Palmira's saved for something worse than death; | Oh! snatch me from that sight; quick, quick This to prevent-Zaphna, I follow thee. [Stabs herself with ZAPHNA's sword.
Mah. What hast thou done! Pal. A deed of glory, tyrant! Thou hast left no object worth Palmira's eyes, And, when I shut out light, I shut out thee
[Dies. Mah. Farewell, dear victim of my boundless passion!
The price of treachery, the reward of murder, Sink with thee to the earth--Oh, justice, justice!
In vain are glory, worship, and dominion! All conqueror as I am, I am a slave,
And, by the world adored, dwell with the damned!
My crimes have planted scorpions in my breast; Here, here, I feel them. 'Tis in vain to brave The host of terrors, that invade my soul: I might deceive the world, myself I cannot. Ali. Be calm a while, my lord think what you are.
Mah. Ha! what am I?
To nature's loneliest mansion, where the sun Ne'er entered, where the sound of human tread Was never heard-But wherefore? still I there, There still, shall find myself-Ay, that's the hell! I'll none on't. [Drawing his sword.
Ali. Heavens! help, hold him!
You fled the foe, but can disarm your master! Angel of death, whose power I've long proclaimed,
Now aid me, if thou canst; now, if thou canst, Draw the kind curtain of eternal night, And shroud me from the horrors that beset me! [Exeunt MAHOMET, &c. Pha. Oh! what a curse is life, when self-con- viction
Flings our offences hourly in our face, And turns existence torturer to itself! Here let the mad enthusiast turn his eyes, And see from bigotry what horrors rise; Here in the blackest colours let him read, That zeal, by craft misled, may act a deed, By which both innocence and virtue bleed. [Exeunt omines.
Coquette the fan, and leer a double meaning! Shame on those arts that prostitute the bays! Shame on the bard who this way hopes for praise!
The bold but honest author of to-night Disdains to please you, if he please not right; If, in his well-meant scene, you chance to find Aught to ennoble or enlarge the mind; If he has found the means, with honest art, To fix the noblest wishes in the heart, In softer accents to inform the fair, How bright they look when virtue drops the tear, Enjoy with friendly welcome the repast, And keep the heart-felt relish to the last.
BOLD is the man, who, in this nicer age, Presumes to tread the chaste corrected stage. Now, with gay tinsel arts, we can no more Conceal the want of nature's sterling ore; Our spells are vanish'd, broke our magic wand, That us'd to waft you over sea and land; Before your light the fairy people fade, The demons fly,-the ghost itself is laid. In vain of martial scenes the loud alarms, The mighty prompter thund'ring out to arms, The play-house posse clattering from afar, The close-wedged battle and the din of war. Now, even the senate seldom we convene ; The yawning fathers nod behind the scene. Your taste rejects the glittering false sublime, To sigh in metaphor, and die in rhyme.
Sig. The death of those distinguished by their station,
But by their virtue more, awakes the mind To solemn dread, and strikes a saddening awe; Not that we grieve for them, but for ourselves, Left to the toil of life-And yet the best Are, by the playful children of this world, At once forgot, as they had never been. Laura, 'tis said, the heart is sometimes charged With a prophetic sadness: such, methinks, Now hangs on mine. The king's approaching death
Suggests a thousand fears. What troubles thence May throw the state once more into confusion, What sudden changes in my father's house May rise, and part me from my dearest Tancred, Alarms my thoughts.
Laura. The fears of love-sick fancy, Perversely busy to torment itself.
But be assured, your father's steady friendship, Joined to a certain genius, that commands, Not kneels to fortune, will support and cherish, Here, in the public eye of Sicily, This, I may call him, his adopted son, The noble Tancred, formed to all his virtues. Sig. Ah, formed to charm his daughter! This fair morn
Has tempted far the chase. Is he not yet Returned?
Laura. No. When your father to the king, Who now expiring lies, was called in haste, He sent each way his messengers to find him; With such a look of ardour and impatience, As if this near event was to count Tancred Of more importance than I comprehend.
Sig. There lies, my Laura, o'er my Tancred's
Who charms too much the heart of Sigismunda! Laura, perhaps your brother knows him better, The friend and partner of his freest hours. What says Rodolpho? Does he truly credit This story of his birth?
Laura. He has sometimes,
Like you, his doubts; yet, when maturely weighed,
Believes it true. As for lord Tancred's self, He never entertained the slightest thought That verged to doubt; but oft laments his state, By cruel fortune so ill paired to yours.
Sig. Merit like his, the fortune of the mind, Beggars all wealth-Then, to your brother, Laura, He talks of me?
Laura. Of nothing else. Howe'er The talk begin, it ends with Sigismunda. Their morning, noontide, and their evening walks, Are full of you, and all the woods of Belmont Enamoured with your name.
You flatter yet the dear delusion charms.
Laura. No, Sigismunda, 'tis the strictest truth, Nor half the truth, I tell you. Even with fond
My brother talks for ever of the passion That fires young Tancred's breast. So much it strikes him,
He praises love as if he were a lover. He blames the false pursuits of vagrant youth, Calls them gay folly, a mistaken struggle Against best judging nature. Heaven, he says, In lavish bounty formed the heart for love; In love included all the finer seeds Of honour, virtue, friendship, purest bliss- Sig. Virtuous Rodolpho!
Laura. Then his pleasing theme He varies to the praises of your lover-
Sig. And, what, my Laura, says he on the sub- ject?
Laura. He says, that, though he was not nobly born,
Nature has formed him noble, generous, brave, Truly magnanimous, and warmly scorning Whatever bears the smallest taint of baseness; That every easy virtue is his own;
Not learned by painful labour, but inspired,
He in his graceful character observes;
That though his passions burn with high impa
A cloud I cannot pierce. With princely accost, Nay, with respect, which oft I have observed, Stealing, at times, submissive o'er his features, In Belmont's woods my father reared this youth-Implanted in his soul, Chiefly one charm Ah, woods! where first my artless bosom learned The sighs of love. He gives him out the son Of an old friend, a baron of Apulia, Who, in the late crusado, bravely fell. But then 'tis strange; is all his family As well as father dead? and all their friends, Except my sire, the generous good Siffredi ? Had he a mother, sister, brother, left, The last remain of kindred, with what pride, With rapture, might they fly o'er earth and sea, To claim this rising honour of their blood, This bright unknown, this all-accomplished youth,
And sometimes, from a noble heat of nature, Are ready to fly off; yet the least check Of ruling reason brings them back to temper, And gentle softness.
Sig. True! Oh, true, Rodolpho! Blest be thy kindred worth for loving his! He is all warmth, all amiable fire, All quick heroic ardour! tempered soft With gentleness of heart, and manly reason!
If virtue were to wear a human form, To light it with her dignity and flame, Then softening, mix her smiles and tender graces-
Oh, she would chuse the person of my Tancred! Go on, my friend, go on, and ever praise him; The subject knows no bounds, nor can I tire, While my breast trembles to that sweetest mu- sic!
The heart of woman tastes no truer joy,
Has made the prudent basis of his will- Away, unworthy views! you shall not tempt me! Nor interest, nor ambition shali seduce My fixed resolve-Perish the selfish thought, Which our own good prefers to that of millions! He comes, my king, unconscious of his fortune. Enter TANCRED.
Tan. My lord Siffredi, in your looks I read, Confirmed, the mournful news that fly abroad
Is never flattered with such dear enchantment-Fron tongue to tongue-We then, at last, have
'Tis more than selfish vanity-as when
She hears the praises of the man she loves! Laura. Madam, your father comes.
The good old king?
Sif. Yes, we have lost a father;
The greatest blessing heaven bestows on mortals, And seldom found amidst these wilds of time,
Sif. [To an attendant as he enters.] Lord Tan- A good, a worthy king!-Hear me, my Tancred,
Atten. My lord, he quickly will be here.
I scarce could keep before him, though he bid me Speed on, to say he would attend your orders. Sif. 'Tis well-retire-You too, my daughter, leave me.
Sig. I go, my father-But how fares the king? Sif. He is no more. Gone to that awful state, Where kings the crown wear only of their vir
Sig. How bright must then be his !-This stroke is sudden;
He was this morning well, when to the chase Lord Tancred went.
Sif. 'Tis true. But at his years Death gives short notice-Drooping nature then, Without a gust of pain to shake it, falls. His death, my daughter, was that happy period Which few attain. The duties of his day Were all discharged, and gratefully enjoyed Its noblest blessings; calm as evening skies Was his pure mind, and lighted up with hopes That open Heaven; when, for his last long sleep Timely prepared, a lassitude of life, A pleasing weariness of mortal joy,
Fell on his soul, and down he sunk to rest. Oh, may my death be such !-He but one wish Left unfulfilled, which was to see count Tancred. Sig. To see count Tancred!-Pardon me, my lord-
Sif. For what, my daughter?-But, with such emotion,
Why did you start at mention of count Tancred? Sig. Nothing-I only hoped the dying king Might mean to make some generous just provision For this your worthy charge, this noble orphan. Sif. And he has done it largely-Leave me
I want some private conference with lord Tan- cred. [Exeunt SIG. and LAURA.
My doubts are but too true-If these old eyes Can trace the marks of love, a mutual passion Has seized, I fear, my daughter and this prince, My sovereign now-Should it be so? Ah, there, There lurks a brooding tempest, that may shake My long-concerted scheme, to settle firm The public peace and welfare, which the king VOL. II.
And I will tell thee, in a few plain words, How he deserved that best, that glorious title; 'Tis nought complex, 'tis clear as truth and virtue. He loved his people, deemed them all his children;
The good exalted, and depressed the bad. He spurned the flattering crew, with scorn re- jected
Their smooth advice that only means themselves, Their schemes to aggrandize him into baseness: Nor did he less disdain the secret breath, The whispered tale, that blights a virtuous name. He sought alone the good of those for whom He was entrusted with the sovereign power: Well knowing, that a people, in their rights And industry protected; living safe Beneath the sacred shelter of the laws; Encouraged in their genius, arts, and labours, And happy each, as he himself deserves, Are ne'er ungrateful. With unsparing hand, They will for him provide: their filial love And confidence are his unfailing treasure, And every honest man his faithful guard.
Tan. A general face of grief o'erspreads the city.
I marked the people, as I hither came,
In crowds assembled, struck with silent sorrow, And pouring forth the noblest praise-of tears. Those, whom remembrance of their former woes, And long experience of the vain illusions Of youthful hope, had into wise consent And fear of change corrected, wrung their hands, And, often casting up their eyes to heaven, Gave sign of sad conjecture. Others shewed, Athwart their grief, or real, or affected, A gleam of expectation, from what chance And change might bring. A mingled murmur ran Along the streets; and from the lonely court Of him, who can no more assist their fortunes, I saw the courtier-fry, with eager haste, All hurrying to Constantia.
I joy to hear from thee these just reflections, Worthy of riper years-But if they seek Constantia, trust me, they mistake their course Tan. How! Is she not, my lord, the late king's
Heir to the crown of Sicily? the last
Of our famed Norman line, and now our queen? Sif. Tancred, 'tis true; she is the late king's sister,
The sole surviving offspring of that tyrant, William the Bad-so for his vices styled; Who spilt much noble blood, and sore oppressed The exhausted land: whence grievous wars arose, And many a dire convulsion shook the state: When he, whose death Sicilia mourns to-day, William, who has, and well deserved the name Of Good, succeeding to his father's throne, Relieved his country's woes-But to return; She is the late king's sister, born some months After the tyrant's death, but not next heir. Tan. You much surprise me-May I then pre-
In vain will counsel, if the heart forbid it— But wherefore fear? The right is clearly his; And, under your direction, with each man Of worth, and stedfast loyalty, to back At once the king's appointment and his birth- right,
There is no ground for fear. They have great odds,
Against the astonished sons of violence, Who fight with awful justice on their side. All Sicily will rouse, all faithful hearts
Will range themselves around prince Manfred's
For me, I here devote me to the service Of this young prince; I every drop of blood Will lose with joy, with transport, in his cause— Pardon my warmth-but that, my lord, will
To this decision come-Then find the prince; Lose not a moment to awaken in him The royal soul. Perhaps he now, desponding, Pines in a corner, and laments his fortune, That in the narrower bounds of private life He must confine his aims, those swelling virtues Which from his noble father he inherits.
Sif. Perhaps, regardless, in the common bane Of youth he melts, in vanity and love. But if the seeds of virtue glow within him, I will awake a higher sense, a love, That grasps the loves and happiness of millions. Tan. Why that surmise? Or should he love, Siffredi,
I doubt not, it is nobly, which will raise And animate his virtues-Oh, permit me To plead the cause of youth-Their virtue oft, In pleasure's soft enchantment lulled awhile, Forgets itself; it sleeps and gayly dreams, Till great occasion rouse it; then, all flame, It walks abroad, with heightened soul and vigour, And, by the change, astonishes the world! Even with a kind of sympathy, I feel
The joy that waits this prince; when all the
The expanding heart can wish, of doing good; Whatever swells ambition, or exalts
The human soul into divine emotions, All crowd at once upon him.-
Sif. Ah, my Tancred,
Nothing so easy as in speculation,
And at a distance seen, the course of honour;
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