucius.

Cato. Let us appear nor rash nor diffident:
Immoderate valour swells into a fault;
And fear, admitted into public councils,
Betrays like treason. Let us shun 'em both.
Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs

Are grown thus desperate: we have bulwarks round us;
Within our walls are troops inured to toil

In Afric's heats, and seasoned to the sun;
Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us,
Ready to rise at its young prince's call.
While there is hope, do not distrust the gods;
But wait at least till Cæsar's near approach
Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late
To sue for chains, and own a conqueror.
Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time?
No, let us draw her term of freedom out
In its full length, and spin it to the last.
So shall we gain still one day's liberty;
And let me perish, but in Cato's judgment,
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty,
Is worth a whole eternity in bondage.




ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead!

In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage:
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let it pry through the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon.

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To its full height!-On, on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot ;
Follow your spirit: and, upon this charge,
Cry-God for Harry! England! and St George!



'Tis twice five years since that great man
(Great let me call him, for he conquered me,)
Made me the captive of his arm in fight.
He slew my father, and threw chains o'er me,
While I, with pious rage, pursued revenge.
I then was young; he placed me near his person,
And thought me not dishonoured by his service.
One day (may that returning day be night,
The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year!)

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