Then to thine own great heart remit my plea,
And doom as nature dictates.

Val. Peace, you'll anger him

Be silent and await! Oh, suffering mercy,
Plead in a father's heart, and speak for nature!

Bru. Come hither, Collatinus. The deep wound
You suffered in the loss of your Lucretia,

Demanded more than fortitude to bear:

I saw your agony-I felt your woe

Collatinus. You more than felt it: you revenged it, too.

Bru. But ah, my brother consul, your Lucretia

Fell nobly, as a Roman spirit should.

She fell a model of transcendant virtue.

Col. My mind misgives. What dost thou aim at, Brutus?
Bru. [Almost overpowered.]

hope:

That youth, my Titus, was my age's

I loved him more than language can express:

I thought him born to dignify the world.

Col. My heart bleeds for you-he may yet be saved-
Bru. [Firmly.] Consul, for Rome I live, not for myself.

I dare not trust my firmness in this crisis,

Warring against every thing my soul holds dear!
Therefore return without me to the Senate-

I ought not now to take a seat among them-
Haply my presence might restrain their justice.
Look that these traitors meet their trial straight,
And then despatch a messenger to tell me
How the wise fathers have disposed of--go!

Tit. A word for pity's sake. Before thy feet,
Humbled in soul, thy son and prisoner kneels.
Love is my plea: a father is my judge:
Nature my advocate! I can no more:

If these will not appease a parent's heart,

Strike through them all, and lodge thy vengeance here!
Bru. Break off! I will not, cannot hear thee further.
The affliction nature hath imposed on Brutus,

Brutus will suffer as he may.

Lictors, secure your prisoner. Point your axes

To the Senate. On!

[Exeunt all but Brutus.

After a pause of restless agony,]

Like a lost, guilty wretch, I look around
And start at every footstep, lest it bring
The fatal news of my poor son's conviction!

Oh, Rome, thou little knowest-no more.

It comes.

[Enter Valerius.]

Val. My friend, the Senate hath to thee transferred

The right of judgment on thy son's offense.

Bru. To me?

Val. To thee alone.

Bru. What of the rest?

Val. Their sentence is already passed: Even now, perhaps, the lictor's dreaded hand Cuts off their forfeit lives.

Bru. Sayst thou the Senate have to me referred The fate of Titus ?

Val. Such is their sovereign will.

They think you merit this distinguished honor.

A father's grief deserves to be revered :

Rome will approve whatever you decree.

Bru. And is his guilt established beyond doubt?

Val. Too clearly.

Bru. [With a burst of tears.] Oh, ye gods! ye gods!

[Collecting himself.] Valerius!

Val. What wouldst thou, noble Roman ?

Bru. 'Tis said thou hast pulled down thine house, Valerius,

The stately pile that with such cost was reared.

Val. I have; but what doth Brutus thence infer?

Bru. It was a goodly structure: I remember

How fondly you surveyed its rising grandeur.
With what a-fatherly-delight you summoned
Each grace and ornament, that might enrich
The-child-of your creation-till it swelled
To an imperial size, and overpeered
The petty citizens, that humbly dwelt
Under its lofty walls, in huts and hovels,
Like emmets at the foot of towering Etna:
Then, noble Roman, then, with patriot zeal,
Dear as it was, and valued, you condemned
And leveled the proud pile; and, in return,
Were by your grateful countrymen surnamed,
And shall to all posterity descend,—
Poplicola.

Val. Yes, Brutus, I conceive

The awful aim and drift of thy discourse-
But I conjure thee, pause! thou art a father.

Bru. I am a Roman consul. What, my friend,

Shall no one but Valerius love his country

Dearer than house, or property, or children?
Now, follow me ;-and in the face of heaven-
See, see, good Valerius, if Brutus

Feel not for Rome as warmly as Poplicola. [Exeunt.]

SCENE 2.-Interior of a Temple.

[Brutus seated on the tribunal.]

Bru. Romans, the blood which hath been shed this day

Hath been shed wisely. Traitors, who conspire

Against mature societies, may urge

Their acts as bold and daring; and though villains,

Yet they are manly villains-but to stab

The cradled innocent, as these have done,—
To strike their country in the mother-pangs,
And direct the dagger

To freedom's infant throat,—is a deed so black,
That my foiled tongue refuses it a name.

There is one criminal still left for judgment.

Let him approach.

[A pause.]

[Enter Titus, guarded.]

Pris-on-er-[The voice of Brutus falters, and is choked, and he exclaims, with violent emotion,]

Romans! forgive this agony of grief—

My heart is bursting-nature must have way—

I will perform all that a Roman should

I cannot feel less than a father ought:

[He becomes more calm.]

Well, Titus, speak-how is it with thee now?

Tell me, my son, art thou prepared to die?

Tit. Father! I call the powers of heaven to witness,

Titus dares die, when you have so decreed.

The gods will have me.

Bru. They will, my Titus;

Nor heaven, nor earth can have it otherwise.

The violated genius of thy country

Rears its sad head, and passes sentence on thee !

It seems as if thy fate were pre-ordained

To fix the reeling spirits of the people,

And settle the loose liberty of Rome.

'Tis fixed ;-oh, therefore, let not fancy cheat thee!

So fixed thy death, that 'tis not in the power

Of mortal man to save thee from the axe.

Tit. The axe! Oh, heavens !-then must I fall so basely?

What, shall I perish like a common felon?

Bru. How else do traitors suffer? Nay, Titus, more:
I must myself behold thee meet this shame of death,-
With all thy hopes and all thy youth upon thee,-
See thy head taken by the common axe.

All, if the gods can hold me to my purpose,―
Without a groan, without one pitying tear.

Tit. Die like a felon ?-ha! a common felon !-
But I deserve it all:-yet here I fail :

This ignominy quite unmans me!

Oh, Brutus, Brutus ! must I call you father,
Yet have no token of your tenderness,
No sign of mercy? not even leave to fall
As noble Romans fall, by my own sword?
Father, why should you make my heart suspect
That all your late compassion was dissembled ?
How can I think that you did ever love me?

Bru. Think that I love thee by my present passion,
By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here,
These sighs, that strain the very strings of life:
Let these convince you that no other cause
Could force a father thus to wrong his nature.
Tit. Oh, hold, thou violated majesty !

I now submit with calmness to my fate.
Come forth, ye executioners of justice—

Come, take my life,—and give it to my country!

Bru. Embrace thy wretched father. May the gods

Arm thee with patience in this awful hour.
The sovereign magistrate of injured Rome,
Bound by his high authority, condemns

A crime thy father's bleeding heart forgives.
Go-meet thy death with a more manly courage
Than grief now suffers me to show in parting;
And, while she punishes, let Rome admire thee!
No more! Farewell! eternally farewell!

Tit. Oh, Brutus! oh, my father!

Farewell, forever.

Bru. Forever.

Lictors, attend!-conduct your prisoner forth!

Val. [Rapidly and anxiously.] Whither ?

[All the characters bending forward with great anxiety.] Bru. To death! [All start.] When you do reach the spot,

My hand shall wave the signal for the act.

Then let the trumpet's sound proclaim it done!

[Titus is conducted out by the lictors.]

Poor youth! thy pilgrimage is at an end!
A few sad steps have brought thee to the brink
Of that tremendous precipice, whose depth
No thought of man can fathom. Justice now
Demands her victim! A little moment

And I am childless.-One effort, and 'tis past

Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free.

[Waves his hand.]
[Brutus falls.]

CCXIII.-THE YOUNG POETS.

FRED AND HARRY.

[Or, by altering a few words, KATE and LIZZIE.]

Harry. Fred, have you written your composition? Fred. No, I can't write poetry, and the teacher says he will take nothing else, you know. Besides, I don't like the subject. I should as soon think of writing a poem upon an old apron, as upon Industry.

H. There is not much room for imagination, but I'll tell you what, we can put our heads together, and write a poem between us. You know there's the Ant and the Sluggard, we can bring that in.

F. Good, good, so we can. Well, now start us with the first line.

H. No, you may do that. It is easier to begin, because I must match your rhyme, you know.

F. Well, how will this do?

"An ant upon an ant-hill sot." H. Sot, Fred, why a sot is a drunkard.

F. Well, then,

"An ant upon an ant-hill sat."

H. That is a good line, but what in the world would an industrious ant be sitting on an ant-hill for?

F. To rest herself, to be sure. Come, now match my line, will you.

"An ant upon an ant-hill sot-sat."

"I wonder what she can be at."