The fear of death, still brave the pow'r of fortune !
But thou begin❜st to droop!
Ven. My eyes grow dizzy.
Dum. Keep firm, my heart.
Ven. A heaviness, like sleep,
O'ercomes my senses- –Every limb is faint-
Thy voice is scarce distinguish'd in my ears.
Dum. Indeed!
Ven. Alas, thou look'st so kindly on me!
My weak and darken'd sight deceives me sure,
Or thy fond eye did never yet o'erflow
With tenderness like this.
Dum. I never view'd thee
For the last time.
Ven. Look, look upon me still
Why dost thou turn thy face away?
Dum. For nothing.
Ven. Nay, thou art weeping, Dumnorix--And
Wouldst thou conceal thy tears?
Dum. I cannot hide them.
Ven. And dost thou weep?
Ven. Then didst thou love me
With such excess of fondness? For Venusia
Do these soft streams bedew that awful face?
Dum. Love thee! Behold, when Albion groans
Yet thou these springs of tenderness canst open,
To wet the cheeks of British Dumnorix.
Fen. Oh, ecstacy! which stops my parting soul,
And gives it vigour to enjoy these transports!-
Once more receive me to thy breast.
Ven. Thy tenderness makes death delightful to me→ Oh, I would speak!-would answer to thy kindness-→→ My falt'ring tongue
Dum. What say'st thou ?
Ven. Cease to grieve→→→
No pain molests me-every thought is calm—
Support my drowsy burthen to that couch
Where death-serenely smiles.
Enter FLAMINIUS, speaking to the Romans behind the Scene.
Flam. My warlike friends,
Keep back-Our troops on ev'ry side advance;
I cannot long control them. Yet I tremble
To enter there--By Heav'n, he lives, and sees me!
Re-enter DUMNORIX with his Sword drawn.
Dum. Importunate Flaminius! art thou come To rob my dying moments of their quiet? Flam. Forgive the crime of ignorance-Forgive, Since accident hath join'd us once again, If strong compassion at thy fate, yet pleads Dum. What, when Venusia is no more? Flam. No more!
Dum. No; and be further lesson'd by a Briton, Who, since his union with the best of women, Hath never known an interval from love,
And at this solemn pause yet melts in fondness;
While death's black curtain shrouds my cold Venusia,
Of dearer value doth my soul esteem her,
Than should those eyes rekindle into lustre,
And ev'ry charm revive with double pow'r
Of winning beauty, if alone to shine
Amid the gloom of bondage.
Flam. I will urge
No more. Farewell our legions hover nigh. [Exit.
Dum. Now in my breast resume thy wonted seat,
Thou manly firmness, which so oft has borne me
Through ev'ry toil and danger. Oh, return,
Rise o'er my sorrow, and complete thy last,
Thy highest task, to close a life of glory-
They come !-Be swift, my sword-By thee to fall,
Near that dear clay extended, best becomes
A soldier's courage, and a husband's love.
Enter ANOBARBUS, FLAMINIUS, and Romans.
Enob. To Boadicea's quarter I advanc'd,
At thy request, who, since her last defeat,
Blind with despair and disappointed fury,
Fled to her tent; expiring there I found her,
With one ill-fated daughter, both by poison:
Nor had the friendly Emmeline escap'd,
But by the swift prevention of my hand.
Dost thou not thank me, whose suggestion prompted
Our quick return to seize the secret pass?
Thou gav'st me freedom; love and fame repay thee.
Flam. If thou couldst add, that Dumnorix sur
Enob. [Looking into the tent.] Thou seest the gods have otherwise decreed.
Forbear to mingle vain regret with conquest.
He hath done nobly. Fair befall his urn.
Death is his triumph, which a captive life
Had forfeited to Rome, with all the praise
Now from the virtuous to his ashes due.
Flam. Then art thou fall'n at last, thou mighty
And more than Roman edifice of glory?
See, too, Venusia, pale in death's embrace,
Presents her faded beauties. Lovely ruin!
Of ev'ry grace and virtue once the seat,
The last kind office from my hand receive,
Which shall unite thee to thy husband's side,
And to one grave your mingling reliques trust.
There soon a hallow'd monument shall rise;
Insculptor'd laurel with the myrtle twin'd,
The well-wrought stone adorning, shall proclaim
His gen❜rous valour, and thy faithful love.
Now we have shewn the fatal fruits of strife,
A hero bleeding with a virtuous wife,
A field of war embru'd with nations' gore,
Which to the dust the hopes of Albion bore:
If weak description, and the languid flow
Of strains unequal to this theme of woe,
Have fail'd to move the sympathising breast,
And no soft eyes their melting sense express'd,
Not all the wit this after scene might share
Can give success where you refus'd a tear ;
Much less, if happ❜ly still the poet's art
Hath stol'n persuasive to the feeling heart,
Will he with fancy's wanton hand efface
From gen'rous minds compassion's pleasing trace;
Nor from their thoughts, while pensive they pursue
This maze of sorrow, snatch the moral clue.
If yet to him those pow'rs of sacred song
To melt the heart, and raise the mind, belong,
Dar'd he to hope this sketch of early youth
Might stand th' award of nature and of truth,
Encourag'd thus, hereafter might he soar
With double strength, and loftier scenes explore,
And, following fortune through her various wiles,
Shew struggling virtue, dress'd in tears, or smiles;
Perhaps his grateful labours would requite
With frequent off'rings one propitious night.
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