University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCANDERBEG, LYSANDER, CAPTAIN.
[Scanderbeg speaks entring.]
No, they shall live; be thou the Messenger
Of Pardon, and of Freedom: they already
Have suffer'd much, Imprisonment and Chains;
The conscious Pungency of doing Ill,
Is Punishment enough: see 'em releas'd—

SCENE II.

Scanderbeg, Lysander.
Lys.
'Tis god-like to forgive; yet oftentimes
That Mercy sinks into a Weakness, as it gives
A second Opportunity to those
Who miss the first; and as the Wrong
Was offer'd to your self—

Scand.
That very Cause
Induc'd me to forgive them: were it general,
The general Judgment shou'd have pass'd upon 'em:
Shall I cut off the Means of their Repentance,
As by their Deaths I shou'd? No, Heav'n forefend!
Heav'n can again o'ertake them, if their Crimes
Deserve a second Blow—Thy Business—Speak.

SCENE III.

Scanderbeg, Lysander Messenger.
Mess.
My Lord the Bassa, by the Sultan sent,
Impatient to return, expects your Answer.

Scand.
Bid him inform his Master we shall meet him:
Let a Detachment of two hundred Horse
Be ready to attend me—

SCENE IV.

Scanderbeg, Lysander.
Scand.
--- say, Lysander,
What means the Sultan by this Interview?
Comes he to offer Terms of Reconcilement?
Or thinks he to out-talk us from our Purpose?

Lys.
Rather to fright us into Composition,
By thundering Menaces and empty Threats.

Scand.
Has he so oft beheld me in the Field,
Encountring Dangers in the midst of Fight,
To think me capable of Fear! O Impotent!
I rather make this kind Interpretation;
His Conscience feels Remorse for doing Ill,
And wisely wou'd forego so bad a Cause.
The Man who wears Injustice by his side,
Tho' pow'rful Millions follow'd him to War,
Combates against the Odds—Against high Heav'n.
But oh! I talk untun'd; my Heart beats heavy,
Slowly the lazy Spirits move their Course,
And secret Dread hangs on me—Deamira—
Why shou'd I fear for her?—Heav'n is her Guard,
And Virtue.

Lys.
Thus to bear Misfortune,
As what can be a greater, than to live
At Distance from the Object of our Wishes;
That Object unenjoy'd, and in the Pow'r
Of our worst Foe—Is Constancy so firm,
Such strong Adherence to the holy Mandate,
As shall stand foremost in the Race of Time:
Blushing I look upon my poor Resolves,
A Laggard in the Race, and faintly striving
To follow Excellence that soars so high.

Scand.
No more; Thou shalt not violate my Ear
With a Reproach so harsh and so unmerited;
For tho' thy Virtues shine not to thy self,
(A good Man's greatest Praise) it follows not,
That they do not shine at all—Thy Modesty
Is the most fair Encomium on thy Worth,
And when it throws a Veil upon thy Beauties,
Its Blush betrays their Excellence.

Lys.
My Lord—

Scand.
Your Pardon—I have done; yet let me tell you,
That what wou'd from a Flatterer displease,
Is Justice from a Friend—That I am such,
This close Embrace, my Character, and Word;
That I ne'er spoke, or did, but what I thought,
And thinking, thought it just, may give you proof.

Lys.
If there be ought of Merit in my Life,
Your great Example made me what I am,
To you the Praise belongs.

Scand.
—No, Lysander;
A good Man ought to run the virtuous Race,
The Merit is in following: But, no more;
Subjects of Praise, the juster that they are,
Are the less grateful to a virtuous Ear;
The Meritorious holds within himself
His sole Reward; the World approves it daily,
And lifts th'unletter'd Fool to Wealth and Honour.
I swear, Lysander, that this gentle Talk
Has brought soft Images, and fair Ideas
To my retreating Fancy; the gay Scenes
Of Love, and Happiness appear before me,
And Re-collection makes the past, the present—
O Friend! To thee, who feels the Softness of a Lover,
To thee I speak, who melts with pure Desire,
And knows the Rapture of the brightest Flame—
Unbias'd Friendship, and a virtuous Love,
Walk Hand in Hand, uniting, and improv'd.

Lys.
While servile Inclinations, and gross Love
The guilty Bent of vicious Appetite;
At first a Sin, a Horror ev'n in Bliss,
Deprave the Senses, and lay waste the Man:
Passions irregular, and next a Loathing,
Quickly succeed to dash the wild Desire;
Not that I wou'd exclude the sensual Joy
From virtuous Love—my Blood informs me better;
Tumultuous—hot—the rapturous Glance,
Piercing the Brain—the Touch, that thrills along,
Trembling, where the Extremities unite
Of Pleasure, and of Pain—these all forbid me
To join with the wild Notions of those Men,
Who fondly wou'd endeavour to explode it;
And are industriously elaborate,
To write against Conviction, and their Thoughts.

Scand.
Time, and Importance bid us wave this Theme;—
Tho I cou'd hang for ever on the Tale,
Where Love, and Deamira are concern'd:
Yet those who never felt what we describe,
May censure us as Triflers, who wou'd waste
The Hours of Action in a fond Discourse
Of Love, and Softness—Idle Murmurers!
Where strictest Virtue, softest Love unite,
How fierce the Rapture! and the Blaze how bright!
True Joys proceed from Innocence, and Love,
Th'unsteddy by this Lesson may improve,
Disclaim their Vices, and forget to rove.

SCENE V.

Deamira.
Deam.
Where is that Constancy, that Strength of Mind,
I lately wore?—Sunk into childish Fears,
And weak Uncertainties—My feeble Soul,
But half-instructed in the pious Task,
Shou'd have a Martyr's Strength, before it felt
A Martyr's Suff'ring—and my harden'd Feet,
Shou'd be inur'd to Pain, before they trod
So rough a Path of Trial—Oh, my Friend!

SCENE VI.

Deamira, Zaida.
Deam.
Support my Constancy, and add thy Faith
To mine, lest I relapse into Despair—
But 'tis unfriendly—
Why shou'd I, miser-like to make me rich,
Covet thy Store?

Zaida.
Banish these dreadful Thoughts:
Idle Chimæras more affect the Mind,
Than solid Dangers.

Deam.
And yet, my Zaida, who can shut out Thought,
Or make the busy Faculties stand still,
And wait a happier Hour? Were the worst,
Tho' dreadful, present, I cou'd bear it well,
But the severest Misery to me,
Is thinking there is worse to come.

Zaida.
'Tis in vain,
To reason with the Seas, or talk with Winds;
Passions as loudly rage, and as regardless,
And Pity is the only Help, or Comfort.

Deam.
Forgive me, Zaida; yes, methinks, thy Strength,
Thy great Example shou'd secure my Faith,
And banish the whole Woman from my Soul;
For oh, thy Miseries appear as great,
And full as insupportable as mine—
An absent Lover—and the Chance of War
Levels alike at him, and Scanderbeg—
Oh! we were born for Sorrow.—

Zaida.
Think not so,
A long Succession of refulgent Years
Smiles in my View, and brightens to my Mind—
But see, the Sultan.—

Deam.
Zaida, let's retire:
I wou'd avoid the Tumult of his Passion,
And shun a Torment which I cannot cure.

SCENE VII.

Amurat, Orcan, Abdalla and Selim.
Amur.
You Orcan, and Abdalla, must with me:
Thou, Selim, with a Thousand Janizaries,
Guard this important Treasure; thy known Charge:
Beauty inhabits here, and shou'd be sacred;
Be it thy Care to keep it so: Let none
Approach the Tent, till my Return—farewel—
See that thy Care be equal to thy Charge.

SCENE VIII.

Selim.
Sel.
Thus unsuspecting Honesty betrays
It self, and meeting thus the Danger,
Kindly prevents the Villain's better Half.
By this Time my Dispatch has reach'd the Vizier—
This will exalt my Fortune, speed my Love—
Love and Ambition, what shou'd have been
Without 'em—but be still, my bounding Soul,
Let me suppress the Joy, and tune my Tongue
To the soft Accents of persuading Love.

SCENE IX.

Selim, Zaida.
Sel.
O Zaida, still that discontented Look:—
How long must Sorrow linger on that Brow,
And overcast the Sunshine of thy Charms?
When will that Tongue resume its Harmony,
And say, be happy, Selim?

Zaida.
Do these Times
Suit with the Words of Softness and of Love?
Is this a Language fit for you to speak,
Or me to hear? Methinks the Front of War
Horrid on ev'ry side, and threat'ning Fate,
Shou'd fire thy Soul with Passions more sublime;
Mine is possess'd with all my Woman's Fears,
And sinks in Trembling.

Sel.
Fear not, lovely Maid;
Our Prophet sees, and will protect thy Virtue:
Lighten thy Cares, and unconcern'd expect
Th'Event of Things—Thy Father will be safe;
We all shall smile and live in Peace together.

Zaida.
Thou talk'st in Clouds—

Sel.
No matter, 'tis enough
To tell you, that the Wheel of Fate will turn,
And we ride uppermost—I wou'd explain
The doubtful Meaning that is hid beneath;
But Matters of such Moment urge my Haste,
As cannot be delay'd—Nay, even from thee,
(The last dear Hold that I wou'd part withal)
Must I be torn? but as I go to fix
Your Joy, it makes the Pain of parting less—
Farewell, and be prepar'd to meet your Wishes.

Zaida.
What can the mystick Meaning be?—my Wishes!
Will he, his Rival, bring Lysander here?
Heav'n knows, my Wishes only are to him;
Whatever Change his doubtful Words portend,
Cannot be for the better—My sad Fortune,
Will but put on another Face of Woe,
And alter her Distress—painful Variety!—

SCENE X.

Vizier, Heli.
Viz.
See, Heli, where the happy Opportunity
Courts me, to make me Master of my Wishes—
'Tis Selim's Character—He writes me here—
The Sultan gone to treat with Scanderbeg,
The lovely Deamira, and my Daughter,
May be with Ease secur'd, and carry'd off—
He farther urges Haste; left his Return
Shou'd mar our Enterprize—By Mahomet!
My Fortune smiles upon me—Yes, I go—
Heli, do thou supply my Absence here—
Mine be the Post of Danger and of Love.

SCENE XI.

Scanderbeg, Lysander, &c.
Scand.
Tho' War in all its Terror, wears no Front
So horrid, that I dare not look upon;
For Fear on Guilt attends, and Deeds of Darkness,
The virtuous Breast ne'er knows it; yet I feel
For Thousands, whose inevitable Fates
Must follow, if we once begin to join—
'Tis not the Quantity of hostile Blood,
That shou'd exalt a Conqueror, but his Cause—
One Act of Mercy sits with fairer Grace
Upon his circl'd Brow, than Armies slain.

Lys.
How cou'd the Sultan wrong so great a Worth?
Master of such Humanity and Truth,
How cou'd you differ?—

Scand.
Alas! how shou'd we not?
Turn thy admiring Eye to Heav'n, to Earth;
Nature, you see, in her unnumber'd Works,
Finds out consenting Principles to join,
The Parents of this fair Variety: But ours
How distant? Wide as Earth from Heav'n—
Believe me, O Lysander, I have seen
That Man, when in the Tempest of his Rage,
Out-roar the Sea, when loudest, for a Trifle:
Each Passion has its temporary Rule,
And all by Turns are Masters.—

Lys.
O Description! painfully true!

Scand.
I swear, Lysander,
The homely Villager, the Drudge of Life,
Who eats but as he toils, is happier far:
No self-Division, Bosom-Anarchy,
Disturbs his Hours; thoughtless he labours on,
Nor is at Leisure to be wretched.

Lys.
What cou'd be then expected from a Man,
So lost, ev'n to himself? where ev'ry Gust
Of idle Inclination bore the Sway,
Himself retaining but the Name of rational.

Scand.
Lysander, in the poorest Faculties,
Least blest with Reason and the Gifts of Nature,
Some Gratitude is found, some kind Return
For Favours past: But here it was not so—
Have I not led his Armies to the Field?
How seldom have I fought without Success?
Adorn'd his Crescent with so bright a Blaze,
That it outshone the Sun that gaz'd upon it?
And all to be despis'd: One Boon deny'd—
Dismiss'd the Presence like the meanest Slave—
These are such Wrongs, my Friend, as who can bear
That owns Mortality: Our great Example
Was sensible of Wrongs, tho' he forgave 'em.

SCENE XII.

Scanderbeg, Lysander, Captain.
Capt.
Upon the Steep of yon high shady Hill,
As on my Watch I stood, I saw some Troops
Of shining Men, swiftly they bent their Course
Towards the Sultan's Camp.

Scand.
Lysander, thou
Take Horse, and with a Party watch their Motion:

SCENE XIII.

Scanderbeg,
Captain.
You to the Camp with speedy Diligence,
And bid our Numbers gently march this Way.

SCENE XIV.

Scanderbeg.
Should we, by too much Confidence betray'd,
Fall a defenceless Prey to Villany,
What cou'd be said for us? 'Tis wrong to trust
Those, whom their very Priests instruct, to keep
No Faith with us.
When wicked Men make Promises of Truth,
'Tis Weakness to believe 'em.
[Trumpet sounds.
The Matter?

[A Captain enters.
Capt.
Sir, the Sultan.

SCENE XV.

Amurat, Orcan, Abdalla, Scanderbeg.
[The Sultan looks sternly at Scanderbeg, then speaks.]
Amur.
We formerly have met on better Terms;
Let the Remembrance die—That haughty Air,
And insolent Disdain, as well inform me,
As Fame can speak, that thou art Lord of Thousands:
It has been otherwise, the Time has been
When thou wert humbler—then a poor Dependant,
The Jest of Fortune and the Mark of Pity.
But thou art alter'd now; Gigantick Pow'r
Has stretch'd thy Pigmy Being to my Equal.

Scand.
Whatever Change my Fortune may have known,
How alter'd from that humble thing you speak:
Thy Insults tell me, thou art still the same,
Unmanner'd still: Humanity and Kindness,
Which shun thy Nature, can alone disguise thee:
As for the Merit to appear thy Equal—
That I decline—and cannot call it Pride,
To think the greatest bad Man far beneath me.

Amur.
Dost thou hear this, Oh Prophet? Christian Canter!
Who fondly mak'st thy Impotence a Virtue,
And not inclin'd, or able to resent,
Think'st Suff'ring meritorious.

Scand.
Falsly urg'd!
That shining Range of War, thy very Fears
Retort upon thee to thy own Conviction:
No, here I stand, the Instrument of Heav'n,
He to a second Means transfers thy Punishment,
Unworthy of the Blow from him—But say,
Do meeting Kings, who stipulate the Terms
Of angry Kingdoms, thus begin to treat,
Thus in a Woman's War of Rage, and Passion?

Amur.
Then to resume the Man, and please you, Sir—
Say why thou lead'st embattled Armies on,
Against the Pow'r that rear'd thy tender Years?
Why, now thy Race of Manhood is begun,
Striv'st thou ungratefully to tumble down,
That friendly Prop, which was thy first Support?
Why shin'st thou now in Arms, without a Cause
Assign'd or known? Are these thy Christian Tenets?
These the much-boasted Principles of Justice?

Scand.
But that I know thou speak'st not as thou think'st,
Ev'n to thy self a Hypocrite—Thy Folly
Wou'd from thy own Discerning hide thy Crimes,
And put a virtuous Gloss on Vice—My Wrongs
Must else, ev'n at this Instant have appear'd,
And struck thee dumb with Guilt—I cou'd repeat 'em,
But that I think it needless—And cou'd add
To them, the many Favours I have done to you,
But that I will not—No, 'tis Folly's Office,
To speak her Praise, while real Merit hears it.
But I shou'd wonder more at thy remembring—
The Man who cou'd forget the mighty Hand
That form'd him first, must always be ungrateful.

Amur.
This thou can'st say with Ease, but wou'd evade
The Proof of ought that thou wou'd'st urge against me.
What are thy Wrongs?

Scand.
First, my native Right
Debar'd from me, was I not born the Lord,
The Ruler of Epirus? By what Means
Became it added to thy Right?—By Force?—
If so, Force must regain it—I desire not
The Wealth of other Kingdoms, nor their Lands;
The Spot that I was born to is sufficient—
Hereditary Title makes me Lord,
And Manhood will maintain it.

Amur.
Thou hast for this some Reason; but suppose
I shou'd deliver up my Title there:
What can'st thou else complain of?

Scand.
Dost thou ask?
Is there not yet behind a Wrong so great,
As Patience scarce can bear?—A Wrong—Good Heav'n!
Which ev'n to think upon, affects the Brain,
And runs me into Madness—What are all
The Pomp of Kingdoms, and the Wealth of Worlds?
One virtuous Glance from Deamira's Eyes,
Out-shines 'em all—'Tis here I feel the most—
Here Pain shoots thick, here Misery attacks
The frailer Part, and Manhood cannot bear it!—
But why do I expostulate with thee,
Whose Glory is in others Pain, whose Pride in wronging?

Amur.
Your Passion is your Tutor in this Lesson,
I make Allowances, and know too well
How wild the Words are, when that bears the Sway—
But listen farther—Tho' I might insist,
As you but fought my Cause, that she was mine,
That I decline, as more the Right of Force,
Than free Consent—Her Will, you must confess,
Has the best Title to dispose her Person;
Yet still to let you see how dear thou art,
That I remember still what once you were;
Take back your Kingdom, be the Second here,
Divide my Heart, but—

Scand.
Woud'st thou barter thus
For Love and Justice—No, the Pow'r above,
Who at one Look sees all the Riches here,
Sees nothing that can equal the Exchange—
Is she not—

Amur.
More than thou can'st figure out;
Ev'n Fancy wants Materials to supply
The bright Resemblance—The swift Wing of Thought
Cannot conceive the Excellence she wears,
As well the unsteddy Eye might comprehend
The glorious Sun in his Meridian Blaze,
And at one View take all his Brightness in.

Scand.
Why wou'd'st thou idly traffick for a Gem
Inestimable?—Impotent and vain!—

Amur.
Yes, if this Gem were yours, it wou'd be so.

Scand.
Ha!

Amur.
Nay, wonder not, the Sex are all the same,
Their Appetites alike delight in Change,
Desire the only lasting Passion there—
At first the easy Lesson made its way,
And sunk into her Soul—The Object gone—
Was she to mortify with Sighs and Tears,
And grieve her Youth away—She better thought—
Believe it, she is mine, howe'er Appearance
At first deceiv'd you with the Show of Favour.
She has recounted all the gentle Tale
Of your first Loves, and laughs at it with me.

Scand.
No more, 'tis basely urg'd, I'll hear no more—
'Tis Profanation but to doubt her Truth,
And ev'n to pause upon that Doubt, a Crime:
This Artifice is vain as it is base,
A Trick beneath a King, beneath a Man—
Hence with thy petty Terms—Begone—Tomorrow
Expect me in the Field before the Sun—
Farewel—

Amur.
Since thou art bent on Ruin,
To-morrow thou shalt find it—So farewel—

SCENE XVI.

Scanderbeg.
Scand.
False? Deamira false? Immortal Heav'n!
What are the most compleat of all the Kind,
If she be turn'd Apostate? What those Stars,
That glitter in the blue Expanse of Heav'n?
Sure 'tis Illusion all, and false Appearance:
But hence ye idle Thoughts, ye vain Chimæras!
Her Truth and Constancy I judge by mine,
And certain of my Love, am sure of hers:
O Woman!—Let the Libertine decry,
Rail at the virtuous Love he never felt,
Nor wish'd to feel—Among the Sex there are
Numbers, as greatly good, as they are fair;
Where rival Virtues strive which brightens most,
Beauty the smallest Excellence they boast;
Where all unite substantial Bliss to prove,
And give Mankind in them, a Taste of Joys above.