University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE, The Vizier's Camp.
VIZIER, HELI.
Vizier.

Heli.
That Thought is vain!—Confusion and Distraction!
Oh had I been but there—Why that tame Wish?
I shou'd have gone my self—My self her Guard,
She wou'd have come secure—

Viz.
Alas! thou rav'st!
What cou'd a single Hand?

Heli.
What cou'd it not?
The Cause wou'd have inspir'd, and giv'n my Arm
The Strength of Thousands.

Viz.
This is idle Rage:
Your cooler Reason wou'd instruct you better,
But that is lost in this rough Sea of Passion:
'Tis impotent to grieve for what is past;
And unavailing only to exclaim,
When we to more Advantage might employ
That Time, so lost, by striving to regain her.

Heli.
O! 'tis in vain to argue with my Rage—
Reason to Prejudice, to Winds, or Seas—
Bid Pain not follow when a Limb is broke;
Or when one Eye is torn from forth its Orb,
Command the friendly other not to weep—
But here your vain Philosophy is lost,
And the grave Teacher's Lesson idle Talk.

Viz.
Then give it Vent, let the big Grief have way,
Pour forth the Stream at once, and ease your Soul.
So when a Rider curbs a mettled Horse,
He pulls with Force impetuous, bounds and swells
With double Strength—but give the slacken'd Rein,
Swiftly he flies—At length by just Degrees
His Spirits waste, his Stubborness decays,
He stops obedient to the gentlest Check.
Heli, farewell; when next we chance to meet,
I shall again behold my Friend, whom now
Passion has alter'd from himself—farewell.

SCENE II.

Heli.
Heli.
'Tis easy, happy in our own Condition,
To bid the Wretch be so, or learn to suffer:—
Perhaps 'tis pleasant to behold the Storm
From the safe Shore—Perhaps 'tis so with him—
And, in the full Enjoyment of his Wishes,
Laughs at the Pains of others—Shall it be?—
Shall he, supine in Wantonness and Ease,
Stretch'd on a yielding Bed of Down, or Roses,
Behold me tortur'd on the Rack?—Oh no!—
Ha! yet a Thought remains of Comfort—yes—
Nought else can serve my Love—It shall be done.

SCENE III.

Deamira.
Deam.
When will the Tempest of Misfortune rise
To its full Height of Terror and Dismay?
Can their be yet Addition to my Woe?
Or is there yet a Pain I have not felt?
Ev'n from my Days of Infancy, The Chain
Of Ills began, and lengthen'd with my Years:
A tender Mother lost—a Father slain—
A Crown subjected, and a Nation slav'd,
Begin the List—yet these might be endur'd,
As Things in Nature and the Turn of Fortune—
But now the Miseries of Love succeed;
Belov'd, and loving, yet debar'd each other,
Plac'd in the Pow'r of one, whose lawless Will
Ne'er feels the gentle Check of Moderation;
Who knows not what it is to see, and like,
And not enjoy—Yet, in this Scene of Woe,
I found a kind Companion in Misfortune,
Whose Constancy assisted mine, and made
Me wait the coming of a happier Day:
Her I have lost—nor know I where I am—
But see—one enters—and my mystick Fate
Begins to shew it self.

SCENE IV.

Vizier, Deamira.
Viz.
Madam, I come
Not to augment, but dissipate your Fears;
Let not your Apprehension shape you Ills,
Which live but in Idea: Let those Eyes
Perform the Offices they were design'd,
And light the World to Gladness.

Deam.
Sir, this Talk
Shews me the Courtier, not the Comforter.
Exalted Compliments are not for me,
They shou'd attend on Merit's highest Flight;
Praise to the Undeserving is the worst,
The most severe Reproach, and sharpest Irony.

Viz.
You thus declare yourself, because you know
That Modesty becomes a female Brow;
That conscious Blush however has betray'd you,
And tells me that you speak against Conviction.
Your Pardon, Fair; I mean't not to increase
The bright Confusion—

Deam.
Sir—

Viz.
I say, 'tis Pity
That this fair Hand shou'd have so sad an Office,
To wipe these unavailing Drops away.
Why that cold Look?—But I'll revenge me here,
On this soft Hand, which, yielding to the Touch,
Disclaims the cold Aversion of those Eyes,
And tells me that your Heart has warmer Wishes.

Deam.
[Aside.]
What will my Fate do with me?—O my Fears!—
Have I not Cause for Grief? for streaming Sorrow?
What Change of Woe? What sad Alternative,
Have not I known? Is this a Time for Smiles?
This a fit Season for the jocund Turns
Of sportive Mirth?—To Happiness an Outcast,
The Jest of Fortune, and the Mark of Pity!

Viz.
'Tis but the Softness of thy gentle Nature,
That gives too easy Entrance to these Fears:
Fortune sometimes assumes a rugged Brow,
But to endear her Smiles, and make the Turn
More welcome to us, as 'tis unexpected—
How sweet is Rest after a toilsome Day!
How pleasant Light after a Length of Darkness!
How relishing Good-Fortune after Ill!

Deam.
You speak as if my Miseries were done,
As if their Date were finish'd—

Viz.
Yes, they are;
A fairer Prospect of new-springing Joys
Appears to court the Fancy; Bliss substantial,
Delights, which in Idea have not reach'd you;
Transports so fierce, so exquisite to Sense,
That the charm'd Soul shall bound with Ecstasy,
And wonder at the new-felt Joy!—

Deam.
No more:
These are the Sounds of Happiness; the Wretch,
Like me, must banish such fond Thoughts,
Such gay, delusive Scenes, and strive to make
His Fate familiar, so to make it light.

Viz.
Hence with this rooted Obstinacy! hence with Care!
Those who inclines to think their Fate severe,
Deserve to feel the Stroke: Calamity
Presses upon the feeble Mind, and sinks it down,
While the opposing Spirit struggles thro',
Unites with Hope, and conquers Difficulty.
Come, come: no more: Let us prepare—

Deam.
For what?

Viz.
For Bliss too great for Words—for Ecstasy—
Which nothing can describe but meeting Souls—
For Love, my Fair—

Deam.
Alas!

Viz.
Why start you so?
Is Love a Stranger to so soft a Form?
Does he not sit in Triumph on thy Brow?
Or waits to ruin, ambush'd in thy Smiles?
Swells he not with thy Breast? Or with thy Heart,
Beats to th'enamour'd Wretch the loud Alarm?—
A Start—'tis a Reproach for my Delay—
Ev'n you reproach me, and those weeping Eyes,
Faintly condemn the talking Loiterer.

Deam.
For Pity, Sir!—If by Humanity
Your Mind be sway'd, O talk not to me thus!—
Throw not more Weight of Miseries upon me,
Ere I have learnt to bear the present Ills:
O! name not Love; alas! his gentle Wing
Avoids the rugged Couch of hard Misfortune,
And flies to Happiness, and Beds of Down:
Why then to me—

Viz.
This Coldness is put on;
I swear it is, nor shall you make me think
The Subject were ungrateful, did you like
But him that urges it—but that's my Curse—
What wou'd be Musick from a fav'rite Tongue,
Is Dissonance and Discord from another.

Deam.
You wrong my Meaning:

Viz.
'Tis my Wish I may—
Nay, I wou'd have you think 'tis of Importance
To know how great the Merit is to ask,
Where we may use Command—Nay, start not, Madam,
He governs not the worse, who knows his Pow'r—
But I am summon'd hence—'tis worth your Care,
To think with Candour of yourself, and me.

SCENE V.

Deamira.
Deam.
No, I disclaim all Thought, let Unconcern
Attend my future Steps; let Misery
Vary each Shape, and tire Misfortune out—
They tell us that the highest Pitch of Woe
Sinks into better, and by slow Degrees,
Reaches the Point of Good—but 'tis not so with me;
All are Extremes of Woe, yet never end.

SCENE VI.

Lysander, Zaida.
Lys.
What shall I say? My over-hasty Soul,
That wou'd unlade its happy Freight at once,
And pour the Torrent out, among the Crowd
Of hurrying Words, yet fails of Utt'rance—
O! how can I describe—how bear the painful Joy!—

Zaida.
If after Absence it be Joy to meet?
After a Gloom if the Sun shines more bright?
If Happiness refines by Sorrows past?
Such then is ours, exalted and above
The common Rank:—

Lys.
Transcendent lovely Maid!—
But the big Rapture is too fierce, too strong;
Th'unmanagable Joy o'erleaps its Bounds,
And draws ev'n Pain along with't—O my Fair!—
Teach me thy Steddiness, thy Unconcern
Amidst this Flow, and pour in some Allay.

Zaida.
Alas! that soon must follow: think, Lysander,
Think for thy Friend, for mine—think that their Woes,
Like our Joys now, are to no Bounds confin'd;
But rise into the opposite Extreme,
Tear the distracted Soul, and rend the Heart.

Lys.
Too true, alas! the sympathizing Pain
Shoots thro' my Bosom, and I feel for them—
This too appears the mystick Work of Heav'n,
The equal Distribution of that Pow'r,
That orders all Things, and gives the Hope
Of better to the bad, and tempers Bliss,
Nor suffers the too luscious Draught to cloy—
O, Zaida! what are the most perfect Joys?
What the vain Boast of frail Mortality?
The Birth of Accidents, th'Event of Time?—
But Heav'n disposes all, and all is just—
Why shou'd I quarrel with its Dispensations?
It guided me to thee; it brought thee back
To Love, and to Lysander—tho' my Friend
Feels the sharp Stroke of Trial; yet ev'n he
Not murmurs at his Fate—And shall I, bless'd,
Thus happy in my Wishes then exclaim?

Zaida.
No, let th'Example teach us Moderation,
And wisely give a virtuous Check to Bliss—

Lys.
But let us haste to share our Friend's Distress,
And by our sharing, lighten—well we know,
Whole Years of Joy glide unperceiv'd away,
While Sorrow counts the Minutes as they pass—
'Tis Virtue's Office to suppress its own,
And bring Addition to the Bliss of others;
Or by partaking ease their Sorrows. Let us, hence,
Speak Comfort to his Woes, and ease his Soul.

SCENE VII.

Amurat, Orcan, Abdalla, &c.
Amur.
Hell and Confusion! Horror and Despair!—
O! for the Force of Thunder, for the Rage
Of angry Heav'n, and our insulted Prophet—
For the collected Strength of Armies join'd—
For the swift Wing of Time, or flying Thought,
That my Revenge may overtake, and strike
The false perfidious Villain to the Centre—

Orc.
How Passion tears him!

Abd.
Nay, 'tis vain to offer
To sooth his Rage—

Amur.
Why did I trust the Slave?
Why leave her in his Pow'r?—Ungrateful Prophet!
Thou sat'st supine in Indolence and Ease,
And from the Banks of Paradise beheld
Her snatch'd away, nor sent thy Thunder after—
Cou'dst thou not pull the Crescent from my Head,
Tumble the Throne of Ottoman to Dust—
But leave her here?—She was my Paradise—
Thine has no Joys for me now she is gone—

Abd.
How strangely is he mov'd!

Amur.
I took the Slave
From Earth, to Favour, from the dark Recess
Of long Oblivion, to the Shine of Majesty—
Trusted and made him great—believ'd the Slave
Was only what I made him—such he seem'd—
But what was that—Appearances deceive,
And this one Maxim is a standing Rule,
Men are not what they seem.

Orc.
My royal Lord—

Amur.
Villain, be dumb—fly from the falling Stroke
Of quick Revenge—Impending Ruin waits
To crush thy Insolence, and bold Presumption—
O that my Word were the whole Will of Fate,
A Nod shou'd rend the distant Poles of Heav'n,
And into Chaos tumble human Nature!—
But why do I expostulate?—to Arms—
Sound the last Trumpet, beat th'eternal Doom,
Let Ruin thunder, Terrors multiply,
And Death be the least Horror—O, my Heart!

Abd.
When will this Tempest sink into a Calm,
And Reason re-assume the steddy Rule?

Amur.
O Deamira! I had treasur'd up
Whole Years of Happiness, of sweet Content
With her:—and thus to lose it all—good Heav'n!
Have I not Cause for Rage, for boundless Fury?
For the whole War of Passions—Hence, to Arms:—
Let each Commander hasten to his Charge;
I will appear to lead you—My Example
Shall animate the whole, invigorate the Weak,
And make the Coward conquer—What is Danger?
What the vain Rush of Thousands, to a Breast
So resolute as mine?—Immortal Prophet!
If thou wou'dst have me think thou art at all,
Rise from thy downy Bed, thy Seat of Ease—
Forget the Joys of Paradise a while;
To a tremendous Fury change thy Smile:
Thunder with me, in the bold Front of War,
Lanch the swift Jav'lin, mount the ratling Car,
With hostile Armies strew the sanguine Plain,
Revenge my Cause, and be at rest again.

SCENE VIII.

Scanderbeg discover'd reading.
Scand.
'Tis greatly true; the loving Hand corrects,
Reproof is Kindness from a friendly Tongue,
And Trials wait upon the chosen Man—
Why shou'd we murmur at the friendly Hand,
That pulls us back to Good? Why, why impute
That to Severity, which but appears
Paternal, anxious Fondness for our Safety?
Nay, let us bring it to the Point of Proof,
And we shall find Misfortune here a Kindness:
In the warm Flow of gay Prosperity,
The pliant Mind too easily admits
The Stamp of Ill—the Fool of ev'ry Sense—
Affliction's Hand so moulds and hardens it,
Th'Impression fails—the Courser loosely rein'd,
Too often stumbles—but with Art held in,
Safely he journeys on—My Friend! What News?

SCENE IX.

Scanderbeg, Lysander.
Lys.
A Man disguis'd, who from the Vizier's Camp
Has stoln his Way, desires a Conference
With you alone.

Scand.
Conduct him quickly in.

SCENE X.

Scanderbeg, Lysander, Heli.
[Lysander goes to the Door, and brings in Heli disguis'd.]
Scand.
The Danger you have past, this Hour of Night,
Speaks some important Business—what—
[Heli signs to Lysander and the Door.
Lysander,
Tho' at my Heart, as a try'd, faithful Friend,
You hang dear as my own; and what one holds
Must be communicated to the other—
Yet for his Satisfaction be it so.—

SCENE XI.

Scanderbeg, Heli.
[Heli throws off his Disguise.
Scand.
Heli!—

Heli.
I see your Wonder and Amaze;
The Cause for which I came will more surprize you.
Not to prolong your Expectation, know,
And think me as a Friend, a Friend convinc'd,
Who wonders at thy Virtues, and wou'd join 'em.

Scand.
I do confess my Wonder at a Sight
So strange, and unexpected—but proceed—

Heli.
Your Wariness is just—but I come arm'd
Against all Doubt—not only will profess,
But prove my self a Friend—nor imagine
The Spleen of a discarded Fav'rite;
The desp'rate Turn of forc'd Necessity,
Persuades me to approve and own your Cause.

Scand.
Thy Love is the more welcome, as it flows
From an unbias'd Motive, and is found
The pure Result of Penitence, and Thought.

Heli.
To prove it such—tho' still I see Distrust
Hangs on your Words—this Night shall make you blest;
This happy Night shall lead you to the Height
Of your sublimest Wish—to Deamira—

Scand.
Ha!

Heli.
My unsuspected Honesty can gain
Admission to her Presence; then with Ease
She may be carry'd thence to both your Wishes—
The Vizier's Confidence in me is firm;
And easy Confidence full oft performs
What a free open Force attempts in vain.

Scand.
May not some Purpose lurk beneath these Words,
Some dark Design of Treach'ry and Deceit?—
I've heard of such—and shall I trust this Man?—
Trust?—whom?—He, who without a Cause, betrays
His Master—His first, great Support?—But then,
Shall I reject the Opportunity
That Fortune seems to offer to my Wishes?— [Aside.

Seems—as it only seems I must

Hel.
You muse;
Are Love and Deamira to be weigh'd,
Against your present State, in such nice Scales?
Or, weighing them, do they appear so doubtful?
Or is it but a Matter of Indifference,
Not rising to a Wish that you might meet?

Scand.
O say not so—the Pow'r that knows my Heart,
Finds not a greater Wish within it—Deamira!—
To clasp her in these Arms, to gaze intranc'd
On her lov'd Eyes—to wipe away the Tears
Of boundless Joy, and gaze on her again—
To hear her speak—No, that I cou'd not do—
For ev'ry Sense wou'd hasten to my Eyes,
And seeing her wou'd gratify 'em all—
And ask you if these Transports be indifferent?—

Heli.
I judg'd as much, I judg'd you by my self—
Such is the Force of Love, and such the Joy,
To find the long lost Object—such the Transports,
Such the tumultuous Rapture I shou'd feel,
To meet with Zaida.

Scand.
Ha! I see it now:
But to destroy thy fruitless Hopes at once,
Know, that her plighted Love has long ere this
Been given to Lysander—to my Friend;
Nor cou'd I help thy Suit, were I inclin'd—
Or if I cou'd, it were in vain to ask it—
Take back thy Terms, return again in Safety;
Learn to be honest, and subdue thy Passions;
Study the Charms of Virtue, and detest
The guilty View that bids thee sell thy Master—
Nor once imagine, at th'Expense of Honesty,
To purchase Happiness—A fruitless Thought!

Heli.
I am amaz'd!—Can you decline the Means
To make you bless'd? Will you refuse—

Scand.
No more:
When we can find a virtuous Means to meet,
Doubt not my Readiness: but that is left
To Heav'n's all-seeing Will, and best Disposal—
Hence, and depend upon a Prince's Word;
Tho' I reject thy Terms they still are secret.—

SCENE XII.

Scanderbeg, Heli, Lysander.
Scand.
Lysander! Let a Convoy be prepar'd
To give this Person Passport to his Camp—

SCENE XIII.

Scanderbeg.
Scand.
How poor! how despicable Nature seems,
Productive of such Men—The guilty Mind
Debases the great Image that it wears,
And levels us with Brutes—Immortal Truth!
How do thy radiant Particles refine,
And greatly prove thy Origin divine!
What Raptures bring'st thou to the virtuous Breast,
Parent of Joy and everlasting Rest!