 | Poems, dramatic and miscellaneous |  |
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SCENE IV.
HUNNERIC and TRAULISTA.Hunneric.
If or ambition, wealth, or airy fame,
Could sooth to rest, my soul would be at ease;
But yet some secret heaviness I feel,
Ne'er felt before, that rankles at the heart,
And blasts the joys of victory and conquest.
Traulista.
The world, and all its treasures at command;
And beauty, emulous to win thy love—
What can disturb thy peace?
Hunneric.
Eudocia—the lovely, weeping, tender, fair Eudocia—
She is my prize—my prisoner—my wife—
Yet every motion of her eye appals;
And when she speaks, I like a statue stare,
Unable to reply, or to withdraw.
Traulista.
These Roman maids have some enchanting arts,
That bend the boldest warrior to their smiles;
Yet they are not so cold as they may seem.
Hunneric.
She holds me by some fascinating tie,
Spite of my prowess, or superiour strength:
Did the celestial deities combine
To form her thus?—Her image makes me hate
The wanton beauties of our amorous clime.
In her majestick presence, I'm as tame,
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I fearcely move me, lest I should offend;
It may be love—I fear it is—
Yet spurn it from my thought—yes, I adore,
My worship is profound—my veneration such
I'm tenfold more a slave than is the princess.
Traulista.
Perhaps, some darling favourite indulg'd,
May find Eudocia soft as yielding air,
Though frozen to the blandishments of love—
Cold as the Scythian snows to thine embrace;
Yet I could let a fatal secret out,
Would give a clue to wake her passions up.
Hunneric.
Ah! say Traulista;
Half my booty shall be thy reward;
And fifty captives of the fairest dames
Shall swell thy haram to the eastern stile.
Traulista.
Know, all the sex I equally despise;
And did some busy demon wake a wish
To toy and trifle with some matchless fair,
I'd puff it off;—if I could blush, the thought
Would burn my cheek.—Give me a Roman province,
Or give an army to patrole the empire,
To rid the world of their patrician pride,
Or yet more turbulent plebeian blood,
That has, for more than thirteen hundred years,
Plagu'd all mankind with their ambitious fires.
Hunneric.
Not less than thee, I hate the Roman name:
Command thy terms—though they're to govern Rome,
To wear a crown—to reign in Gaul or Spain;
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Here is my signet—claim thine own reward.
Traulista.
What if within this garden lies conceal'd
The rival of thy love?
Hunneric.
The game more easy—more secure the prey:
By all the blood Genseric's arm has spilt,
The traitor dies before the morning dawns.
Traulista.
Belov'd and favour'd by the fair Eudocia,
The brave Gaudentius waits to bear her off.
Hunneric.
Hah! the son of Ætius?—thy valiant friend?—
Traulista.
He once presum'd to call his friend a traitor,
And thinks that mine is such a milky soul
As to forgive—'tis not a soldier's trade:
My sword, my arm, aveng'd his bleeding sire,
Nor shall the son ungratefully defy
That sword—that prowess—that decided strength
Rome's legions fear, and trembling armies fly.
But yet I bid resentment sleep awhile,
'Till all was ripe an empire to subvert—
I scorn to play at a less noble game.
I rais'd Petronius to the imperial throne;
But he, ungrateful, indolent and weak,
At once forgot Hermannic's noble son;
With vulgar princes rank'd him as a slave:
The empress saw, and wanted such an arm,
To back the rage that rankled in her breast,
And rid her of Gaudentius, who'd refus'd
To be her friend and confident to thee.
He, raging mad with patriotick pride,
Resign'd his love at freedom's sacred foot,
Disgusted—urg'd against her fix'd design,
And arm'd at once against the Vandal king.
And thinks that mine is such a milky soul
As to forgive—'tis not a soldier's trade:
My sword, my arm, aveng'd his bleeding sire,
Nor shall the son ungratefully defy
That sword—that prowess—that decided strength
Rome's legions fear, and trembling armies fly.
But yet I bid resentment sleep awhile,
'Till all was ripe an empire to subvert—
I scorn to play at a less noble game.
I rais'd Petronius to the imperial throne;
But he, ungrateful, indolent and weak,
At once forgot Hermannic's noble son;
With vulgar princes rank'd him as a slave:
The empress saw, and wanted such an arm,
To back the rage that rankled in her breast,
And rid her of Gaudentius, who'd refus'd
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He, raging mad with patriotick pride,
Resign'd his love at freedom's sacred foot,
Disgusted—urg'd against her fix'd design,
And arm'd at once against the Vandal king.
She bade me hope, as my reward, her daughter—
But I've no wish the princess to possess;
Yet my ambition burns to reign in Rome.
But I've no wish the princess to possess;
Yet my ambition burns to reign in Rome.
Hunneric.
Nail this Gaudentius to some grassy plot
And thou shall triumph in the capitol.
Traulista.
This night is friendly to revenge and death:
Between the gloom of midnight and the dawn,
Just light enough beneath the cypress shade
To track the heedless lover on his way:
Yet could'st thou in Eudocia's presence draw,
And lay her lover bleeding at her feet?
When she to heaven erects her lily hand,
In all the beauteous agony of grief,
Heaves up her snowy breast, and sighs—Gaudentius!
Hunneric.
'Twould sweeten my revenge, and steal my heart,
To drag her instant to my slighted bed.
Traulista.
Then on and feast thee with the luscious sight;
A triumph worthy of a Vandal prince.
[Exeunt.
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