And bid, by one brave act, the Horatian name
In fame's eternal volumes be enrolled.
Methinks already I behold his triumph!
Rome gazes on him like a second founder;
The wondering eye of childhood views with awe
The new divinity; and trembling age
Crowds eager on to bless him ere it dies!
Ere long, perhaps, they will raise altars to him,
And even with hymns and sacrifice adore
The virtue I suspected!-Gracious Heaven!
Where is he? Let me fly, and at his feet
Forget the father, and implore a pardon
For such injustice.

Val. You may soon, my lord,

In his embraces lose the fond remembrance
Of your mistaken rage. The king, ere this,
Has from the field dispatched him; he but staid
Till he could send him home with some slight

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? Stream my sad eyes, or heaves my breast one groan?

No: for I doubt no longer. 'Tis not grief, 'Tis resolution now, and fixed despair. Valeria. My dear Horatia, you strike terrors through me;

What dreadful purpose hast thou formed? Oh, speak!

Val. 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?

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

Horatia. What?

Val. Your brother wears in triumph The very scarf I bore to Curiatius.

Horatia. [Wildly.] Ye gods, I thank ye! 'tis with joy I hear it.

If I should faulter now, that sight would rouse My drooping rage, and swell the tempest louder -But soft; they may prevent me; wild pas

sion

Betrays my purpose.-I'll dissemble with them. [She sits down.

Val. She softens now.

Valeria. How do you, my Horatia ?
Horatia. Alas, my friend, 'tis madness which
I utter-

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.

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

If left alone, do outrage on herself?

Valeria. I have prevented that; she has not near her

One instrument of death.

Val. Retire we then;

But, oh, not far! for now I feel my soul
Still more perplexed 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 doats 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 cancelled 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 robbed me of all means of death.
Vain thought! they knew not half Horatia's pur-

pose.

Be resolute, my brother; let no weak,
Unmanly fondness mingle with thy virtue,
And I will touch thee nearly. Oh, come on!
'Tis thou alone canst give Horatia peace. [Erit.

SCENE I-A Street of Rome.

Chorus of Youths and Virgins singing, and scattering branches of oak, flowers, &c. Then enters 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.

A Youth. Scatter here the laurel crown,
Emblem of immortal praise!
Wondrous youth! to thy renown
Future times shall altars raise.

A Virgin. Scatter here the myrtle wreath,

Though the bloodless victor's due; Grateful thousands saved from death Shall devote that wreath to you.

A Youth. Scatter here the oaken bough;
Even for one averted fate,
We that civic meed bestow-

He saved all who saved the state.

Chorus. Thus, for freedom, &c.

Hor. Thou dost forgive me then, my dearest
boy?

I cannot tell thee half my ecstasy.
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
Pour forth your joy, and tell the listening spheres,
That Rome is freed by my Horatius' hand!

Pub. No more, my friends.You must permit me, sir,

To contradict you here. Not but my soul,
Like yours, 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
Confess it just, and listen to its music.
But now the toils I have sustained require
Their interval of rest, and every sense
Is deaf to pleasure-Let me leave you, friends;
We're near our home, and would be private now:
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?
Hor. My daughter's voice!

I bade her come; she has forgot her sorrows,

And is again my child.

Horatia. Is this the bero

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 murdered Curiatius !
Pub. He perished for his country.
Horatia. Gracious gods!

Was't not enough that thou hadst murdered him,
But thou must triumph in thy guilt, and wear
His bleeding spoils?-Oh, let me tear them from
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!
Hor. 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 touched
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 complain

ing.

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;

Thou'st touched a string which may awake my

vengeance.

Horatia. [Aside.] Then it shall do it. Pub. Oh, if thou dar'st prophane

That sacred tie which winds about my heart,
By Heaven I swear, by the great gods who rule
The fate of empires, 'tis not this fond weakness
Which hangs upon me, and retards my justice,
Nor even thy sex, which shall protect thee from
me. [Clapping his hand on his sword.
Hor. Drag her away-thou'lt make me curse
thee, girl-

Indeed she's mad.

[To PUBLIUS. Horatia. Stand off, I am not madNay, draw thy sword; I do defy thee, murderer, Barbarian, Roman!-Mad! The name of Rome Makes madmen of you all; my curses on it! I do detest its impious policy.

Rise, rise, ye states! (oh, that my voice could fire
Your tardy wrath!) confound its selfish greatness,
Raze its proud walls, and lay its towers in ashes!
Pub. I'll bear no more-

[Drawing his sword.
Hor. Distraction !-Force her off-
Horatia. [Struggling.] Could I but prove the
Helen to destroy

This cursed unsocial state, I'd die with transport;
Gaze on the spreading fires-till the last pile
Sunk in the blaze-then mingle with its ruins.
Pub. Thou shalt not live to that.

[Exit after her. Thus perish all the enemies of Rome ! [Without.

thought to see you

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

Hor. 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

Through future ages.

Was all thy rage dissembled?
Horatia. Alas! my father!
All but my love was false; what that inspired
I uttered freely.

But for the rest, the curses which I poured
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 leaped to meet the welcome point,
Stained 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 shall share our joys,
Nor Rome, nor Alba, shall disturb us more.

[Dics.

Hor. 'Tis gone, the prop, the comfort of my age!

Let me reflect; this morn I had four children, No happier father hailed 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.

Hor. 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 without. Justice! Justice !] What noise is that?

Enter VOLSCINIUS..

Vols. All Rome, my lord, has taken the alarm, and crowds

Of citizens, enraged, are posting hither,
To call for justice on the head of Publius.
Hor. Ungrateful men! how dare they? Let
them come.

Enter TULLUS, VALERIUS, and Citizens. Val. See, fellow-citizens, see where she lies, The bleeding victim.

Tul. Stop, unmannered youth!

Think'st thou we know not wherefore we are

here?

Seest thou yon drooping sire?

Hor. Permit them, sir.

Tul. What would you, Romans?
Val. We are come, dread sir,

on death?

Murdered by him, the man

Hor. Whose conquering arm

Has saved you all from ruin. Oh, shame! shame!
Has Rome no gratitude? Do ye not blush
To think whom your insatiate rage pursues?
Down, down, and worship him.

1 Citizen. Does he plead for him?

2 Citizen. Does he forgive his daughter's death? Hor. He does,

And glories in it; glories in the thought,
That there's one Roman left who dares be grate-
ful.

If you are wronged, then what am I? Must I
Be taught my duty by the affected tears
Of strangers to my blood? Had I been wronged,
I know a father's right, and had not asked
This ready-talking sir to bellow for me,
And mouth my wrongs in Rome.

Val. Friends, countrymen, regard not what he says;

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

Hor. 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 extremest 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.

1 Citizen. How! loved her!

Pub. Fondly loved her;

And, under shew 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 loved her; and the pangs
I feel this moment, could you see my heart,
Would prove too plainly I am still her brother.
1 Citizen. He shall be saved.

Valerius has misled us.

All Citizens. Save him! save him! Tul. If yet a doubt remains, Behold that virtuous father, who could boast, 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. Hor. I am overpaid by that, nor claim I aught On their accounts; by high Heaven, I swear, I'd rather see him added to the heap, Than Rome enslaved.

1 Citizen. Oh, excellent Horatius! All Citizens. Save him! save him!

Tul. 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!

Hor. My son, my conqueror! 'twas a fatal

stroke,

But shall not wound our peace. This kind embrace

Shall spread a sweet oblivion o'er our sorrows;
Or if, in after times, though 'tis not long
That I shall trouble you, some sad remembrance
Should steal a sigh, and peevish age forget
Its resolution, only boldly say,

Thou sav'dst the state, and I'll intreat forgiveness.
Learn hence, ye Romans, on how sure a base
The patriot builds his happiness;

Grief may to grief in endless round succeed,
And nature suffer when our children bleed;
But still superior must that hero prove,
Whose first, best passion, is his country's love.
[Exeunt omnes.

LADIES, by me our courteous author sends
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 refin'd.
Ah, 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 toast,
'Tis there alone they find the joy sincere,

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 confest, Are the soft inmates of the feeling 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,