Of prostrate Rome, the senate's joint applause, The riches of the earth, the train of pleasures That wait on youth, and arbitrary sway:
These were your gift, and with them you bestow'd The very power he has to be ungrateful.
Agrip. Thus ever grave and undisturb'd reflection Pours its cool dictates in the madding ear
Of rage, and thinks to quench the fire it feels not. Say'st thou I must be cautious, must be silent, And tremble at the phantom I have raised? Carry to him thy timid counsels. He
Perchance may heed 'em : tell him too, that one Who had such liberal power to give, may still With equal power resume that gift, and raise A tempest that shall shake her own creation To its original atoms-tell me! say This mighty emperor, this dreaded hero, Has he beheld the glittering front of war? Knows his soft ear the trumpet's thrilling voice, And outcry of the battle? Have his limbs Sweat under iron harness? Is he not The silken son of dalliance, nurs'd in ease And pleasure's flow'ry lap-Rubellius lives, And Sylla has his friends, though school'd by fear To bow the supple knee, and court the times With shows of fair obeisance; and a call, Like mine, might serve belike to wake pretensions
1 In Gray's MS. Agrippina's was one continued speech from this line to the end of the scene. Mr. Mason informs us that he has altered it to the state in which it now stands.-[Mit.]
Drowsier than theirs, who boast the genuine blood Of our imperial house.
Acer. Did I not wish to check this dangerous passion,
I might remind my mistress that her nod
Can rouse eight hardy legions, wont to stem With stubborn nerves the tide, and face the rigour Of bleak Germania's snows. Four, not less brave, That in Armenia quell the Parthian force Under the warlike Corbulo, by you
Mark'd for their leader: these, by ties confirm'd, Of old respect and gratitude, are yours. Surely the Masians too, and those of Egypt, Have not forgot your sire: the eye of Rome, And the Prætorian camp have long rever'd With custom'd awe, the daughter, sister, wife, And mother of their Cæsars.
It bears a noble semblance.
Ha! by Juno, On this base
My great revenge shall rise; or say we sound The trump of liberty; there will not want, Even in the servile senate, ears to own
Her spirit-stirring voice; Soranus there, And Cassius; Vetus too, and Thrasea,
Minds of the antique cast, rough, stubborn souls, That struggle with the yoke. How shall the spark Unquenchable, that glows within their breasts,
Blaze into freedom, when the idle herd (Slaves from the womb, created but to stare, And bellow in the Circus) yet will start,
And shake 'em at the name of liberty, Stung by a senseless word, a vain tradition, As there were magic in it? Wrinkled beldams Teach it their grandchildren, as somewhat rare That anciently appear'd, but when, extends Beyond their chronicle-oh! 'tis a cause To arm the hand of childhood, and rebrace The slacken'd sinews of time-wearied age.
Yes, we may meet, ungrateful boy, we may ! Again the buried Genius of old Rome Shall from the dust uprear his reverend head, Rous'd by the shout of millions: there before His high tribunal thou and I appear.
Let majesty sit on thy awful brow,
And lighten from thy eye: around thee call The gilded swarm that wantons in the sunshine Of thy full favour; Seneca be there
In gorgeous phrase of labour'd eloquence
To dress thy plea, and Burrhus strengthen it With his plain soldier's oath, and honest seeming. Against thee, liberty and Agrippina :
The world, the prize; and fair befall the victors.
But soft! why do I waste the fruitless hours In threats unexecuted? Haste thee, fly These hated walls that seem to mock my shame, And cast me forth in duty to their lord.
Acer. "Tis time to go, the sun is high advanc'd, And, ere mid-day, Nero will come to Baia.
Agrip. My thought aches at him; not the basilisk More deadly to the sight, than is to me
The cool injurious eye of frozen kindness. I will not meet its poison. Let him feel
But not to Antium-all shall be confess'd,
Whate'er the frivolous tongue of giddy fame
Has spread among the crowd; things, that but whisper'd
Have arch'd the hearer's brow, and riveted His eyes in fearful extasy: no matter What; so't be strange, and dreadful.-Sorceries, Assassinations, poisonings-the deeper My guilt, the blacker his ingratitude.
And you, ye manes of ambition's victims, Enshrined Claudius, with the pitied ghosts Of the Syllani, doom'd to early death, (Ye unavailing horrors, fruitless crimes!) If from the realms of night my voice ye hear, In lieu of penitence, and vain remorse, Accept my vengeance. Though by me ye bled, He was the cause. My love, my fears for him, Dried the soft springs of pity in my heart, And froze them up with deadly cruelty. Yet if your injur'd shades demand my fate, If murder cries for murder, blood for blood, Let me not fall alone; but crush his pride, And sink the traitor in his mother's ruin.
Otho. Thus far we're safe.
Of amorous thefts: and had her wanton son Lent us his wings, we could not have beguil'd With more elusive speed the dazzled sight Of wakeful jealousy. Be gay securely; Dispel, my fair, with smiles, the tim'rous cloud That hangs on thy clear brow. So Helen look'd, So her white neck reclin'd, so was she borne By the young Trojan to his gilded bark With fond reluctance, yielding modesty, And oft reverted eye, as if she knew not Whether she fear'd, or wish'd to be pursued.
ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST.
[The MS. of this sonnet, here printed for the first time as Gray wrote it, exists at Pembroke College. At the close Gray has written: "At Stoke, Aug. 1742."-ED.]
IN vain to me the smileing Mornings shine,
And redning Phoebus lifts his golden Fire: The Birds in vain their amorous Descant joyn;
Or chearful Fields resume their green Attire:
« ForrigeFortsett » |