University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE, the House of Fabius.
Enter Candace.
Can.
How poor a thing is Empire! and how vain,
To pride ourselves upon its short-liv'd Glories!
The mightiest Monarchs of the peopled Earth
Are still the Subjects to Capricious Fortune;
And, when she frowns, the Height on which they sit
Makes but their Fall more dreadful and conspicuous.
A fatal Instance to the World am I,
My self a Queen, and great Hiarbas' Daughter;
Yet what avail'd his far-extended Sway?
What boots it, to have been the Son of Ammon?
On yonder Hostile Plain in Death he lies,
His Daughter Captive to a petty State:
Yet is not This the Sum of my Afflictions;
For to my Pride's Confusion,—but He's here—

Enter Fabius.
Fab.
Pardon th'Intrusion that proceeds from Joy,
The Joy I have to bring you pleasing News.
The Governour proposes to your Chief
On honourable Terms to set you free;
And such, as were I Hannibal, should ask
No second Thought, impatient as he is
Of Opposition, and the War prolong'd.

Can.
If thou wert He, thou would'st be wondrous kind
No Doubt! Candace then should have great Power!
Talk'st thou of Suppositions! what thou would'st do!
Curst, curst Evasion of my proffer'd Love,
That meets for Gratitude collusive Words!
Well the Saguntines may reproach thy Country,
If they, like thee, know no Return of Merit.

Fab.
Much am I injur'd in that Thought, fair Princess;
My Soul's true Sentiments but little known.
With grateful Heart I meet your valued Friendship,
And deem it Honour done me by the Gods,
That to my Lot it fell, in the rude Conflict,
To save you from th'unequal Chance of War.

Can.
Would I had perish'd there!—obdurate Man!
Still wilt thou wrest the Purport of my Words?
[Turns.
I spoke of Love; what dost thou mean by Friendship?
Well may'st thou turn aside, thy conscious Eyes
Dare not behold the Beauties they have slighted;
Charms, that have made rough Hannibal a Lover,
Whilst Africk's purpled Monarchs swell the Train;
Yet now their Influence is lost; to thee
A Queen, an Amazon, is forc'd to sue.
But wherefore rave I? Can the Trumpet's Sound
Give noble Ardour, where the Ear is deaf?
The glorious Sun, that sets off Nature's Face,
Shines unperceiv'd by thick and filmy Eyes:
Is this Politeness? These your Roman Arts?
For this, the Nations round stil'd barbarous?
Insensible, poor Wretch! I'll learn to scorn thee.

Fab.
What shall I say, Illustrious Maid, to calm
This Gust of Passion, Tumult of thy Soul?
'Tis sure to you I must appear ungrateful,
At least a stupid, despicable Slave,
Devoid of Sense, and dead to Beauty's Call:
Yet Heav'n can tell how much I prize your Worth,
The joint Perfections both of Soul and Form;
Think not, a Roman can be Foe to Love;
We own his Pow'r, nor does your warmer Sun
Shine yet but faintly on our Neighbour Coast.
With Admiration I behold your Beauty,
Your graceful Figure, and consummate Charms:
Unarm'd, great Juno's Majesty you wear:
When in the Field, you look another Pallas;
And, could the Goddess boast thy various Graces,
To her the Trojan Youth had giv'n the Prize.

Can.
Were I that Pallas, thou the Shepherd Paris,
(And sure the Shepherd's Part would suit thee well,)
Soft Cytherea would engage thy Choice,
As now Timandra bears it from Candace.
[Starts.
Ha! start'st thou, Roman? Have I told thee false?

Fab.
Well then, the Secret's out; which, for thy Peace,
Industrious did my Tongue strive to conceal;
Yet since thou hast it, I'll avow my Passion;
The lambent, unextinguishable Flame,
Which her soft Eyes, and yet more gentle Virtues,
Have kindled in the faithful Breast of Fabius.

Can.
Am I rejected for a puling Girl?
A fondling, soft, domestick Animal;
Whose wondrous Talent, whose Perfection is
To weave some pretty Story in the Loom;
Or with her Lute soften yet more her Soul;
A cooing Turtle that bemoans its Mate,
Insipid Creature, form'd without a Gall.

Fab.
Her Talents are not masculine, indeed;
To wield the Sword, to strain the twanging Yew,
To lash the foaming Steeds, and drive the Car
With rapid Wheels o'er mangled Carcasses,
She knows not: These are Amazonian Virtues.
Yet is she not the less replete with Honour,
And noblest Sentiments confirm her Soul.
With Female Softness she bewails her Country,
With manly Patience she partakes its Hardships;
Whilst the poor Pittance, dol'd about with Caution,
To fence against, that meager Fiend, the Famine,
In Pity she divides with some starv'd Soldier.

Can.
'Tis vain, I see, to struggle with my Fate;
Yet will my Passion make one last Effort.
Now hear me, Fabius, and well weigh my Words.
The Terms thou talk'st of from the Governour,
Shall they with me give Freedom to thy self?

Fab.
Amazing Kindness! Can you think that he
Would offer thus? Or Hannibal accept?

Can.
Then 'tis thy Artifice, and poor Invention,
To rid thy self of my detested Love;
But since that cannot move thy Soul to Softness,
Consider well the Dangers that surround thee;
These nodding Walls, and their impending Ruin;
Short is their Date, and sure Destruction waits them;
If Dangers move not, let Ambition fire thee.
Of martial Realms, Gætulian Chiefs, that ride
Swift without Bridle, of Marmarick Lands,
Thy Captive is the Queen; of these she makes,
And of her Virgin Heart, vow'd heretofore
To the chaste Huntress Queen, at once the Offer.—
Fly with me then from this ill-fated City;
Disguis'd, thro' the Sidonian Troops I'll lead thee;
And when thy Foot is set on Africk's Shore,
It's next Ascent shall be to mount a Throne.

Fab.
Now hear a Roman speak: That offer'd Throne,
And what is yet more worth, thy glorious Self,
Were my Heart free, Timandra never known,
Should not win Fabius to forsake his Honour:
Too much already is my Country censur'd;
Shall I by Flight thus add to its Disgrace?
Ignoble Thought! no, here my Fate shall find me;
In Faith's fair Cause I will resign my Breath,
And dying shew, at least, what Romans were:—
Yet thus in Gratitude I bow before thee,
Imploring the Good Gods on thy Behalf,
In Safety may'st thou reach thy native Land,
In Glory may'st thou reign its mighty Queen;
While some deserving Monarch shares thy Bed,
Enjoying Beauties Fate deny'd to me.

Can.
Are these thy Pray'rs? To me they are but Curses;
And in Return what should I beg for thee?
But my big Heart disdains a further Converse;
Thy own Stupidity be on thy Head,
For sure, if not my Love could warm thy Breast,
In this at least thy groveling Soul is shewn,
To spurn at Empire, and refuse a Crown.

[Exit.
Fab.
'Tis true, Ambition never was my View,
Tho' Glory still has been my great Pursuit;
I would, by noble Actions in her Service,
Deserve the utmost Honours of my Country,
Nor higher do my Thoughts affect to rise.
And to a gen'rous Soul the virtuous Rule
O'er a free People, chearfully obeying,
Must bring more real, and sublimer Joy,
Than can be in the most Despotick Sway.
But my own Passion now requires Attendance;
And more than time I paid it at the Palace.
The watchful Governour will soon come forth
To chear the People with his wonted Goodness;
And with his Presence animate the Soldier.

[Exit.
SCENE changes to the Palace of the Governour.
Enter Sicoris, Murrus and Timandra.
Sic.
Tho' twice four Moons the Tyrian has begirt,
With Troops unnumber'd as his Africk Sands,
Our Walls; yet still, tho' shatter'd, they remain;
Our Tow'rs, tho' shaken, still erect their Heads,
And threaten in their Fall to crush the Foe.

Mur.
Thus low reduc'd, thus sore distress'd by Famine,
The People still retain their pristine Valour;
Patient they suffer all the dire Extremes,
While Rest and Sustenance seem Things forgot.

Tim.
With feeble Steps, upheld by disus'd Spears,
Our aged Sires ascend and man the Ramparts,
Pour thence in Pray'rs a Flood of Blessings down,
And chear with good Presage their sallying Sons.

Sic.
And such should prove th'Event, were not their Strength
Impair'd by Want of Nature's due Refreshments;
Strong in their Hearts alone, their Foes they seek,
With whom, when met, they deal but slender Blows.

Tim.
Oh, glorious Love of Liberty and Truth!
Oh, pow'rful Force of pure unwav'ring Faith,
Saguntum's other Deity rever'd:
Relieve, thou Goddess, thy true Votaries,
And from thy bless'd Abode show'r down Assistance.

Sic.
Thou Pow'r divine! born before Jove himself!
At once the Glory both of Men and Gods,
Consort of Justice, Deity confess'd
In ev'ry Bosom where thou deign'st to dwell;
Can'st thou, unmov'd, behold thy own Saguntum
Oppress'd with Woes surpassing humane Bearing?
Woes, that she suffers for thy sake alone?
For thee the People die, on thee they call,
The rueful Father, and despairing Matron,
While famish'd Infants learn to speak thy Name;
Oh! let their innocent and piteous Cries
Pull down thy Vengeance on our cruel Foes.

Tim.
This Day, my Father, have the Priests decreed,
Directed by their Chief, the pious Theron,
To pass in solemn Pomp around the City;
With all due Rites and hallowed Ceremonies,
Invoking to our Aid Alcmæna's Son.
At the same Time, attended by a Troop
Of noblest Virgins, shall Timandra go
To Faith's chaste Shrine; there prostrate on the Floor,
Our Heads and Hands array'd in purest white,
We'll humbly join th'Oblation of our Pray'rs,
And from the Goddess beg her kind Protection.

Mur.
In vain, I fear me, are those Pray'rs prefer'd,
While Fate too closely presses on our State,
Giv'n up to Ruin by the faithless Romans.
Like our great Founder, are we doom'd to fall;
Who, after Labours most unparallel'd,
Became the Victim of base Treachery.

Sic.
The War indeed is rather theirs than ours,
For Hannibal, through us, but aims at them;
With horrid Rites at Proserpine's dark Altar
Sworn by his Father, their invet'rate Foe,
Implacable he meditates the future War;
Already in his Thoughts the Alps are past;
The Latian Fields cover'd with Desolation,
While floating Carcasses obstruct the Streams;
His Thirst of Blood and fierce Imagination
Ev'n now give Rome to his destructive Rage;
O'er the sev'n Hills the Tyrian Flame ascends,
And by himself the Capitol is fir'd.

Mur.
By Hercules, should all his Hopes be answer'd,
'Twould be but what their Perfidy deserves;
Ingloriously to sit, and see a People
Fighting their Cause, allied in strictest League,
Receive Conditions from a merc'less Victor.

Sic.
Let not thy Country's Love too far transport
Thy juster Thoughts, my Son; for thou shalt find
The Romans ever were renown'd for Faith,
Rigid Observers of their sacred Compacts,
And in their Word, once giv'n, inviolate;
Can the whole Earth produce another Instance
Equal to that of their great Regulus?
Immortal Man! thou dost as far transcend
All other Heroes, as the Sun the Stars.

Mur.
'Tis true, and therefore shames their present Race:
He shou'd by's Truth, methinks, have been Saguntine.

Sic.
Curb thy licentious Tongue, intemp'rate Boy,
Shalt thou presume to scan Rome's awful Councils?
The secret Springs, that move the Wheels of Empire,
Are wrought too subtle for Youth's giddy Eyes.
Assume not to thy self, then, what's above thee;
Nor think opprobrious Language makes a Patriot.
Enter Theron.
Thy Steps are hasty, and thy Looks declare
That Haste important; is there ought beside,
Than that, perhaps, the Foe appears in Arms?

Ther.
The Foe, I think, is got within our Walls;
A new intestine Foe, accurs'd Sedition:
The People mutiny, and thro' the Streets
Grumbling they mutter Treachery and Fabius,
The Captive Queen, and more such idle Tales,
I heeded not; but hither bent me straight,
To tell thee this so much unlook'd for Mischief;
Be quick, and crush the Monster in its Birth.

Tim.
Oh! Sir, believe not, Fabius can be guilty
Of the least Thought repugnant to his Honour;
Virtue to him is all the World can give,
He by her strictest Rules his Actions guides;
This is vile Calumny and base Aspersion,
The ven'mous Offspring of some Villain's Brain,
Who hates the noble Youth for being Roman.

Sic.
Thy Cautions how to think of him are needless,
Full well I know, and knowing prize his Worth:
Retire, my Child, while I go meet the People;
Make thy Heart easy; Fabius be my Care.

[Exeunt Theron, Sicoris, and Murrus.
Tim.
Make him your Care too, ye all-gracious Pow'rs!
Protect the lively Pattern of your selves,
The Great, the Good, Beneficent and Just.
Enter Fabius.
Ha! Fabius; sure, he knows not of the News.

Fab.
The People's Eyes scowl'd on me as I past,
And low'ring knit, methought, their angry Brows.
Not so their Wont, while Mothers to their Children
With grateful grating Words, severely kind,
Pointing, would say, there goes indeed a Roman.
I know not what to think; but see, Timandra;
And in her Presence other Cares are lost.

Tim.
Did'st thou not meet my Father at thy Entrance?

Fab.
I did; some slight Disturbance, as he said,
Requir'd his Presence in the Forum; told me
Thou wer't alone, and pensive; bid me cheer thee;
And wish'd me here to stay till his Return.

Tim.
It was his Care to keep him from the Tumult,
[Aside.
Which by his Absence best might be compos'd;
I take the Hint—thou cam'st, I thought, to cheer me.

Fab.
Alas! Timandra, can it be, my Tongue
Should that impart, which my griev'd Heart ne'er knows?
All jocund Thoughts have fled the wretched Fabius,
And Cheerfulness and I have long been Strangers.
Thy Love alone it is supports my Soul,
Try'd by Distress, a sadly pleasing Comfort.

Tim.
Thy Words, tho' mournful, still have Pow'r to charm,
Gently they sooth my most perplexing Fears.
With thee conversing I forget my Sorrows,
While softer Passions fill their empty Place,
Engross my Bosom, and possess me whole.

Fab.
Nor think, I hear thee speak thus without Rapture;
Thy kind Expressions fill my Heart with Transport,
Like softest Harmony they reach my Ear,
And thrilling Pleasures shoot thro' ev'ry Vein:
Yet when they cease, so do not too thy Charms;
Speaking, or mute, the Graces wait around thee,
And Loveliness attends and forms each Motion.

Tim.
Thus to thy Eyes I would indeed appear,
And thus I do believe thy Passion paints me;
When o'er our Hearts fond Love has got Dominion,
With his own Blindness he infects his Subjects:
Yet whatsoe'er I am, believe me thine,
Thine in the last Recesses of my Soul.

Fab.
Shall I then hear, and only hear the Blessing?
While cruel Fate denies me the Fruition.
Come, come, my Countrymen; redeem your Honour,
And drive these faithless Africans before you.

Tim.
The very Thought revives me: Should they come,—
And sure, methinks, they should, we yet were happy.

Fab.
Prophetick be thy Words! Let me, great Gods,
Behold the glorious Day, when Rome's dread Pow'r
Shall muster on yon' Plains her warlike Bands;
Soon shalt thou lose thy Fears, and see with Joy
The Tyrian Troops dislodge, and fly before them.
So when a Mountain Goat some Tiger spies,
Browzing the Shrubs, at his full Stretch he flies,
Already seiz'd of her with greedy Eyes.
From the Rock's Refuge, her securer Haunts,
Driv'n o'er the Plain, the wearied Creature pants;
Hardly, with Fear, and Toil, her Breath she draws,
And now, just now, dreads his protended Claws:
If then the lordly Lion come in View,
No longer dares he the close Chase pursue;
Aw'd, yet with Rage indignant, stalks away,
And to the nobler Brute resigns his hard-sought Prey.

[Exeunt.