University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE, The Sultan's Camp.
ORCAN, ABDALLA.
Orcan.
ABDALLA say, how stands our mighty Master?
How bears his Soul Competitors in Pow'r,
The dreaded Scanderbeg, and Hali-Vizem
Our late revolted Vizier? Say, my Friend,
Say how the Torrents of resistless Rage
O'erbear the useless, unavailing Bounds
Of feeble Reason, and yield all to Phrensy,
To wild Distraction, and the War of Passions?

Abd.
Hast thou not seen, when wounded by a Dart,
The lordly Lion thro' the Forest range?
He roars, he tears the Earth, and, mad with Pain,
His fiery Eye-balls dart a red Revenge:
Such is th'impatient Soul of Amurat;
Indignant of Affront, he lifts his Arm,
Where the whole Thunder of the War's contain'd,
To punish Rebels, and proclaim our Prophet.

Orc.
But say, my Friend, for (far remov'd from hence,
Commanding distant tributary Lands)
My Station lay: Why all this Pomp of War?
Why frown the Janizaries, as if Fate
Had giv'n the Word of Desolation round
When Slaughter shou'd begin? I, incurious still,
Have heard but little, that imperfect too;
Perhaps a Rhapsody of Truths and Lies:
For by the Distance Rumours are increas'd,
Or by the Distance lost.

Abd.
Then hear from me
The Cause of these Disorders: Need I swell,
(That were a fruitless Task) the immortal Deeds
Of mighty Scanderbeg, with my weak Praise?
Fame dwells on nothing else, and has forgot,
Pleas'd with the Repetition of his Name,
To sound ought else: The glorious, mighty Dead
That grac'd Antiquity, Heroes and Demi-gods
Have lost their Worship, and the letter'd Page
That blazon'd out their Worth, is read no more,
Or read, not put in Competition here:
All Eyes turn this way, and the raptur'd World
Forget the past in wonder of the present.

Orc.
Thus is he spoke by all, and thus admir'd:
Thou speak'st him as Humanity exacts
From Man to Man, and not like bias'd Friendship;—
Friendship that fondly sees but half our Faults,
And multiplies our Virtues: You but shew
A common Justice to a Fellow-being;
Nor are we blameful thus to treat Desert,
For to his Person, tho' a Foe profest,
We war not with the Virtues of his Mind.

Abd.
But to resume my Tale: From one happy Fight
(As most have been successful) he return'd
Laden with Spoils, and circl'd Conquest home:
Amongst the various Plunder of the Field
He found the Daughter of the vanquish'd King;
A Maid compleatly finish'd, and adorn'd,
Serene as Peace, and lovely as Content:
He saw—and who cou'd be indifferent?—
To see her is to love—He led her to the Sultan—
Triumphs, the Shouts of Millions are forgot,
And Glory yields to Love: This sole Reward
For All he did, or All he yet might do,
He asks to make his Happiness compleat.

Orc.
Alas, too well I guess the Consequence!

Abd.

Orc.
What of Scanderbeg?

Abd.

Orc.
But whence proceeded the unthought Revolt
Of our Grand Vizier?

Abd.

Orc.
But since the Cause is in the Sultan's Pow'r,
The beauteous Cause of Ruin and Destruction;
Why at a distance hang his Wishes off?
Why courts he for a Bliss he may command?
And only looks at what he may enjoy?

Abd.
No, Orcan—tho' to Man the Sultan's Temper
Be fierce, revengeful, terrible and bold;
Yet to the Fair that Haughtiness subsides,
And sinks in due Proportion to their Softness:
He wou'd not rudely violate the Will,
And force the Bondage of Constraint upon it:
He scorns to take, what his Compulsion drags;
The gentle Wing of tender Inclination,
Reluctant, flies from Force: Nor wou'd the Sultan
Barely possess her Person, not her Mind.

Orc.
How am I pleas'd to find his Passions curb'd:
Such Resolution, join'd to such Humanity,
(So rare a Product of a Turkish Soul)
Will bless our Empire with a milder Sway,
And well become our Prophet's great Vice-gerent.

Abd.
Here break we off, and hasten to our Charge:
See where, immers'd in Thought, the Sultan comes;
A pensive Sorrow hangs upon his Brow,
And saddens in his Face:—Let us retire—
To pry into the Secrets of a Monarch,
Is dangerous as 'tis rude.

SCENE II.

Amurat.

SCENE III.

Amurat, Deamira, Zaida.

And now behold how vast a Change is here!—
Now my Blood chills—Again the sanguine Tide,
In a tumultuous Eddy, whirls along—
Life throbs and scarcely holds its doubtful Seat:
Where is that furious Transport of my Soul,
That struggl'd out to Glory, fled away?
The raging Fires of Greatness and Ambition
Sink in the more exalted Blaze of Love.
Deamira—

Deam.
My Lord, I saw you not.

Amur.
And now you do, is it not still the same?
How distant are your Looks, and how reserv'd!
Full of Indiff'rence! Coldness and Aversion
Sit at the Entrance like two baleful Fiends,
To tell no Pity is contain'd within.

Deam.
To think me guilty of a Thought so low,
Not wrongs you more, than it arraigns my Judgment:
Your Worth exalts you higher than your Throne,
Tho' Lord of half the kneeling Universe,
The Nod of Fate, and Substitute of Heav'n;
And it were Blindness not to see, and like.

Amur.
Hear this, ye Pow'rs! Observe how the coy fair One
Wrests the kind Meaning to the coldest Sense,
And into Liking, turns mistaken Love:—
How was she form'd, O Prophet? Has her Heart
No sprightly Pulse to heat it? Does her Breast
Ne'er glow with Wishes warmer than her Looks?—
(Those are enough to freeze us) But her Eyes—
Say is it possible that those were made
Without th'illuminating Fire of Heav'n?
Say, cou'd they kindle such Desires in me,
Yet want the Property of Heat themselves?
If so, there is no Certainty on Earth,
And false Appearance clouds Reality.

Deam.
My Lord—

Amur.

Deam.
If I am such, so baneful to the World,
O send me to some lonely Desart wild,
Wide as yon bright Etherial high Expanse:
There let me wander friendless and forlorn,
To find the charitable Herd of Beasts,
Driv'n from the faithless Commerce of Mankind,
They will be kinder, and receive a Monster
As terrible as them, and as destructive.

Amur.
No, 'tis too late—Your Mischiefs are compleat—
Thou hast done all (to me I'm sure you have—
All that can make me wretched)—But I rave—
Forgive the Overflowings of a Soul,
Sublim'd to all Extremities of Passion:—
Your Goodness can, nay I am sure it will,
Forgive me—Where our Desires are violent,
How can our Conduct be indifferent?

Deam.
Alas, I feel your Sorrows! I conceive,
Pity, and wish I cou'd reward your Love.

Amur.
Ha! Yes, it must be so—Immortal Prophet!—
But I am sunk below the reach of Help—
Rage will have Way—Yes!—I perceive it plain—
It dawns—it rises to my lighten'd Soul
Dreadfully true—Those sparkling, speaking Eyes,
Those Limbs were form'd for Ecstasy—for Love—
She blushes—Gods! ha! now the Colour flies—
Again it comes—Oh, if her Tongue had spoke it
I cou'd not have been more convinc'd!—

Deam.
Good Heav'n!

Amur.
Still new Confusion rises in her Face—
I won'not—cannot bear it!—oh 'tis dreadful!—
Yes, yes, she loves another—ha! she starts—
Nay, 'tis beyond Conviction now!—Alas!
I wanted not this Proof to make me wretched!—
O Deamira!—

Deam.
Why was I ever born?

Amur.
Because it was ordain'd I shou'd be curs'd;
Be curs'd above Degree!—All-judging Heav'n!
Was there no Bolt, no Punishment above?—
No, none is equal to despairing Love:
Hell loudly owns it, and the Damn'd themselves,
Smile to behold a Wretch more curs'd than They.

Deam.
Where will this furious Whirl of Passion end?
The Storm grows high, the Ruin must light here;
Defenceless and alone my Fate has left me.

Amur.
Where shall I find him?—Scanderbeg—'tis he—
For he was born for universal Conquest:
Men he subdues, and Women yield to him.—
But my Revenge shall find him, yes, he comes
To fall a glorious Victim to my Rage
And disappointed Love—But yet my Fortune
Has left her in my Power; Ha! well remember'd—
Her Look disarms me—Madam, you behold
A captive Monarch bound and at your Feet,
More humble and more wretched than his Slaves:
Yet unrequited Love, and Rage may break
My present Bonds, and urge me to commit
What wou'd avoid my cooler Reason. Know—
But I will soften my rough Turn of Thought,
And rather wou'd intreat—You guess the rest,
And may provide with Ease 'gainst what may follow.

SCENE IV.

Deamira, Zaida.
Deam.
What may not follow from so wild a Rage?
What may his Storm of Passion not attempt?
How shall I bear this Horror?—O my Friend!
The Pangs, the Tortures, which the Sultan's Soul
Felt e'en but now, are Ease to what mine suffers.

Zaida.
Call up your better Reason to your Aid,
And hope the best; That friendly Beam is left,
To chear the Wretch, and lighten thro' his Sorrows;
Nor can he sink so low, but Hope will find him:
The pleasing Prospect of a better Day,
Shines thro' the Gloom of Life and shortens Pain.

Deam.
In common Miseries the Wretch may find
Some intermitting Hours of Ease, but here,
Where Sorrow is perpetual, unexampled—
There is no room for Hope—Still I must fear
For him, and for my self—O Scanderbeg!
The Chance of War is doubtful; Tho' I yet
Revere the sacred Precepts which thy Tongue
Instill'd into my Breast: The Christian Beam
Illuminates my Faith, and bids me trust
All that may happen, to the Will of Heav'n.

Zaida.
Improve that Thought, and let it arm your Soul
With Patience for the worst

Deam.
Yes, my Zaida;
New Force inspires me, and my strengthen'd Soul
Feels Energy divine: The fair Example
Of stedfast Martyrs and of dying Saints,
Has warm'd me into better Thoughts: I now
Can with a Smile behold Misfortune's Face,
And think the Weight of Miseries, a Trial.
The heav'nly Precepts brighten to my Mind;
No useful Part of Duty left behind:
Here the consenting Principles unite,
A Beam divine directs our Steps aright,
And shews the Moral, in the Christian Light.

SCENE V.

The Vizier's Camp.
Vizier, Heli, &c.
Viz.

Heli.
While, on the other Side, the haughty Sultan
Erects his tented Canvas in the Air,
Frowns in the Front of War, and threatens Fate.

Viz.
Let him frown on, what Terror can it bring
To Hearts so bold, so resolute as ours?
Remember, Fellow-Warriors, that we wear
The greatest, noblest Cause upon our Swords:
The Work of Justice is the Work of Heav'n,
And our great Prophet swells our Enterprize:
For Liberty, my Friends!—what Soul so servile,
Will not rouse up at the great Call of Freedom?
Shew me the Man so base, who sees his Rights
Invaded by the griping Hand of Tyranny,
And wou'd not at the Sight, with his true Sword
Lop the monopolizing Arm away.

Heli.
If there be such, remember him, O Prophet,
In thy great Day of dreadful Dooms, and shut
Th'adamantine Gates of Paradise against him.

Viz.
By holy Mecca, my divining Soul
Foresees Success attend us: O my Friends!
How must the glorious Change transport us all,
When into Freedom Tyranny is turn'd?
When each may say his Fortune is his own,
And sleep in Fullness of Tranquillity?
Then shall we taste the Sweets of Life, and Ease,
Which happier Climes have known: then, then enjoy
That Liberty, which Britain's smiling Isle
So long has boasted thro' a Length of Years.

Heli.
Consider, Friends, no private Pique, no Malice,
No shatter'd Fortune, desp'rate and worn out,
(The common Instigations of low Minds)
Has driv'n the Vizier to this Field of War:
If to be great alone was all his Aim,
Who stood a fairer Candidate than he,
The second in the Empire? No, my Friends;
The Means are to be weigh'd by which we rise,
Nor wou'd he mount upon the Necks of Thousands
To aggrandize himself, and crush a People.

Viz.
Enough, good Heli, thy too forward Zeal
Is proving things self-evident: The Plan,
By which our Cause of Liberty is shewn,
Plainly demonstrates all that thou wou'd'st say:
Yet thy warm Love I kindly take as Love,
And wear it at my Heart—To our Affairs—
Methinks, my Friends, that our Encampment here,
Lies both in Point of Action, and of Sight,
As fair as we cou'd wish; this Eminence
Shews us each Motion of the Enemy
From either Side; and, if I might intreat,
Let us be wary, circumspect, and quick
To seize on all Advantage—So farewel,
Till Action calls us to decide our Fate.

SCENE VI.

Vizier, Heli.
Viz.
O Heli, take me to thy friendly Breast;
There let me hide me from the stormy Thoughts
That war against my Peace.

Heli.
My royal Master!
If often, in Affairs of greatest Moment,
Your Heli has been trusted and found true:
If I have never slept till thy Commands
Were fully executed: Wherefore now
This pent up Grief? This Pressure of the Mind,
And I not told? Why this unfriendly Gloom,
That shuts me from the Commerce of thy Soul?

Viz.
Thou hast been ever faithful, and my Breast
No longer shall conceal it—O my Friend!
Can'st thou not give a Guess at what does wound
Deeper than Want, or Sickness? what out-soars
Ambitious Glory on her Eagles-Wings?—
Need I explain it more, and call it Love?—

Heli.

Heli.
Yes, they must have way:—
Yet 'tis not always thus; Action and Arms;
The sprightly Bowl, dislodge the fond Intruder,
And give me all my self—O Heli, hear me!
Tho' fierce my Nature, stubborn, uncontroll'd;
When first I saw her, my relenting Heart
Soften'd to Infancy and childish Awe.

Heli.
Saw who, my Lord?

Viz.
Ha! hast thou Eyes, yet ask?
Didst thou e'er see the lovely Deamira,
And ask who charms me? Is she not—O what?
Perfection's Boast, and Fancy's Master-piece,
The Smile of Heav'n, and Blush of Eastern-Skies!
O Deamira—

Heli.
Cease these strong Emotions.

Viz.
I swear, O Heli, when I saw her first,
Lovely in Tears, and kneeling to the Sultan,
My Heart took fire; Confusion in my Face
So strong appear'd, I cou'd not judge of theirs.
O gentle Heli, hadst thou ever lov'd,
Your Wonder at my Words wou'd turn to Pity.

Heli.
My Lord, I have; ev'n now the subtle Flame
Burns upward from my Heart, and fires my Brain.

Viz.
Who is the Maid? I ask because I like,
And will assist thy Passion; for thy Worth
May to the proudest speak its Claim.

Heli.
To Zaida?

Viz.
She shall be thine; thy Services deserve her:
My Word insures the Gift—the friendly Earnest.

Heli.
My Inclination made me serve you first,
But you have fix'd it now my Duty.

Viz.
'Tis enough—
Ere my Revolt, I plac'd her near the Person
Of my fair Charmer, so to speed my Suit,
And do me further Service. Near the Sultan
There is a Man, high-dignify'd, that makes
His Court to her, who therefore owns my Cause,
And to advance his Love betrays his Master.—
But she is thine—My royal Word is past—
He is a Tool, and worthless out of use.

Heli.
I cannot speak—my hasty Gratitude
Flows crowding to my Tongue, and locks up Utterance.

Viz.
Let us retire—Something I have within,
Of moment, to disclose—Why let the World
Censure, and think as their fond Fancies lead;
Mine be the Pow'r, be theirs the empty Murmur:
What tho' I am a Villain, who so bold
To tell me so? Let your poor petty Traitors
Feel the vindictive Lash, and Scourge for Wrong;
But who shall tax successful Villany,
Or call the rising Traitor to account?
Sublimely seated in the Pomp of State,
Greatly beyond the Malice of his Fate;
He laughs at each Cabal and idle Jar,
The Rage of Factions, and their Party-War;
By Friends surrounded, happy, and unseen,
Safely he rides, and drives the great Machine.