Continues. Enter HORATIA and VALERIA.
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 damp'd, at least, if not effac'd his passion ?
I know not what to think.
Valeria. Think, my Horatia,
That you're a lover, and have learn'd 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
Has brought him back thus early. Oh, my heart! I long, yet dread to ask him. Speak, Valeria.
Valeria. You're soon return'd, my lord.
Horatius. Return'd, Valeria!
My life, my youth's return'd, I tread in air I
-I cannot speak; my joy's too great for utterance.
-Oh, I could weep-my sons, my sons are chosen
Their country's combatants; not one, but all!
Horatia. My brothers, said you, sir?
Horatius. All three, my child,
All three are champions in the cause of Rome.
Oh, happy state of fathers! thus to feel
New warmth revive, and springing life renew'd
Even on the margin of the grave!
Valeria. The time
Of combat, is it fix'd?
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 resolutions of the Alban senate.
And soon may they arrive, that ere we quit
Yon hostile field, the chiefs who dar'd oppose
Rome's rising glories, may with shame confess
The gods protect the empire they have rais'd.
Where are thy smiles, Horatia? Whence proceeds
This sullen silence, when my thronging joys
Want words to speak them? Pr'ythee, talk of empire,
Talk of those darlings of my soul, thy brothers.
Call them whate'er wild fancy can suggest,
Their country's pride, the boast of future times,
The dear defence, the guardian gods of Rome!-
By Heaven, thou stand'st unmov'd, nor feels thy
The charms of glory, the extatic warmth
Which beams new life, and lifts us nearer Heaven! Horatia. My gracious father, with surprise and transport
I heard the tidings, as becomes your daughter.
And like your daughter, were our sex allow'd
The noble privilege which man usurps,
Could die with pleasure in my country's cause.
But yet, permit a sister's weakness, sir,
To feel the pangs of nature, and to dread
The fate of those she loves, however glorious.
And sure they cannot all survive a conflict
So desperate as this.
Horatius. 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!
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 [Embracing him.
But wherefore art thou absent from the camp?
Where are thy brothers? Has the Aiban 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 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 grac'd
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 !
Horatius. Oh, virtuous pride!-'tis bliss too ex-
For human sense !-thus, let me answer thee.
'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 shall not need,
Myself will to the field. Come, let us haste,
My old blood boils, and my tumultuous spirits
Pant for the onset. O, for one short hour
Of vigorous youth, that I might share the toil
Now with my boys, and be the next my last l
Horatia. My brother!
Pub. My Horatia ere the dews
Of evening fall, thou shalt with transport own me;
Shalt hold thy country's saviour in thy arms,
Or bathe his honest bier with tears of joy.
Thy lover greets thee, and complains of absence
With many a sigh, 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 kind complaints himself, not trust his vows
To other tongues, or be oblig'd to tell
The passing winds his passion.
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 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 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 lost the glorious proof
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