ACT II.

SCENE continues.

Enter Horatia and Valeria.

HORATIA.

ALAS how eafly do we admit

The thing we wish were true! yet fure,' Valeria,

This feeming negligence of Curiatius

Betrays a fecret coldness at the heart.

May not long abfence, or the charms of war,
Have damp'd, at least, if not effac'd his paffion?
I know not what to think.

Valeria. Think, my Horatia,

That you're a lover, and have learn'd the art
To raise vain fcruples, and torment yourself
With every distant hint of fancied ill.
Your Curiatius ftill remains the fame.
My brother idly trifled with your paffion,

Or might perhaps unheedingly relate

What you too nearly feel. But fee, your father.

Horatia. He feems tranfported; fure fome happy news Has brought him back thus early. Oh, my heart! I long, yet dread to afk him. Speak, Valeria.

Enter Horatius.

Valeria. You're foon return'd, my Lord.
Horatius. Return'd, Valeria!

My life, my youth's return'd, I tread in air!
-I cannot fpeak; my joy's too great for utterance.
-Oh, I cou'd weep!-my fons, my fons are chosen
Their country's combatants; not one, but all!
Horatia. My brothers, faid you, Sir?
Horatius, All three, my child,

All three are champions in the caufe of Rome.
Oh, happy state of fathers! thus to feel

New warmth revive, and fpringing life renew'd
Even on the margin of the grave!

Valeria. The time

Of combat, is it fix'd ?

Hora

Horatius. This day, this hour

Perhaps decides our doom.

Valeria. And is it known
With whom they must engage?
Horatius. Not yet, Valeria;

But with impatience we expect each moment
The refolutions of the Alban fenate.

And foon may they arrive, that ere we quit
Yon hoftile field, the chiefs who dar'd oppofe
Rome's rifing glories, may with shame confefs
The gods protect the empire they have rais'd.
Where are thy fmiles, Horatia? Whence proceeds
This fullen filence, when my thronging joys
Want words to speak them? Pr'ythee, talk of empire,
Talk of those darlings of my foul, thy brothers.
Call them whate'er wild fancy can fuggeft,
Their country's pride, the boast of future times,
The dear defence, the guardian gods of Rome !-
By Heaven, thou ftand'st unmov'd, nor feels thy breaft
The charms of glory, the extatic warmth

Which beams new life, and lifts us nearer heaven!

Horatia. My gracious father, with furprize and tranf

I heard the tidings, as becomes your daughter.
And like your daughter, were our fex allow'd
The noble privilege which man ufurps,
Could die with pleasure in my country's caufe.
But yet permit a fifter's weakness, Sir,
To feel the pangs of nature, and to dread
The fate of thofe fhe loves, however glorious.
And fure they cannot all furvive a conflict
So defperate as this.

Horatius. Survive! By Heaven,

I could not hope that they fhould all furvive.
No; let them fall. If from their glorious deaths
Rome's freedom fpring, I fhall be nobly paid
For every sharpeft pang the parent feels.
Had I a thoufand fons, in fuch a cause
I could behold them bleeding at my feet,
And thank the gods with tears!

Enter Publius Horatius.

Pub. My father!
Horatius. Hence!

I

[port

[Offering to kneel

Kneel

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 foul's too full;

Let this and this fpeak for me.-Bless thee, bless thee!
[Embracing him.
But wherefore art thou abfent from the camp?
Where are thy brothers? Has the Alban state
Determin'd? Is the time of combat fix'd?

Pub. Think not, my Lord, that filial reverence
However due, had drawn me from the field,
Where nobler duty calls; a patriot's foul
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,
Elfe had I ftaid 'till wreaths immortal grac'd
My brows, and made thee proud indeed to fee
Beneath thy roof, and bending for thy bleffing,
Not thine, Horatius, but the fon of Rome!

Horatius. Oh, virtuous pride!-'tis blifs too exquifite For human fenfe !-thus, let me answer thee.

Where are my other boys ?

Pub. They only wait

[Embracing him again.

'Till Alba's loit'ring chiefs declare her champions,
Our future victims, Sir, and with the news
Will greet their father's ear.

Horatius. It hall not need,

Myfelf will to the field. Come, let us hafte,
My old blood boils, and my tumultuous fpirits
Pant for the onfet. O, for one short-hour:
Of vigorous youth, that I might share the toil
Now with my boys, and be the next my last!
Horatia. My brother!

Pub. My Horatia! ere the dews

Of evening fall thou fhalt with transport own me;
Shalt hold thy country's faviour in thy arms,
Or bathe his honest bier with tears of joy.

Thy lover greets thee, and complains of abfence
With many a figh, and many a longing look
Sent tow'rd the towers of Rome.

Horatia. Methinks, a lover

Might take th' advantage of the truce, and bear

His

His kind complaints himself, not trust his vows
To other tongues, or be oblig'd to tell
The paffing winds his paffion.

Pub. Deareft fifter,

He with impatience waits the lucky moment
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 ling'ring minutes as they pafs,
'Till fate determines, and the tedious chiefs
Permit his abfence, thou would'st pity him.
But foon, my fifter, foon fhall every bar
Which thwarts thy happiness be far away.
We are no longer enemies to Alba,
This day unites us, and to-morrow's fun
May hear thy vows, and make my friend my

brother.

Horatius. [Having talked apart with Valeria.] 'Tis truly Roman. Here's a maid, Horatia,

Laments her brother loft the glorious proof Of dying for his country.-Come, my fon, Her foftness will infect thee; pr'ythee, leave her. Horatia. [Looking firft on her father, and then tenderly on her brother. Not 'till my foul has pour'd its wishes for him.

Hear me, dread god of war, protect and fave him!

[Kneeling

[Rifing

For thee, and thy immortal Rome, he fights!
Dash the proud fpear from every hoftile hand
That dares oppofe him; may each Alban chief
Fly from his prefence, or his vengeance feel!
And when in triumph he returns to Rome,
Hail him, ye maids, with grateful fongs of praise,
And scatter all the blooming spring before him ;
Curs'd be the envious brow that fmiles not then,
Curs'd be the wretch that wears one mark of forrow,
Or flies not thus with open arms to greet him.

Enter Tullus Hoftilius, Valerius, and Guards.
Valerius. The King, my Lord, approaches.
Horatius. Gracious Sir,

Whence comes this condefcenfion?

Tullus. Good old man ;

Could I have found a nobler meffenger,

I would

I would have fpar'd myself th' ungrateful task
Of this day's embaffy, for much I fear
My news will want a welcome.

Horatius. Mighty King!

Forgive an old man's warmth

They have not fure

Made choice of other combatants !-My fons,

Muft they not fight for Rome?

Tullus. Too fure they must.

Horatius. Then I am bleft!

Tullus. But that they muft engage

Will hurt thee moff, when thou shalt know with whom.

Horatius. I care not whom.

Tullus. Suppofe your nearest friends

The Curiatii were the Alban choice,

Could you bear that? Could you, young man, fupport

A conflict there?

Pub. I could perform my duty,

Great Sir, though even a brother should oppose me.

Tullus. Thou art a Roman! Let thy king embrace thee. Horatius. And let thy father catch thee from his arms, Tullus. [To Publius.] Know then that trial must be thine. The Albans

With envy faw one family produce

Three chiefs, to whom their country dared entrust
The Roman cause, and fcorn'd to be outdone.

. Horatia. Then I am loft indeed; was it for this,

For this, I pray'd!

Pub. My fifter!

Valeria. My Horatia! Ob, fupport her!

[Savoons.

Horatius. Oh, foolish girl, to shame thy father thus! Here, bear her in.

Horatia is carried in, Valerius and Valeria follow.

I am concern'd, my fovereign,

That even the meanest part of me should blast

With impious grief a caufe of fo much glory.

But let the virtue of my boy excufe it.

Tullus. It does moft amply. She has caufe for forrow. The fhock was fudden, and might well alarm A firmer bofom. The weak fex demand Our pity, not our anger; their soft breasts

'Are nearer touch'd, and more expos'd to forrows Than man's experter fenfe. Nor let us blame

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