When difcontent fits heavy at my heart.
I have not yet fo much the Roman in me.
Why doft thou caft out such ungenerous terms
Against the lords and fovereigns of the world?
Doft thou not fee mankind fall down before them,
And own the force of their fuperior virtue?
Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,
Amidft our barren rocks and burning fands,
That does not tremble at the Roman name?
Gods! where's the worth that sets this people up
Above your own Numidia's tawny fons!
Do they with tougher finews bend the bow?
Or flies the javelin fwifter to its mark,
Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm?
Who like our active African inftructs
The fiery steed, and trains him to his hand?
Or guides in troops th' embattled elephant,
Loaden with war? Thefe, thefe are arts, my Prince,
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.
These all are virtues of a meaner rank,
Perfections that are plac'd in bones and nerves.
A Roman foul is bent on higher views:
To civilize the rude unpolish'd world,
And lay it under the restraint of laws;
To make man mild and fociable to man;
To cultivate the wild licentious favage
With wisdom, difcipline, and liberal arts ;
Th' embellishments of life: virtues like these
Make human nature fhine, reform the foul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.
Patience, kind heavens !-Excufe an old man's wrath. What are these wondrous civilizing arts,
This Roman polish, and this fmooth behaviour,
That render man thus tractable and tame ?
Are they not only to disguise our paffions,
To fet our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the starts and fallies of the foul,
And break-off all its commerce with the tongue;
In fhort, to change us into other creatures
Than what our nature and the gods defign'd us?
JUB.A.
To ftrike thee dumb: turn up thine eyes to Cato!
There may'it thou fee to what a godlike height
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man.
While good, and juft, and anxious for his friends,
He's ftiil feverely bent against himself;
Renouncing fleep, and reft, and food, and ease,
He ftrives with thirft and hunger, toil and heat ;
And when his fortune fets before him all
The pomps and pleafures that his foul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.\
Believe me, Prince, there 's not an African
That traverfes our vaft Numidian deferts
In queft of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises these boasted virtues.
Coarfe are his meals, the fortune of the chase,
Amidst the running stream he flakes his thirst,
Toils all the day, and at the approach of night
On the first friendly bank he throws him down,
Or refts his head upon a rock till morn :
Then rifes fresh, purfues his wonted game,
And if the following day he chance to find
A new repaft, or an untasted spring,
Bleffes his ftars, and thinks it luxury.
Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't difcern What virtues grow from ignorance and choice, Nor how the hero differs from the brute.
But grant that others could with equal glory
Look down on pleasures and the baits of sense;
Where shall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
Heavens, with what ftrength, what steadiness of mind,
He triumphs in the midst of all his fufferings!
How does he rise against a load of woes,
And thank the gods that throw the weight upon him!
'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of foul:
I think the Romans call it Stoicifm.
Had not your royal father thought fọ highly
Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's caufe,
He had not fall'n by a flave's hand inglorious
Nor would his flaughter'd army now have lain
On Afric's fands, disfigur'd with their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.
Why do'st thou call my forrows up afresh? My father's name brings tears into my eyes.
Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills !
What would'ft thou have me do?
Syphax, I fhould be more than twice an orphan
Ay, there's the tie that binds you!
You long to call him father. Marcia's charms
Work in your heart unfeen, and plead for Cato.
No wonder you are deaf to all I fay.
Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate; I've hitherto permitted it to rave,
And talk at large; but learn to keep it in,
Left it should take more freedom than I'll give it.
Sir, your great father never us'd me thus.
Alas, he 's dead! but can you e'er forget
The tender forrows, and the pangs of nature,
The fond embraces, and repeated bleffings,
Which you drew from him in your last farewell?
Still muft I cherish the dear fad remembrance,
At once to torture and to please my foul.
The good old king, at parting, wrung my hand,
(His eyes brim-full of tears) then fighing cry'd,
Pr'ythee be careful of my fon !-his grief
Swell'd up fo high he could not utter more.
JUBA.
Alas, thy ftory melts away my foul.
That beft of fathers! how fhall I discharge
The gratitude and duty, which I owe him!
By laying up his counsels in your heart.
His counfels bade me yield to thy directions: Then, Syphax, chide me in feverest terms, Vent all thy paffion, and I'll stand its shock, Calin and unruffled as a fummer-fea,
When not a breath of wind flies o'er its furface.
Alas, my prince, I'd guide you to your fafety.
I do believe thou would't; but tell me how?
Fly from the fate that follows Cæfar's foes..
My father fcorn'd to do't.
SYPHAX.
Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths,
|