_At._ (_kneeling._) If ever pity's sweet emotions touch'd thee,-- If ever gentle love assail'd thy breast,-- If ever virtuous friendship fir'd thy soul-- By the dear names of husband and of parent-- By all the soft, yet powerful ties of nature-- If e'er thy lisping infants charm'd thine ear, And waken'd all the father in thy soul,-- If e'er thou hop'st to have thy latter days Blest by their love, and sweeten'd by their duty-- Oh, hear a kneeling, weeping, wretched daughter, Who begs a father's life!--nor hers alone, But Rome's--his country's father. _Man._ Gentle maid! Oh, spare this soft, subduing eloquence!-- Nay, rise. I shall forget I am a Roman-- Forget the mighty debt I owe my country-- Forget the fame and glory of thy father. I must conceal this weakness. [_Turns from her._ _At._ (_rises eagerly._) Ah! you weep! Indulge, indulge, my Lord, the virtuous softness: Was ever sight so graceful, so becoming, As pity's tear upon the hero's cheek? _Man._ No more--I must not hear thee. [_Going._ _At._ How! not, not hear me! You must--you shall--nay, nay return, my Lord-- Oh, fly not from me!----look upon my woes, And imitate the mercy of the gods: 'Tis not their thunder that excites our reverence, 'Tis their mild mercy, and forgiving love. 'Twill add a brighter lustre to thy laurels, When men shall say, and proudly point thee out, "Behold the Consul!--He who sav'd his friend." Oh, what a tide of joy will overwhelm thee! Who will not envy thee thy glorious feelings? _Man._ Thy father scorns his liberty and life, Nor will accept of either at the expense Of honour, virtue, glory, faith, and Rome. _At._ Think you behold the god-like Regulus The prey of unrelenting savage foes, Ingenious only in contriving ill:---- Eager to glut their hunger of revenge, They'll plot such new, such dire, unheard-of tortures-- Such dreadful, and such complicated vengeance, As e'en the Punic annals have not known; And, as they heap fresh torments on his head, They'll glory in their genius for destruction. --Ah! Manlius--now methinks I see my father-- My faithful fancy, full of his idea, Presents him to me--mangled, gash'd, and torn-- Stretch'd on the rack in writhing agony-- The torturing pincers tear his quivering flesh, While the dire murderers smile upon his wounds, His groans their music, and his pangs their sport. And if they lend some interval of ease, Some dear-bought intermission, meant to make The following pang more exquisitely felt, Th' insulting executioners exclaim, --"Now, Roman! feel the vengeance thou hast scorn'd." _Man._ Repress thy sorrows----