woman,

The fool of nature, a fond prey to grief, Made up of sighs and tears. But now my soul Disdains the very thought of what I was; 'Tis grown too callous to be moved with toys. Observe me well; am I not nobly changed From my sad eyes? or heaves my breast one groan?

No: for I doubt no longer. 'Tis not grief, 'Tis resolution now, and fix'd despair.

Valeria. My dear Horatia, you strike terrors through me;

What dreadful purpose hast thou form'd? Oh, speak!

Valerius. Talk gently to her.-Hear me yet, sweet lady

You must not go; whatever you resolve,
There is a sight will pierce you to the soul.
Horatia. What sight?

Valerius. Alas, I should be glad to hide it;
But it is-

Since you persuade me then, I will not go,
But leave me to myself; I would sit here;
Alone in silent sadness pour my tears,
And meditate on my unheard-of woes.

Valerius. [To VALERIA.] 'Twere well to humour this. But may she not,

If left alone, do outrage on herself?

Unmanly fondness mingle with thy virtue, And I will touch thee nearly. Oh, come on, "Tis thou alone canst give Horatia peace. [Erit.

ACT V.

SCENE I-A Street of Rome.

Chorus of YOUTHS and VIRGINS, singing and scattering Branches of Oak, Flowers, &c. Enter HORATIUS, leaning on the arm of PUBLIUS HORATIUS.

CHORUS.

Thus, for freedom nobly won,
Rome her hasty tribute pours;
And on one victorious son
Half exhausts her blooming stores.

YOUTH.

One instrument of death.

Valerius. Retire we then.

But, oh, not far, for now I feel my soul

Still more perplex'd with love. Who knows, Valeria,

But when this storm of grief has blown its fill, She may grow calm, and listen to my vows.

[Exeunt VALERIUS and VALERIA.

After a short silence, HORATIA rises, and comes forward.

Horatia. Yes, they are gone; and now be firm, my soul !

This way I can elude their search. The heart, Which dotes like mine, must break to be at ease. Just now I thought, had Curiatius lived,

I could have driven him from my breast for ever.
But death has cancell'd all my wrongs at once.
-They were not wrongs; 'twas virtue which
undid us,

And virtue shall unite us in the grave.
I heard them say, as they departed hence,
That they had robb'd me of all means of death,
Vain thought! they knew not half Horatia's
purpose.

my

dear

The day which gave thee first to my glad hopes
Was misery to this- -I'm mad with transport!
Why are ye silent there? Again renew
Your songs of praise, and in a louder strain
Four forth your joy, and tell the listening spheres
That Rome is freed by my Horatius' hand.
Pub. No more, my friends-You must per-
mit me, Sir,

To contradict you here. Not but my soul,
Like you, is open to the charms of praise:
There is no joy beyond it, when the mind
Of him who hears it can with honest pride
But now the toils I have sustain'd, require
Confess it just, and listen to its music.
Their interval of rest, and every sense
We're near our home, and would be private now:
Is deaf to pleasure-Let me leave you, friends;
To-morrow we'll expect your kind attendance
To share our joys, and waft our thanks to
Heaven.

As they are going off, HORATIA rushes in.

Horatia. Where is this mighty chief?
Horatius. My daughter's voice!

I bade her come; she has forgot her sorrows,
And is again my child.

Horatia. Is this the hero

That tramples nature's ties, and nobly soars
Above the dictates of humanity?

Let me observe him well.

Pub. What means my sister?

Horatia. Thy sister! I disclaim the impious title;

Base and inhuman; Give me back my husband,
My life, my soul, my murder'd Curiatius?
Pub. He perish'd for his country.
Horatia. Gracious gods!

Wast not enough that thou hadst murdered him,

[Exit after her.

thee,

Drink the dear drops that issued from his wounds, More dear to me than the whole tide that swells With impious pride a hostile brother's heart.

Horatius. Am I awake, or is it all illusion! Was it for this thou cam'st?

Pub. Horatia, hear me,

Yet I am calm, and can forgive thy folly;
Would I could call it by no harsher name.
But do not tempt me farther. Go, my sister,
Go hide thee from the world, nor let a Roman
Know with what insolence thou dar'st avow
Thy infamy, or what is more, my shame,
How tamely I forgave it.-Go, Horatia.

Horatia. I will not go.-What, have I touch'd thee, then?

And canst thou feel?-Oh, think not thou shalt lose

Thy share of anguish. I'll pursue thee still,
Urge thee all day with thy unnatural crimes,
Tear, harrow up thy breast; and then at night
I'll be the fury that shall haunt thy dreams;
Wake thee with shrieks, and place before thy
sight

Thy mangled friends in all their pomp of horror. Pub. Away with her! 'tis womanish complaining.

Think'st thou such trifles can alarm the man'
Whose noblest passion is his country's love?—
Let it be thine, and learn to bear affliction.
Horatia. Curse on my country's love, the trick
ye teach us

To make us slaves beneath the mask of virtue;
To rob us of each soft endearing sense,
And violate the first great law within us.

I scorn the impious passion.

Pub. Have a care;

Re-enter VALERIUS.

[Without.

Valerius. Oh, horror! horror! execrable act; If there be law in Rome! if there be justice, By Rome, and all its gods, thou shalt not 'scape. [Exit.

Re-enter PUBLIUS, followed by HORATIA wounded.

Horatia. Now thou'st indeed been kind, and
I forgive you

The death of Curiatius; this last blow
Has cancell'd all, and thou'rt again my brother.
Horatius. Heavens! what a sight!

A daughter bleeding by a brother's hand!
My child! my child!

Horatia. What means this tenderness? I thought to see you

Inflamed with rage against a worthless wretch
Who has dishonour'd your illustrious race,
And stain'd its brightest fame: in pity look not
Thus kindly on me, for I have injured you.

Horatius. Thou hast not, girl;

I said 'twas madness, but he would not hear me. Horatia. Oh, wrong him not; his act was noble justice,

I forced him to the deed; for know, my father,
It was not madness, but the firm result
Of settled reason, and deliberate thought.

I was resolved on death, and witness, Heaven,
I'd not have died by any hand but his,

For the whole round of fame his worth shall

boast

Horatius. What hast thou said? Wert thou so bent on death?

Was all thy rage dissembled ?
Horatia. Alas, my father!

All but my love was false; what that inspired
I utter'd freely.

But for the rest, the curses which I pour'd
On heaven-defended Rome, were merely lures
To tempt his rage, and perfect my destruction.
Heaven! with what transport I beheld him
moved!

How my heart leap'd to meet the welcome point,
Stain'd with the life-blood of my Curiatius,
Cementing thus our union even in death.

Pub. My sister, live! I charge thee live, Horatia!

Oh, thou hast planted daggers here.

Horatia. My brother!

Can you forgive me too! then I am happy.

I dared not hope for that! Ye gentle ghosts
That rove Elysium, hear the sacred sound!
My father and my brother both forgive me!
I have again their sanction on my love.
Oh, let me hasten to those happier climes,
Where, unmolested, we may share our joys,
Nor Rome, nor Alba, shall disturb us more.

[Dies. Horatius. "Tis gone, the prop, the comfort of my age.

Let me reflect; this morn I had three children,
No happier father hail'd the sun's uprising:
Now, I have none, for, Publius, thou must die:
Blood calls for blood-to expiate one parricide,
Justice demands another-Art thou ready?
Pub. Strike! 'tis the consummation of my
wishes

To die, and by your hand.

Horatius. Oh, blind old man!
Wouldst thou lift up thy sacrilegious hand
Against the chief, the god that saved thy country?
There's something in that face that awes my
soul,

Like a divinity. Hence, thou vile weapon,
Disgrace my hand no more.

[A cry of" Justice, Justice," without.

What noise is that?

Enter VOLSCINIUS.

Stop, stop your ears, nor hear a frantic father
Thus plead against his child.

Horatius. He does belie me,

What child have I? Alas! I have but one,
And him you would tear from me.

All Citizens. Hear him! hear him!
Pub. No; let me speak. Think'st thou, un-
grateful youth,

To hurt my quiet? I am hurt beyond
Thy power to harm me. Death's extremést tor-

tures

Were happiness to what I feel. Yet know,
My injured honour bids me live; nay, more,
It bids me even descend to plead for life.
But wherefore waste I words? "Tis not to him,
But you, my countrymen, to you, I speak;
He loved the maid.

1st Citizen. How! loved her?
Pub. Fondly loved her;

And, under show of public justice, screens
A private passion, and a mean revenge.
Think you I loved her not? High Heaven 's my
witness

How tenderly I lov'd her; and the pangs
I feel this moment, could you see my heart,
'Twould prove too plainly I am still her brother.
1st Citizen. He shall be saved.

Valerius has misled us.

All Citizens. Save him! save him!
Tullus. If yet a doubt remains,

and crowds

If you are wrong'd, then what am I? Must I Be taught my duty by th' affected tears

Of strangers to my blood? Had I been wrong'd, I know a father's right, and had not ask'd

This ready-talking Sir to bellow for me,

And mouth my wrongs in Rome.

This very morn, a numerous progeny,
The dear supports of his declining age;
Then read the sad reverse with pitying eyes,
And tell your conscious hearts they fell for you.
Horatius. I am o'erpaid by that, nor claim I
ought

On their accounts; by high Heaven, I swear,
That Rome enslaved.
I'd rather see him added to the heap,

1st Citizen. Oh, excellent Horatius !
All Citizens. Save him! save him!
Tullus. Then I pronounce him free. And
now, Horatius,

The evening of thy stormy day at last

Shall close in peace. Here take him to thy

breast.

what he says;

His compliments to all his female friends,

And thanks them from his soul for every bright
Indulgent tear which they have shed to-night.
Sorrow in virtue's cause proclaims a mind,
And gives to beauty graces more refined.
Ch, who could bear the loveliest form of art,
A cherub's face, without a feeling heart!
'Tis there alone, whatever charms we boast,
'Though men may flatter, and though men may
'Tis there alone they find the joy sincere, [toast,
The wife, the parent, and the friend are there.
All else, the veriest rakes themselves must own,
Are but the paltry play-things of the town;
The painted clouds, which, glittering, tempt the
chace,

Then melt in air, and mock the vain embrace.
Well then; the private virtues, 'tis confess'd,
Are the soft inmates of the female breast.
But then, they fill so full that crowded space,
That the poor public seldom finds a place.
And I suspect there's many a fair one here,
Who pour'd her sorrows on Horatia's bier;"

That still retains so much of flesh and blood,
She'd fairly hang the brother, if she could.
Why, ladies, to be sure, if that be all,
At your tribunal he must stand or fall.
Whate'er his country, or his sire decreed,
You are his judges now, and he must plead.
Like other culprit youths he wanted grace;
But could have no self-interest in the case.
Had she been wife, or mistress, or a friend,
It might have answer'd some convenient end:
But a mere sister, whom he loved-to take
Her life away,--and for his country's sake!
Faith, ladies, you may pardon him; indeed
There's very little fear the crime should spread.
True patriots are but rare among the men,
And really might be useful now and then.
Then do not check, by your disapprobation,
A spirit which might rule the British nation,
And still might rule-would you but set the
fashion.