Of savage temper grew, who oft disturb'd
The joy and concord of our youthful sports.
Long as our father led his powers at Troy,
Passive our mother's mandate we obey'd:
But when, enriched with booty, he returned,
And shortly after died, a contest fierce
For the succession and their father's wealth,
Parted the brothers. I the eldest join'd;
He slew the younger; and the Furies hence
For kindred-murder dog his restless steps.
But to this savage shore the Delphian God
Hath sent us cheer'd by hope, commanding us
Within his sister's temple to await
The blessed hand of aid. We have been ta'en,
Brought hither, and now stand for sacrifice.
My tale is told.
502. Know, then, it is your fault, that you resign
The supreme seat, the throne majestical
The scepter'd office of your ancestors,
Your state of fortune, and your due of birth,
The lineal glory of your royal house,
To the corruption of a blemish'd stock:
Whilst, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts,
(Which here we waken to our country's good,)
The noble isle doth want her proper limbs ;
Her face defac'd with scars of infamy,
Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants,
And almost shoulder'd in the swallowing gulf
Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion:
Which to recure, we heartily solicit
Your gracious self to take on you the charge
And kingly government of this your land:
Not as protector, steward, substitute,
Or lowly factor for another's gain :
But as successively, from blood to blood,
Your right of birth, your empery, your own.
For this, consorted with the citizens,
Your very worshipful and loving friends,
And by their vehement instigation,
In this just suit come I to move your grace.
503. J. Why art thou here? M. Does Javan ask me why?
Because I saw my father pine with hunger;
Because I never hope to come again.
J. Too true! this night, this fatal night, if Heaven
Strike not their conquering host, the foe achieves
His tardy victory. Round the shatter'd walls
There is the smother'd din of preparation.
With stealthy footsteps and with muffled arms,
Along the trenches, round the towering engines,
I saw them gathering: men stood whispering men,
As though revealing some portentous secret;
At every sound cried, Hist! and look'd reproachfully
Upon each other. Now and then a light
From some far part of the encircling camp
Breaks suddenly out, and then is quench'd as sud denly.
The forced unnatural quiet, that pervades
Those myriads of arm'd and sleepless warriors,
Presages earthly tempest: as yon clouds,
That in their mute and ponderous blackness hang
Over our heads, a tumult in the skies.
The earth and heaven alike are terribly calm!
M. Alas, alas! give me the food; let's say
Farewell, as fondly as a dying man
Should say it to a dying woman.
504. C. Decius, go tell them, Cæsar will not come.
D. Most mighty Cæsar, let me know some cause,
Lest I be laugh'd at, when I tell them so.
And thou wilt loathe lean darkness like thy death.
Who would believe thy metal would let sloth
Rust and consume it? If Themistocles
Had lived obscured thus in th' Athenian state,
Xerxes had made both him and it his slaves.
If brave Camillus had lurked so at Rome,
He had not five times been dictator there,
Nor four times triumph'd. If Epaminondas,
Who lived twice twenty years obscured in Thebes,
Had lived so still, he had been still unnamed,
And paid his country nor himself their right;
But putting forth his strength, he rescued both
From imminent ruin; and like burnished steel,
After long use, he shined; for as the light
Not only serves to show, but render us
Mutually profitable; so our lives,
In acts exemplary, not only win
Ourselves good names, but do to others give
Matter for virtuous deeds, by which we live.
A. What would you wish me? M. Leave the
troubled streams,
And live where th' rivers do, at the well head. 508. Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast; no weakness, no contempt,
Dispraise, or blame; nothing but well and fair,
And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
Let us go find the body where it lies
Soak'd in his enemies' blood; and from the stream,
With lavers pure, and cleansing herbs, wash off
The clotted gore. I, with what speed the while
(Gaza is not in plight to say us nay),
Will send for all my kindred, all my friends,
To fetch him hence, and solemnly attend
With silent obsequy, and funeral train,
Home to his father's house: there will I build him
A monument, and plant it round with shade
Of laurel ever green, and branching palm.
With all his trophies hung, and acts enroll'd
In copious legend, or sweet lyric song.
Thither shall all the valiant youth resort,
And from his memory inflame their breasts
To matchless valour, and adventures high:
The virgins also shall, on feastful days,
Visit his tomb with flowers; only bewailing
His lot unfortunate in nuptial choice,
From whence captivity and loss of eyes.
Cease your fretful prayers,
Your whinings, and your tame petitions;
The Gods love courage arm'd with confidence,
And prayers fit to pull them down: weak tears
And troubled hearts, the dull twins of cold spirits,
They sit and smile at! Hear how I salute them.—
Divine Andate, thou who hold'st the reins
Of furious battles and disorder'd war,
And proudly roll'st thy swarty chariot wheels
Over the heaps of wounds and carcases,
Sailing through seas of blood: thou sure-steel'd
sternness,
Give us this day good hearts, good enemies,
Good blows on both sides, wounds that fear or flight
Can claim no share in: steel us both with angers
And warlike executions worth thy viewing:
Let Rome put on her best strength; and thy
Britain,
Thy little Britain, but as great in fortune,
Meet her as strong as she, as proud, as daring.
And then look on, thou red-eyed god:- who does best
Reward with honour; whom despair makes fly
Unarm for ever, and brand with infamy.
And my first blow, thus on thy holy altar,
510. L. Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis'd:- Yet do I fear thy nature;
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness,
To catch the nearest way: Thou would'st be great;
Art not without ambition; but without
The illness should attend it. What thou would'st
highly,
That would'st thou holily; would'st not play false,
And yet would'st wrongly win: thou'd'st have, great
Glamis,
That which cries, Thus thou must do, if thou have
And that which rather thou dost fear to do,
Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear;
And chastise with the valour of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crown'd withal. What is your
tidings?
A. The king comes here to-night. L. Thou'rt mad
to say it:
Is not thy master with him? who, wer't so,
Would have inform'd for preparation.
A. So please you, it is true; our thane is coming:
One of my fellows had the speed of him;
Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
Than would make up his message.
He brings great news.
511. At qua nivosi patitur Aquilonis minas,
Euripus undas flectit instabiles vagus,
|