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 flowery lap?-Rubellius lives, And Sylla has his friends, tho' 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 Drowsier than their's, who boast the genuine blood Of our imperial house.
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.
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 laboured 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 befal 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.
'Tis time we go, the sun is high advanc'd, And, ere mid-day, Nero will come to Baiæ.
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
Why then stays my sovereign,
Where he soon may
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 rivetted His eyes in fearful ecstasy: 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. Tho' by me ye bled,
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