University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Triumphal Procession.
SONG of TRIUMPH by Roman Soldiers.
God of Triumphs, God of War,
Wait on his victorious Car!
Crowns of Glory, Wreaths of Fame,
Ambition's Temples bind;
Tho' its impious Heroes aim
To conquer and enslave Mankind.
Cæsar bids the World be free;
His Glories, Peace and Liberty.
God of Triumphs, God of War,
Wait on his victorious Car!

Lictors, Officers.
First Lictor.
Led forward by the Hand of laurel'd Victory—

Second Lictor.
Crown'd with the Love of Nations, and their Praise—

Third Lictor.
The World's great Lord, the Lord of Empire comes.

Enter Constantine, Aurelian, &c.
Constantine.
Thus far we thank your Love, our truest Glory,
Our fairest Wreath of Fame. My noblest Triumph
(Oh! were it possible) should bid the Nations
Unite in mutual Amity and Peace,
That all the Blessings bounteous Nature gives
To different Climes, as sure her Wisdom meant,
Should be enjoy'd by all. Take care, Aurelian,
That every Honour, due to great Deservings,
Be paid these noble Prisoners. Tho' the Chance
Of War be fall'n upon them, yet like us
They fought their Country's Cause. Let us remember
How long their Valour held the doubtful Field,
And numbering o'er our Wounds, let them instruct us,
To reverence their Misfortunes.

Aurelian.
Such a Conquest,
Where, nor the Vanquish'd mourn their Loss of Honor,
Nor Kings their Sceptres, nor the World its Freedom,
Is worthy Cæsar's Fortune. [Pointing to them.]
While the Nations,
From farthest India to the western Isles,
Pour at your Feet the Homage of their Treasures,
Rome sends a nobler Tribute, Vows and Praise,
Omens of glorious Hope, in which she sees
Her once victorious Ardor rise renew'd,
Thro' many a distant Age, from this Day's Triumph.

Constantine.
Too long, my Friend, has the wild Waste of War
Rag'd o'er the Earth: Oh! were the scept'red Warriors,
Whose Lust of Empire sets the World in Arms,
Were they to see the Widow's keen Affliction,
Or hear the Mother's Shrieks in her Despair,
What could Ambition answer? But in Peace—
See, where its fairest Image comes to meet us,
[seeing the Empress.]
With all its Blessings round her.
Enter Fulvia, Maximian, Albinus.
O my Fulvia,
Next to my People's Happiness and Glory,
Thou art my Wreath of Victory, the Crown
Of all my Triumphs. Honour, Fame, and War,
Shall witness for my Heart, its tenderest Joys
Dwell in thy Arms; thou purest Bliss of Love.

Fulvia.
My Lord, my Emperor—all other Words
Wrong my full Joy; my Love.

Constantine.
'Tis Eloquence
Beyond all Power of Words. It is the Language
My Heart best understands, and talks to thine.
Now, by the dear Delight of gazing on thee,
I swear, the Rage of War, its wildest Tumults,
Have but endear'd this soft Return of Love,
This Meeting of our Hearts. But ah! my Fulvia,
Whence is that Air of Sadness! Fear and Sorrow
Are pale upon thy Cheek! And now a Tear
Stands trembling on the Lustre of thy Eye!

Fulvia.
Amidst the general Joy, to pour my Soul,
To call you mine; the World's great Master mine;
His Conquests, Triumphs mine; nay more, his Love,
Is such Excess of Bliss—yet, oh! forgive me,
(Thou Lord of all my Thoughts) if aught ill-omen'd
Fancy or Fear, a Woman's weaker Passions,
Should mix themselves with thee.

Constantine.
But that I know,
Thou Softness of thy Sex, thy gentle Spirit,
What might I think? What Terrors must alarm me?
Yet tell me, tell th'Impatience, throbbing here,
Is it within the wide Command of Empire
To calm these tender Fears? For what is Empire,
Why have I conquer'd, why this Day of Triumph,
But that my Fulvia may accept its Glories,
Laid at her Feet, in Homage to her Beauties?

Fulvia.
Her matron Virtue, rather, and her Love;
They may accept; may feel the Joys of Greatness,
Because the Gift is yours. Yet, midst its Glories,
Can I be perfect happy, while I see
Your cold Looks there? [Pointing to Maximian.]
While my divided Heart,
Divided between Tenderness and Duty,
Trembles for both.

Maximian
aside to Albinus.
Ay; now she tells him all;
Now she describes (O well-dissembled Terrors!)
The fearful Deed; now she protests her Love,
And now with pious Seemings (Goddess Nature,
Dares she profane thy Name, and call me Father?)
Pleads for my Life—O young Hypocrisy—

Constantine
to Fulvia.
With what Delight
Has my Soul listen'd to thy pious Sorrows?
Nor shall they plead in vain. My Lord Maximian,
What can I pay you back, in rich Return,
For Transports such as these? You gave her to me,
You made her Beauties, made her Virtues mine,
And bless'd my Soul with Love. If large Ambition,
Its scept'red Honours, its imperial Sway,
Can speak me grateful; take, divide them with me:
Besides th'unhappy Gift I late denied you,
Resume the sacred Purple; let the World,
Rul'd by your Wisdom, learn the Arts of Peace,
Or conquer'd by your War, make Rome immortal.

Maximian.
There was a Time, my Lord, I thought Ambition
The Spirit of the Gods, the Soul of Heroes;
But these white Years, which Time hath pour'd upon me,
Have quench'd its Ardors. These war-wearied Limbs
Wish for Repose; to lay their feeble Strength
Beneath the peaceful Shade, which this Day's Triumph
Spreads o'er the Earth; there, in an old Man's Warfare,
To talk of freezing Nights, and burning Days,
The Toils of Glory, Sieges, Marches, Battles,
And animate our Youth to Deeds of Honour,
Be now my sole Ambition.

Fulvia
to Constantine.
Tell my Heart,
How to express these Transports; or let Love,
In its own Language, thus; in this Embrace
Pour forth, at once, its Gratitude and Joy.

Constantine.
With equal Rapture, equal Joy inspir'd,
My Soul meets thine. Thus could I hold thee ever,
Transported thus, and gazing o'er thy Beauties,
With Wonder, as with Love. But let us not
With impious Carelessness forget his Praise,
By whose right Arm we conquer'd. In his Temple,
The only God of Victory, we'll offer
The banner'd Trophy, and the Spoils of War,
In monumental Praise. Then turn to Earth
Our future Cares, with Liberty and Peace,
(Best Use of sovereign Power) to bless Mankind.

[Exit Constantine, Fulvia, Aurelian.
Maximian. Albinus.
Maximian.
Was it of such slight Moment to provoke me?
Did he so little dread Maximian's Anger,
That he has granted to a Woman's Tear,
What he denied to me? For this the Legions,
Whom I had led to Conquest, saw me bend
My Spirit to the Earth, confess his Power—
Saw me refus'd a light, unvalued Trifle,
Scarce worth a Woman's Tears.

Albinus.
But now in Recompence
He offers half his Empire.

Maximian.
No; 'twas Insult;
(You saw it plain) contemptuous, purpos'd Insult;
His Insolence of Triumph, that his Courtiers,
His Christians, might enjoy their Master's Pride,
And my Dishonour. But, it seems, in Recompence
He offers half his Empire. Could his Word
Make me despotick Monarch of Creation,
His Gift, I would disdain it. My Ambition—
Shall it from him receive its sullied Honours?

Albinus.
This talking Heat, this loose Intemperance,
Is this Maximian's Vengeance? But be sure,
Suspicion is abroad; it marks your Steps.
Would you insure these Threats, which now are Air,
Keep your Eye constant; let no Passion shake it,
No Colour change your Cheek; open your Face
In Smiles, and let your Tongue flow loose in Flattery;
Go to their Christian Temple—

Maximian.
What! to hear
Their sainted Hymns, in pious Harmony,
Thrill'd thro' a Eunuch's Throat? Their holy Minstrelsy
Suits not my Taste. Give me a Soldier's Musick,
Sung by the Voice of War, with Discords in it.
Or must I hear our Roman Jove blasphem'd,
His Godhead ridicul'd in cold Harangues,
That talk, I know not what, of holy Patience,
That must forgive the Man, who dares to wrong me.
Doctrines for Slaves and Cowards.

Albinus.
Yet, my Lord,
What if the Empress (we may well expect it)
Or should Aurelian tell this fatal Secret,
We must with Boldness meet the Accusation,
And throw it back upon them. If, my Lord,
You would have Vengeance—

Maximian.
If!—I will, Albinus.
This Christian Emperor, and his favourite Slave—
Shall he enjoy his Perfidy in Safety?

Albinus.
Yet would you kill him, where he feels most sensibly,
Beyond the Pains of his own fancied Hell,
Strike at his Friendship, his high-boasted Loyalty:
Make Constantine suspect him, nay, believe him
A Villain and a Traytor. There are Witnesses,
There are, my Lord, for Things impossible.
What think you of Marcellus?

Maximian.
What? His Friend!

Albinus.
His Friend. And, then, who better can betray him?
Who better be suppos'd to know his Heart?
Not to amuse you longer—This, his Friend,
And some of higher Note, bold, Roman Spirits,
Fond of the ancient Privilege of Triumphs,
And high in Mirth, which I had rais'd with Wine,
With lavish Wit condemn'd the Emperor's Conduct
In the late War, and ridicul'd his Conquests.
I had them seiz'd, confin'd them, told the Emperor,
With some Expressions, some loose Hints of Treason,
Which Men in Wine might possibly forget.

Maximian.
Methinks, I see your Purpose, and it charms me.

Albinus.
I shall, by Constantine's Command, examine them.
If fair and friendly Methods fail to win them,
Tortures shall make them speak, as I shall prompt them.
Then with some well-wrought Circumstance of Jealousy—

Maximian.
Of Jealousy!

Albinus.
What other Power can make him
Suspect the Man he loves? Or will he listen
To other Crimes? Ambition shall be Virtue,
And Treason seem Ambition. Then, my Lord,
All other Passions have their Hours of Thinking,
And hear the Voice of Reason. This alone
Breaks, at the first Suspicion, into Frenzy,
And sweeps the Soul in Tempests.

Maximian.
But its Pangs—
Those you forget—Do they not rend the Heart?
Shall I not hear him groan?

Albinus.
You shall, my Lord,
For all its fiery Seeds are in his Temper.
When Honour, Justice, Reason, bid him act,
No Being firmer; but in all his Passions,
The Whirlwind's Wildness is not more inconstant.
When he (you must remember) and Aurelian,
This boasted Friend, were Rivals for your Daughter,
Friendship, Esteem, and often-vow'd Affection,
In the first Start of Jealousy were lost.
Will he rage less, when the imperial Greatness
Shall add its Pride; when the wrong'd Husband's Honour
Brings all its nice Suspicions to enflame him.

Maximian.
And when my Eye, when my Revenge, is sated
With gazing on his Pangs; when his full Sense
Can entertain no more of Pain and Anguish;
Then, in the Triumph of my Soul, to tell him,
His Wife was innocent—Ah! Who was innocent!

Albinus.
Is this Maximian? This th'unshaken Spirit?
Let not the Soldier see it; let not Rome,
Who thinks you, like her Gods, above all Weakness.

Maximian.
Yet tell me, can I say to my Revenge,
Be thou my Daughter? To this fierce Ambition
Bequeath my Power, or bid it to inherit
My Name and Honours? Can his deepest Groans
Charm my transported Soul, like those sweet Sounds,
That call'd me Father? She is all my Children.

Albinus.
You are, my Lord, the Master of your Fate.
It was not mine, th'Ambition or the Vengeance,
That prompted this great Deed; not mine the Glory,
Had it succeeded, to restore, O Jove,
Thy violated Shrines, and to Mankind
The Worship of their Reason; uncontroul'd
By slavish Fears, and ill-imagin'd Terrors.
Nor mine the Danger, if this much-lov'd Daughter—

Maximian.
All that is left me of the Name of Father!

Albinus.
In some loose House of Dalliance should betray you.
I am not known thus honour'd with your Friendship;
I pay to Constantine a Courtier's Flattery;
Am thought a Favourite; and Oh! profess,
Forgive me, Gods, a Worship I detest.
I shall not, trembling, kneel before his Throne,
And live with Infamy, or die a Traytor.

Maximian.
First perish all Affections; every Instinct,
That breathes these Feelings thro' the Parent's Heart.
'Tis past; the Conflict's over, and Ambition—
Methinks, I see the radiant Goddess come,
And, like a Soldier's Mistress, to my Arms,
Painted with Blood; how fiercely sweet her Beauties!
This Night, Albinus, you command the Palace,
And when he sleeps—Oh! shall Maximian kill
A sleeping Enemy! Is this the Soldier?
Is this th'Ambition, that would rule the World?
Oh! Shame, Shame, Shame! What End, however glorious,
Can justify such Means? But not my Cause—
'Tis thine, O Rome, thy ever-living Fame,
The Capitol, and all its throned Gods,
They strike the Blow; they bid the Victim bleed.

[Exeunt.