University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Queen, Eleonora, Captain.
Queen.
What from the Battlements hast thou descry'd?

Captain.
Nothing distinct, my Queen—Involv'd in Clouds
Impervious to the View, the Battle long
Continu'd doubtful, 'midst the mingling Sounds
Of Trumpets, neighing Steeds, tumultuous Shouts
Of fierce Assailants, doleful Cries of Death,
And clatt'ring Armour; 'till at length, the Noise
In distant Murmurs dy'd.—O'er all the Plain,
Now a dread Stillness reigns!

Queen.
Then all is lost!—
Why pauses Ruin, and suspends the Stroke!—
Is it to lengthen out Affliction's Term,
And feed productive Woe!—Where shall the Groans
Of Innocence deserted find Redress!
Shall I exclaim to Heav'n?—Already Heav'n
Its Pity and Protection has withdrawn!
Earth yield me Refuge then!—give me to lie
Within thy chearless Bosom!—there, put off
Th'uneasy Robe of Being—there, lay down
The Load of my Distress!

Eleonora.
Alas! my Queen,
What Consolation can the Wretched bring!
How shall I from my own Despair, collect
Asswasive Balm?—Within my lonely Breast
Mute Sorrow and Despondence long have dwelt!
And while my Sire, perhaps, this Instant, bleeds,
The dim, exhausted Fountains of my Grief,
Can scarce afford a Tear!

Queen.
O Luxury
Of mutual Ill!—Let us enjoy the Feast!
To Groan re-echo Groan, in concert raise
Our Lamentation; and when Sorrow swells
Too big for Utterance, the silent Streams
Shall flow in common!—When the silent Streams
Forbear to flow, the Voice again shall wail!
O my lost Lord!—O save him—save him Powers!

Eleonora.
Is there no gentle Remedy, to sooth
The Soul's Disorder; lull the jarring Thoughts,
And with fair Images amuse the Mind?
—Come smiling Hope—divine Illusion! come
In all thy Pride of Triumph o'er the Pangs
Of Misery and Pain!

Queen.
Low—low indeed,
Have our Misfortunes plung'd us; when no Gleam
Of wand'ring Hope, how vain soe'er or false,
Our Invocation flatters!—When—O when
Will Death deliver me!—Shall I not rest
Within the peaceful Tomb, where I may sleep
In calm Oblivion, and forget the Wrecks
Of stormy Life!—No Sounds disturb the Grave,
Of murther'd Husbands!—Or the dismal Scream
Of Infants perishing.—Ha! whether leads
Imagination!—Must ye perish then,
Ye tender Blossoms!—Must the lofty Oak
That gave you Life, and shelter'd you from Harm,
Yield to the Traitor's Ax!—O Agony
Of fond Distraction!

Eleonora.
Ha!—behold where comes
The warlike Son of March!—What, if he brings
The News of Victory!

Queen.
My Soul alarm'd,
With Eagerness and Terror waits her Doom!