The American Spectator

The Nation's Pulse

p> em>Welcome, my son! here lay him down, my friends, br> Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure br> The bloody corpse, and count those glorious wounds. br> -- How beautiful is death, when earn'd by virtue! br> Who would not be that youth? what pity is it br> That we can die but once to serve our country! br> -- Why sits this sadness on your brows, my friends? br> I should have blushed if Cato's house had stood br> Secure, and flourished in a civil war. br> -- Portius, behold thy brother, and remember br> Thy life is not thy own, when Rome demands it. /em> br> -- Cato, upon receiving the corpse of his son, Marcus, in Joseph Addison's 1713 play, Cato.

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