_Reg._ Genius of Rome! thou hast at last prevail'd-- I thank the gods, I have not liv'd in vain! Where is Hamilcar?--find him--let us go, For Regulus has nought to do in Rome; I have accomplished her important work, And must depart. _Pub._ Ah, my unhappy father! _Reg._ Unhappy, Publius! didst thou say unhappy? Does he, does that bless'd man deserve this name, Who to his latest breath can serve his country? _Pub._ Like thee, my father, I adore my country, Yet weep with anguish o'er thy cruel chains. _Reg._ Dost thou not know that _life_'s a slavery? The body is the chain that binds the soul; A yoke that every mortal must endure. Wouldst thou lament--lament the general fate, The chain that nature gives, entail'd on all, Not these _I_ wear? _Pub._ Forgive, forgive my sorrows: I know, alas! too well, those fell barbarians Intend thee instant death. _Reg._ So shall my life And servitude together have an end.---- Publius, farewell; nay, do not follow me.-- _Pub._ Alas! my father, if thou ever lov'dst me, Refuse me not the mournful consolation To pay the last sad offices of duty I e'er can show thee.---- _Reg._ No!--thou canst fulfil Thy duty to thy father in a way More grateful to him: I must strait embark. Be it meanwhile thy pious care to keep My lov'd Attilia from a sight, I fear, Would rend her gentle heart.--Her tears, my son, Would dim the glories of thy father's triumph. Her sinking spirits are subdu'd by grief. And should her sorrows pass the bounds of reason, Publius, have pity on her tender age, Compassionate the weakness of her sex; We must not hope to find in _her_ soft soul The strong exertion of a manly courage.---- Support her fainting spirit, and instruct her, By thy example, how a Roman ought To bear misfortune. Oh, indulge her weakness! And be to her the father she will lose. I leave my daughter to thee--I do more---- I leave to thee the conduct of--thyself. --Ah, Publius! I perceive thy courage fails-- I see the quivering lip, the starting tear:-- That lip, that tear calls down my mounting soul. Resume thyself--Oh, do not blast my hope! Yes--I'm compos'd--thou wilt not mock my age-- Thou _art_--thou art a _Roman_--and my son. [_Exit_. _Pub._ And is he gone?--now be thyself, my soul-- Hard is the conflict, but the triumph glorious. Yes.--I must conquer these too tender feelings; The blood that fills these veins demands it of me; My father's great example too requires it. Forgive me _Rome_, and _glory_, if I yielded To nature's strong attack:--I must subdue it. Now, Regulus, I _feel_ I am thy _son_. _Enter_ ATTILIA _and_ BARCE. _At._ My brother, I'm distracted, wild with fear-- Tell me, O tell me, what I dread to know-- Is it then true?--I cannot speak--my father? _Barce._ May we believe the fatal news?