University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Dunbar, Eleonora.
Dunbar.
Ill it suits
A Soldier's Tongue, to plead the Cause of Love,
In Phrase adapted to the tender Theme:
But trust me, beauteous Wonder! when I swear
Not the keen Impulse, and impatient Hope
Of Glory, glowing in the Warrior's Breast,
With more awak'ned Transport, fill'd my Soul
When the fierce Battle rag'd, than that I feel
At thy Approach!—My Tongue has oft reveal'd
The Dictates of my Heart; but thou, averse
With cold Disdain, hast ever chill'd my Hopes,
And scorn'd my proffer'd Vows!—

Eleonora.
O Youth, beware!
Let not the flow'ry Scenes of Joy and Peace,
That faithless Passion to the View presents,
Ensnare thee into Woe!—Thou little know'st
What Mischiefs lurk in each deceitful Charm;
What Griefs attend on Love.—

Dunbar.
Keen are the Pangs
Of hapless Love, and Passion unapprov'd:
But where consenting Wishes meet, and Vows
Reciprocally breath'd, confirm the Tie,
Joy rolls on Joy, an inexhausted Stream!
And Virtue crowns the sacred Scene with Peace!

Eleonora.
Illusion all! the Phantoms of a Mind
That o'er its present Fate repining, Courts
The vain Resource of Fancy's airy Dreams.—
War is thy Province.—War be thy Pursuit.—

Dunbar.
O! thou would tell me, I am Savage all—
Too much estrang'd to the soft Arts of Life,
To warm thy Breast!—Yes, War has been my School—
War's rough Sincerity, unskill'd in Modes
Of peaceful Commerce—Soften'd not the less
To pious Truth, Humanity and Love.

Eleonora.
Yes:—I were envious to refuse Applause,
When ev'ry Mouth is open'd in thy Praise.—
I were ungrateful not to yield thee more,
Distinguish'd by thy Choice; and tho' my Heart
Denies thee Love, thy Virtues have acquir'd
Th'Esteem of Eleonora.

Dunbar.
O! thy Words
Would fire the hoary Hermit's languid Soul
With Extasies of Pride!—How then shall I,
Elate with ev'ry vainer Hope, that warms
Th'aspiring Thought of Youth, thy Praise sustain
With Moderation?—Cruelly benign!
Thou hast adorn'd the Victim; but, alas!
Thou likewise giv'st the Blow!—
Tho' Nature's Hand
With so much Art has blended ev'ry Grace
In thy enchanting Form, that ev'ry Eye
With Transport views thee, and conveys unseen
The soft Infection to the vanquish'd Soul,
Yet wilt thou not the gentle Passion own,
That vindicates thy Sway!—

Eleonora.
O gilded Curse!
More fair than rosy Morn, when first she smiles
O'er the dew-brighten'd Verdure of the Spring!
But more deceitful, tyrannous, and fell,
Than Syrens, Tempests, and devouring Flame!
May I ne'er sicken, languish and despair
Within thy dire Domain!—Listen ye Powers!
And yield your Sanction to my purpos'd Vow—
—If e'er my Breast—

[Kneeling.
Dunbar.
For ever let me pine
In secret Misery, divorc'd from Hope!
But ah, forbear! nor forfeit thy own Peace
Perhaps in one rash Moment—