k his post? Has he given way?
Did he look tamely on, and let them pass?

_Por._ Scarce had I left my father, but I met him
Borne on the shields of his surviving soldiers,
Breathless and pale, and cover'd o'er with wounds.
Long, at the head of his few faithful friends,
He stood the shock of a whole host of foes,
Till, obstinately brave, and bent on death,
Oppress'd with multitudes, he greatly fell.

_Cato._ I'm satisfied.

_Por._ Nor did he fall, before
His sword had pierced thro' the false heart of Syphax.
Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor
Grin in the pangs of death, and bite the ground.

_Cato._ Thanks to the gods, my boy has done his duty.
--Portius, when I am dead, be sure you place
His urn near mine.

_Por._ Long may they keep asunder!

_Luc._ Oh, Cato, arm thy soul with all its patience;
See where the corpse of thy dead son approaches!
The citizens and senators alarm'd,
Have gather'd round it, and attend it weeping.

CATO _meeting the Corpse_.--SENATORS _attending_.

_Cato._ Welcome, my son! Here lay him down, my friends,
Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure
The bloody corse, and count those glorious wounds.
--How beautiful is death, when earn'd by virtue!
Who would not be that youth? What pity is it,
That we can die but once, to serve our country!
--Why sits this sadness on your brows, my friends?
I should have blush'd, if Cato's house had stood
Secure, and flourish'd in a civil war.
Portius, behold thy brother, and remember,
Thy life is not thy own when Rome demands it.

_Jub._ Was ever man like this!

_Cato._ Alas, my friends,
Why mourn you thus? let not a private loss
Afflict your hearts. 'Tis Rome requires our tears,
The mistress of the world, the seat of empire,
The nurse of heroes, the delight of gods,
That humbled the proud tyrants of the earth,
And set the nations free; Rome is no more.
Oh, liberty! Oh, virtue! Oh, my country!

_Jub._ Behold that upright man! Rome fills his eyes
With tears, that flow'd not o'er his own dear son. [_Aside._

_Cato._ Whate'er the Roman virtue has subdued,
The sun's whole course, the day and year, are Caesar's:
For him the self-devoted Decii died,
The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios conquer'd:
Ev'n Pompey fought for Caesar. Oh, my friends,
How is the toil of fate, the work of ages,
The Roman empire, fall'n! Oh, cursed ambition!
Fall'n into Caesar's hands! Our great forefathers
Had left him nought to conquer but his country.

_