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From “Catiline,” Act V. Sc. 2.
SOUND all to arms! (A flourish of trumpets.) | |
Call in the captains,—(To an officer.)
I would speak with them! | |
(The officer goes.) Now, Hope! away,—and welcome gallant Death! | |
| Welcome the clanging shield, the trumpet’s yell,— | |
| Welcome the fever of the mounting blood, | 5 |
| That makes wounds light, and battle’s crimson toil | |
| Seem but a sport,—and welcome the cold bed, | |
| Where soldiers with their upturned faces lie,— | |
| And welcome wolf’s and vulture’s hungry throats, | |
| That make their sepulchres! We fight to-night. | 10 |
(The soldiery enter.) Centurions! all is ruined! I disdain | |
| To hide the truth from you. The die is thrown! | |
| And now, let each that wishes for long life | |
| Put up his sword, and kneel for peace to Rome. | |
| Ye all are free to go. What! no man stirs! | 15 |
| Not one! a soldier’s spirit in you all? | |
| Give me your hands! (This moisture in my eyes | |
| Is womanish,—’t will pass.) My noble hearts! | |
| Well have you chosen to die! For, in my mind, | |
| The grave is better than o’erburdened life; | 20 |
| Better the quick release of glorious wounds, | |
| Than the eternal taunts of galling tongues; | |
| Better the spear-head quivering in the heart, | |
| Than daily struggle against fortune’s curse; | |
| Better, in manhood’s muscle and high blood, | 25 |
| To leap the gulf, than totter to its edge | |
| In poverty, dull pain, and base decay. | |
| Once more, I say,—are ye resolved? (The soldiers shout, “All! All!”) | |
| Then, each man to his tent, and take the arms | |
| That he would love to die in,—for, this hour, | 30 |
| We storm the Consul’s camp. A last farewell! | |
(He takes their hands.) When next we meet,—we ’ll have no time to look, | |
| How parting clouds a soldier’s countenance. | |
| Few as we are, we ’ll rouse them with a peal | |
| That shall shake Rome! | 35 |
| Now to your cohorts’ heads;—the word ’s—Revenge! | |
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