Who check'd his conquests, and denied his triumphs. I Why will not Ca'to be this Cæsar's friend? | Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urg'd`, forbid it. | And reason with you, as from friend to friend; | As on the second of mankind. | No more Cato. Dec. Cæsar is well acquainted with your virtues, | And therefore sets this value on your life. Let him but know the price' of Cato's friendship, | Cato. Bid him disband his legions, | Restore the commonwealth to liberty, | Submit his actions to the public censure, | And stand the judgment of a Roman senate. [ Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wis'dom—| Cato. Nay, more'- though Cato's voice | was ne'er employ'd To clear the guilty, | and to varnish crimes, | Dec. A style like this becomes a con'queror. | And at the head of your own little senate; | Cato. Let him consider that, who drives us hither. | 'Tis Cæsar's sword has made Rome's senate little, |, And thinn'd its ranks. | Alas! thy dazzled eye | Should never buy me to be like that Cæsar. Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to Cæsar, | For all his generous cares, and proffer'd friendship? | Cato. His cares for me, are insolent, and vain'.] Presumptuous man! | the gods' take care of Cato. | Would Cæsar show the greatness of his soul, Let him employ his care for these my friends'; | And make good use of his ill-gotten power, By shelt'ring men much better than himself. | Dec. Your high unconquer'd heart makes you forget You are a man. You rush on your destruction. | But I have done. When I relate hereafter | The tale of this unhappy embassy, | All Rome, will be in tears. Cato, we thank' thee.. Semp. The mighty genius of immortal Rome', I Speaks in thy voice: | thy soul breathes lib'erty. | Cæsar will shrink to hear the words thou utter❜st, | And shudder in the midst of all his conquests. | Luc. The senate owes its gratitude to Cato | Who, with so great a soul, consults its safety, And guards our' lives, while he neglects his own. Semp. Sempronius gives no thanks on this account. Lucius seems fond of life'; | but what is life? | 'Tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air From time to time, or gaze upon the sun': | 'Tis to be free'. When liberty is gone, | Life grows insipid, and has lost its relish. I O could my dying hand | but lodge a sword In Cæsar's bosom, and revenge my country, | And smile in agony! | Luc. Others, perhaps, | May serve their country with as warm a zeal, | Cato. Come-no more', Sempronius, | All here are friends to Rome, and to each other- By our divisions. | Semp. Cato, my resentments Are sacrificed to Rome | I stand reprov'd. Į Cato. Fathers, 't is time you come to a resolve. [ Semp. We ought to hold it out till death'- | but, Cato, My private voice is drown'd amidst the senate's. | Cato. Then let us rise, my friends', and strive to fill This little interval, this pause of life, While yet our liberty, and fates are doubtful, | That heaven may say it ought to be prolong'd. THANATOPSIS.* (W. C. BRYANT.) To him who, in the love of Nature, holds *Thanatopsis (Greek), from thanatos, death, and opsis, sighta view of death. And eloquence of beauty; and she glides When thoughts Of the last bitter hour, come like a blight Of the stern, agony, and shroud', | and pall', | To Nature's teachings, while from all around — Yet a few days, ❘ and thee The all-beholding sun | shall see no more' | In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground`, | Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, Thy image. Earth that nourish'd thee, shall claim To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock', | And to the sluggish clod | which the rude swain | The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. | I Yet not to thy eternal resting-place, | Shalt thou retire alone、 nor couldst thou wish' | Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings', I | The powerful of the earth the wise, the good', | Fair forms, and hoary seers' of ages past', | All in one mighty sepulchre. | a Sad images; not sad-dim'a-ges. b Stern agony; not stern-nag'go-ny. The hills, | Rock-ribb'd, and ancient as the sun'; the vales', Are but the solemn decorations all', Of the great tomb of man. | The golden sun, | The planets, all the infinite host of heav'n, | So shalt thou' rest and what if thou shalt fall, | As the long train The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes a Sad abodes; not sad'der-bodes. But a handful; not butter handful. |