Horatia. And if Rome conquers, then Horatia dies!

Valeria. Why wilt thou form vain images of horror,

Industrious to be wretched? Is it, then,
Become impossible that Rome should triumph,
And Curiatius live? He must, he shall;
Protecting gods shall spread their shields around
him,

And love shall combat in Horatia's cause.
Horatia. Think'st thou so meanly of him?-No,
Valeria,

His soul's too great to give me such a trial;
Or could it ever come, I think, myself,
Thus lost in love, thus abject as I am,

I should despise the slave who dared survive
His country's ruin. Ye immortal powers!
I love his fame too well, his spotless honour,
At least I hope I do, to wish him mine
On any terms which he must blush to own.
Hor. [Without.] What ho! Vindicius !
Horatia. What means that shout?-Might we
not ask, Valeria?

Didst thou not wish me to the temple?-Come,
I will attend thee thither: the kind gods
Perhaps may ease this throbbing heart, and spread
At least a temporary calm within,

Valeria. Alas, Horatia, 'tis not to the temple That thou wouldst fly; the shout alone alarms thee.

But do not thus anticipate thy fate;
Why shouldst thou learn each chance of varying

war,

Which takes a thousand turns, and shifts the scene From bad to good, as fortune smiles or frowns? Stay but an hour perhaps, and thou shalt know The whole at once.-I'll send-I'll fly myself To ease thy doubts, and bring thee news of joy. Horatia. Again, and nearer too-I must attend thee.

Valeria. Hark! 'tis thy father's voice; he comes to cheer thee.

Enter HORATIUS and VALERIUS. Horatius. [Entering.] News from the camp, my child!

Save you, sweet maid!

[Seeing VALERIA. Your brother brings the tidings, for, alas! I am no warrior now; my useless age, Far from the paths of honour, loiters here In sluggish inactivity at home.

Yet I remember

Horatia, You'll forgive us, sir, If with impatience we expect the tidings. Horatius. I had forgot; the thoughts of what

I was Engrossed my whole attention.-Pray, young soldier,

Relate it for me; you beheld the scene,
And can report it justly.

Val. Gentle lady,

The scene was piteous, though its end be peace. Horatia. Peace? O, my fluttering heart! by what kind means?

Val. 'Twere tedious, lady, and unnecessary,
To paint the disposition of the field;
Suffice it, we were armed, and front to front
The adverse legions heard the trumpet's sound:
But vain was the alarm, for motionless,
And wrapt in thought, they stood; the kindred
ranks

Had caught each other's eyes, nor dared to lift
The faultering spear against the breast they loved.
Again the alarm was given, and now they seemed
Preparing to engage, when once again
They hung their drooping heads, and inward
mourned;

Then nearer drew, and at the third alarm,
Casting their swords and useless shields aside,
Rushed to each other's arms.

Hor. 'Twas so, just so,

(Though I was then a child, yet I have heard
My mother, weeping, oft relate the story)
Soft pity touched the breasts of mighty chiefs,
Romans and Sabines, when the matrons rushed
Between their meeting armies, and opposed
Their helpless infants, and their heaving breasts,
To their advancing swords, and bade them there
Sheath all their vengeance.- -But I interrupt

you

Proceed, Valerius, they would hear the event. -And yet, methinks, the Albans-pray go on.

Val. Our king Hostilius, from a rising mound,
Beheld the tender interview, and joined
His friendly tears with theirs; then swift advan-
ced,

Even to the thickest press, and cried, 'My friends,
If thus we love, why are we enemies?
Shall stern ambition, rivalship of power,
Subdue the soft humanity within us?
Are we not joined by every tie of kindred?
And can we find no method to compose
These jars of honour, these nice principles
Of virtue, which infest the noblest minds?"

Horatia. There spoke his country's father! this

transcends

The flight of earth-born kings, whose low ambi

tion

But tends to lay the face of nature waste,
And blast creation!-How was it received?

Val. As he himself could wish, with eager transport.

In short, the Roman and the Alban chiefs
In council have determined, that since glory
Must have her victims, and each rival state,
Aspiring to dominion, scorns to yield,
From either army shall be chose three champions,
To fight the cause alone, and whate'er state
Shall prove superior, there acknowledged power
Shall fix the imperial seat, and both unite
Beneath one common head.

Horatia. Kind Heaven, I thank thee! Blessed be the friendly grief that touched their souls!

Blessed be Hostilius for the generous counsel!
Blessed be the meeting chiefs! and blessed the
tongue,
Which brings the gentle tidings!

Valeria. Now, Horatia, Your idle fears are o'er.

Horatia. Yet one remains.

Who are the champions? Are they yet elected? Has Rome

Val. The Roman chiefs now meet in council, And ask the presence of the sage Horatius.

Hor. [After having seemed some time in thought.]
But still, methinks, I like not this, to trust
The Roman cause to such a slender hazard-
Three combatants!-'tis dangerous-

Horatia. [In a fright.] My father!
Hor. I might, perhaps, prevent it-
Horatia. Do not, sir,
Oppose the kind decree!

Val. Rest satisfied,

Sweet lady! 'tis so solemnly agreed to,
Not even Horatius's advice can shake it.

Hor. And yet 'twere well to end these civil
broils:

The neighbouring states might take advantage of them.

-Would I were young again! How glorious Were death in such a cause!-And yet, who

knows

Some of my boys may be selected for it—— Perhaps may conquer-Grant me that, kind gods,

And close my eyes in transport!-Come, Valerius,

I'll but dispatch some necessary orders,
And strait attend thee.-Daughter, if thou lov'st
Thy brothers, let thy prayers be poured to Hea-

ven,

That one at least may share the glorious task. [Exit. Val. Rome cannot trust her cause to worthier hands.

They bade me greet you, lady.-[To HORATIA. Well, Valeria,

This is your home, I find: your lovely friend, And you, I doubt not, have indulged strange fears, And run o'er all the horrid scenes of war? Valeria. Though we are women, brother, we are Romans,

Not to be scared with shadows, though not proof 'Gainst all alarms, when real danger threatens. Horatia. [With some hesitation.] My brothers, gentle sir, you said were well.

Saw you their noble friends the Curiatii?
The truce, perhaps, permitted it.

Val. Yes, lady,

I left them jocund in your brothers' tent,

Asked him, in jest, if he had aught to send,
A sigh's soft waftage, or the tender token
Of tresses breeding to fantastic forms,
To soothe a love-sick maid (your pardon, lady),
He smiled, and cried, Glory's the soldier's mis-
tress.'

Horatia. Sir, you'll excuse me-something of importance

My father may have business- -Oh, Valeria,
[Aside to VALERIA.

Talk to thy brother, know the fatal truth
I dread to hear, and let me learn to die,
If Curiatius has indeed forgot me!
Val. She seems disordered!
Valeria. Has she not cause?

Can you administer the baneful potion,
And wonder at the effect?

Val. You talk in riddles !

[Exit.

Valeria. They're riddles, brother, which your
heart unfolds,

Though you affect surprise. Was Curiatius
Indeed so cold? Poor shallow artifice!
The trick of hopeless love! I saw it plainly.
Yet what could you propose? An hour's uneasiness
To poor Horatia; for be sure by that time
She sees him, and your deep-wrought schemes
are air.

Val. What could I do? this peace has ruined me;
While war continued, I had gleams of hope;
Some lucky chance might rid me of my rival,
And time efface his image in her breast.
But now-

Valeria. Yes, now you must resolve to follow The advice I gave you first, and root this passion Entirely from your heart; for know, she doats, Even to distraction doats on Curiatius; And every fear she felt, while danger threatened, Will now endear him more.

Val. Cruel Valeria, You triumph in my pain!

Valeria. By Heaven, I do not;

I only would extirpate every thought
Which gives you pain, nor leave one foolish wish
For hope to dally with. When friends are mad,
'Tis most unkind to humour their distraction;
Harsh means are necessary.

Val. Yet we first Should try the gentler.

Valeria. Did I not? Ye powers!

Did I not soothe your griefs, indulge your fond

ness,

parted,

Joying to meet again.

Horatia. Sent they no message!

As friends would bring unbid.

Horatia. Said Caius nothing?

Val. Caius?

Horatia. Ay, Caius! did he mention me?

Val. 'Twas slightly, if he did, and 'scapes me

now

O yes, I do remember, when your brother

VOL. II.

'Tis by degrees the sly enchanter works, Assuming friendship's name, and fits the soul For soft impressions, ere the faultering tongue, And guilty-blushing cheek, with many a glance Shot inadvertent, tells the secret flame.

Valeria. True, these are arts for those that love at leisure;

R

You had no time for tedious stratagem;
A dangerous rival pressed, and has succeeded.
Val. I own my error-yet once more assist

me

Nay, turn not from me, by my soul I meant not To interrupt their loves.-Yet, should some accident

'Tis not impossible-divide their hearts,

I might, perhaps, have hope: therefore till marriage

Cuts off all commerce, and confirms me wretched,

Be it thy task, my sister, with fond stories,
Such as our ties of blood may countenance,
To paint thy brother's worth, his power in arms,
His favour with the king, but most of all,
That certain tenderness of soul which steals
All women's hearts; then mention many a fair,
No matter whom, that sighs to call you sister.
Valeria. Well, well, away-Yet tell me, ere
you go,

How did this lover talk of his Horatia ?

SCENE 1.-Continues.

Enter HORATIA and VALERIA.

Horatia. Alas, how easily do we admit

The thing we wish were true! yet sure, Valeria,
This seeming negligence of Curiatius
Betrays a secret coldness at the heart.
May not long absence, or the charms of war,
Have damped, at least, if not effaced his passion?
I know not what to think.

Valeria. Think, my Horatia,

That you're a lover, and have learned the art
To raise vain scruples, and torment yourself
With every distant hint of fancied ill.
Your Curiatius still remains the same.
My brother idly trifled with your passion,
Or might, perhaps, unheedingly relate
What you too nearly feel. But see, your father.
Horatia. He seems transported; sure some
happy news

Has brought him back thus early. Oh, my heart!
I long, yet dread to ask him. Speak, Valeria.

New warmth revive, and springing life renewed Even on the margin of the grave!

Valeria. The time Of combat, is it fixed?

Hor. This day, this hour, Perhaps, decides our doom. Valeria. And is it known With whom they must engage?

Hor. Not yet, Valeria;

But with impatience we expect each moment
The resolutions of the Alban senate.

And soon may they arrive, that, ere we quit
Yon hostile field, the chiefs, who dared oppose
Rome's rising glories, may, with shame, confess
The gods protect the empire they have raised.
Where are thy smiles, Horatia? Whence pro-

ceeds

The fate of those she loves, however glorious.
And sure they cannot all survive a conflict
So desperate as this.

Hor. Survive! By Heaven,

I could not hope that they should all survive.
No: let them fall. If from their glorious deaths
Rome's freedom spring, I shall be nobly paid
For every sharpest pang the parent feels.
Had I a thousand sons, in such a cause
I could behold them bleeding at my feet,
And thank the gods with tears!

Enter PUBLIUS HORATIUS.

Pub. My father!

[Offering to kneel.

Hor. Hence ! Kneel not to me-stand off; and let me view At distance, and with reverential awe, The champion of my country!-Oh, my boy! That I should live to this-my soul's too full; Let this and this speak for me. Bless thee, bless thee! [Embracing him. But wherefore art thou absent from the camp? Where are thy brothers? Has the Alban state Determined? Is the time of combat fixed?

Pub. Think not, my lord, that filial reverence, However due, had drawn me from the field, Where nobler duty calls; a patriot's soul Can feel no humbler ties, nor knows the voice Of kindred, when his country claims his aid. It was the king's command I should attend you, Else had I staid till wreaths immortal graced My brows, and made thee proud indeed to see Beneath thy roof, and bending for thy blessing, Not thine, Horatius, but the son of Rome!

Hor. Oh, virtuous pride!-'tis bliss too exqui

site

That
may with honour bear him to your arms.
Didst thou but hear how tenderly he talks,
How blames the dull delay of Alban councils,
And chides the lingering minutes as they pass,
Till fate determines, and the tedious chiefs
Permit his absence, thou wouldst pity him.
But soon, my sister, soon shall every bar,
Which thwarts thy happiness, be far away.
We are no longer enemies to Alba ;
This day unites us, and to-morrow's sun
May hear my vows, and make my friend my bro-
ther.

Hor. [Having talked apart with VALERIA.] 'Tis truly Roman. Here's a maid, Horatia, Laments her brother lost the glorious proof Of dying for his country. Come, my son, Her softness will infect thee; prithee, leave her. Horatia. [Looking first on her father, and then tenderly on her brother.] Not till my soul has poured its wishes for him.— Hear me, dread God of War! protect and save him! [Kneeling.

For thee, and thy immortal Rome, he fights! Dash the proud spear from every hostile hand That dare oppose him! may each Alban chief Fly from his presence, or his vengeance feel! And when in triumph he returns to Rome,

[Rising.

Hail him, ye maids, with grateful songs of praise, And scatter all the blooming spring before him; Cursed be the envious brow that smiles not then, Cursed be the wretch that wears one mark of

And softens all the joys of social life.

We leave her to her tears.-For you, young soldier,

You must prepare for combat. Some few hours
Are all that are allowed you. But, I charge you,
Try well your heart, and strengthen every thought
Of patriot in you. Think, how dreadful 'tis
To plant a dagger in the breast you love;

To spurn the ties of nature, and forget,

In one short hour, whole years of virtuous friendship.

Think well on that.

Pub. I do, my gracious sovereign;

And think, the more I dare subdue affection,
The more my glory.

Tul. True; but yet consider,

Is it an easy task to change affections?
In the dread onset can your meeting eyes
Forget their usual intercourse, and wear
At once the frown of war and stern defiance?
Will not each look recal the fond remembrance
Of childhood past, when the whole open soul
Breathed cordial love, and plighted many a vow
Of tenderest import? Think on that, young sol-
dier,

And tell me if thy breast be still urmoved?
Pub. Think not, oh, king, howe'er resolved on
combat,

I sit so loosely to the bonds of nature,
As not to feel their force. I feel it strongly.
I love the Curiatii, and would serve them

At life's expence: but here a nobler cause
Demands my sword: for all connections else,
All private duties, are subordinate
To what we owe the public. Partial ties
Of son and father, husband, friend, or brother,
Owe their enjoyments to the public safety,
And without that were vain. Nor need we, sir,
Cast off humanity, and, to be heroes,
Cease to be men. As in our earliest days,
While yet we learned the exercise of war,
We strove together, not as enemies,
Yet conscious each of his peculiar worth,
And scorning each to yield; so will we now
Engage with ardent, not with hostile minds,
Not fired with rage, but emulous of fame.

Tul. Now I dare trust thee; go and teach
thy brothers

To think like thee, and conquest is your own.
This is true courage, not the brutal force
Of vulgar heroes, but the firm resolve
Of virtue and of reason. He, who thinks,,
Without their aid, to shine in deeds of arms,
Builds on a sandy basis his renown;
A dream, a vapour, or an ague fit
May make a coward of him.-Come, Horatius,
Thy other sons shall meet you at the camp,
For now I do bethink me, 'tis not fit
They should behold their sister thus alarmed.
Haste, soldier, and detain them.

[To one of the guards,

Hor. Gracious sir,
We'll follow on the instant.

Tul. Then, farewell! When next we meet, 'tis Rome and liberty! [Exit with guards.

Hor. Come, let me arm thee for the glorious

toil.

I have a sword, whose lightning oft has blazed
Dreadfully fatal to my country's foes;
Whose tempered edge has cleft their haughty

crests,

And stained with life-blood many a recking plain. This shalt thou bear; myself will gird it on, And lead thee forth to death or victory. [Going.

-And yet, my Publius, shall I own my weakness?

Though I detest the cause from whence they spring,

I feel thy sister's sorrows like a father.
She was my soul's delight.

Pub. And may remain so.

This sudden shock has but alarmed her virtue,
Not quite subdued its force. At least, my father,
Time's lenient hand will teach her to endure
The ills of chance, and reason conquer love.
Hor. Should we not see her?
Pub. By no means, my lord;
You heard the king's commands about my bro-
thers,

And we have hearts as tender sure as they.
Might I advise, you should confine her closely,
Lest she infect the matrons with her grief,
And bring a stain we should not wish to fix
On the Horatian name.