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 hero

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.

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 offHoratia. [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. Re-enter VALERIUS.

Val. Oh, horror! horror! execrable act! If there be law in Rome; if there be justice, By Rome, and all its gods, thou shalt not 'scape.

[Exit.

Re-enter PUBLIUS, followed by HORATIA, wounded.

Horatia. Now, thou'st indeed been kind, and I forgive you

The death of Curiatius; this last blow
Has cancelled all, and thou'rt again my brother.
Hor. Heavens! what a sight!

A daughter bleeding by a brother's hand!
My child! my child!

Horatia. What means this tenderness? I

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

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,

In the behalf of murdered innocence;
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

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 em brace

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,

Who pour'd her sorrows on Horatia's bier,
That still retains so much of flesh and blood,
She'd fairly hang her brother, if she could.
Why, ladies, to be sure, if that be all,
At your tribunal he must stand or fall.
Whate'er his country, or his sire decreed,
You are his judges now, and he must plead,
Like other culprit youths, he wanted grace;
But could have no self-interest in the case.
Had she been wife, or mistress, or a friend,
It might have answer'd some convenient end:

But a mere sister, whom he lov❜d-to take
Her life away, and for his country's sake!
Faith, ladies, you may pardon him; indeed
There's very little fear the crime should spread.
True patriots are but rare among the men,
And really might be useful now and then.
Then do not check, by your disapprobation,
A spirit which might rule the British nation,
And still might rule-would you but set the
fashion.

Org. How nobly does this venerable wood,
Gilt with the glories of the orient sun,
Embosom yon
fair mansion! The soft air
Salutes me with most cool and temp'rate breath;
And, as I tread the flow'r-besprinkled lawn,
Sends up a gale of fragrance. I should guess,
If e'er Content deign'd visit mortal clime,
This was her place of dearest residence.
Grant, Heav'n, I find it such! 'Tis now three
months,

Since first earl Athelwold espous'd my daughter.
He then besought me, for some little space,
The nuptials might be secret: many reasons,
He said, induc'd to this: I made no pause,
But, resting on his prudence, to his will
Gave absolute concurrence. Soon as married,
He to this secret seat convey'd Elfrida;
Convey'd her as by stealth, enjoy'd, and left her:
Yet not without I know not what excuse
Of call to court, of Edgar's royal friendship,
And England's welfare. To his prince he went:
And since, as by intelligence I gather,
He oft returns to this his cloister'd wife;
But ever with a privacy most studied,
Borrowing disguises till inventive art
Can scarce supply him with variety.
His visits, as they're stol'n, are also short;
Seldom beyond the circuit of one sun;
Then back to court, while she his absence mourns

Full many a lonely hour. I brook not this.
Had Athelwold espous'd some base-born peasant,
This usage had been apt; but when he took
My daughter to his arms, he took a virgin,
Through whose rich veins the blood of British
kings

Ran in unsullied stream. Her lineage sure
Might give her place and notice with the noblest
In Edgar's court. Elfrida's beauty too
(I speak not from a father's foolish fondness)
Would shine amid the fairest, and reflect
No vulgar glory on that beauty's master.
This act bespeaks the madman. Who that own'd
An em'rald, jasper, or chrysolite,

Would hide its lustre, or not bid it blaze
Conspicuous on his brow? Haply Athelwold
May have espous'd some other. 'Sdeath, he
durst not!

My former feats in arms must have inform'd him,

That Orgar, while he liv'd, would never prove
A traitor to his honour. If he has-
This aged arm is not so much unstrung
By slack'ning years, but just revenge will brace it.
And, by yon awful heav'n-But hold, my rage!
I came to search into this matter coolly.
Hence, to conceal the father and the earl,
This pilgrim's staff, and scrip, and all these marks
Of vagrant poverty.