Tresham del.

THE ROMAN FATHER

Horaba Ohle me hacten to those happier clim
Where unmolested w marchart

A. Smith

Londen. Printed for J.Bell British Library, Strand, Cat201792.

It was not madness, but the firm result
Of settled reason, and deliberate thought.
I was resolv'd 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.

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 inspir'd
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 mov'd !
How my heart leap'd to meet the welcome point,
Stain'd with the life-blood of my Curiatius,
Cementing thus our union ev'n 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 dar'd 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 sav'd 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 enrag'd, are posting hither,

To call for justice on the head of Publius.
Horatius. Ungrateful men how dare they? Let

them come.

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

Tullus. Stop, unmanner'd youth!

es

Think'st thou we know not wherefore we are here?

eest thou yon drooping sire?

Horatius. Permit them, sir.

Tullus. What would you, Romans ? Valerius. We are come, dread sir, the behalf of murder'd innocence; Murder'd by him, the man

Horatius. Whose conquering arm

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

1st Citizen. Does he plead for him?

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

And glories in it, glories in the thought

That there's one Roman left who dares be grateful;
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.

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

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.

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