University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

HELI.
Thus far Success anticipates my Wish;
And every Omen whitens to my View,
Prophetick of my Happiness: The Fair,
From the Abundance of her Honesty,
Ascertains mine; and has resolv'd to go
Whither I lead—to Scanderbeg she thinks—
The Vizier too is by Appointment led
A different Course: How I cou'd hug my self
For well-invented Mischief—

SCENE II.

Heli,
Deamira,
Welcome, Lady!
My studious Honesty o'ertakes the Time
With swifter Flight, and shews me waiting here,
Still more than punctual.

Deam.
'Tis in Virtue's Cause,
And she must crown thy Diligence with Virtue:
And yet ere long perhaps my Thanks may speak
In more than Words, and offer a Reward.

Heli.
O gentle Lady! name not a Reward;
Thou hast it in thy self—thy Meekness speaks,
Thy Condescension, and Humility,
Temper'd with something, not to be express'd;
Not barely plead for, but command this Justice—
I swear by Mecca 'tis to me most strange,
That any, temper'd with a human Mind,
Can see such Sweetness wretched.

Deam.
They, alas!
Who know not Guilt, suspect it not in others—
But we lose Time—nay, pardon my Impatience;—
My Fears of Danger, Hopes of Joys to come,
Will have it pardon'd.

Heli.
Lovely, virtuous Maid!
My Expectation rises to a Pitch
As exquisite as thine: Like thee, I long
For the Completion of thy Happiness;
For tho' th'Intent of Good be meritorious,
Yet when we see the virtuous Act compleat,
'Tis then we taste the Profit and Delight—
Haste then, and let me lead thee to the Bliss
I long to give—to the expecting Arms
Of him, who waits impatient to be blest,
And must know thee, and Happiness together—
Without I have provided thee sure Means
Of Safety, and Escape—Be that my Care,
Thine be the Joy to come.

Deam.
Thou honest Man!
But Thanks are poor—for thou hast done so much,
I want the Words to say what I wou'd do,
To recompense such Goodness—'Tis enough
To tell thee that I labour a Return,
And Gratitude sets down the Obligation.

SCENE III.

Scanderbeg, Lysander, and other Commanders.
Scand.
'Tis as I wish'd; the Hand of Heav'n is in it,
And points this easy Way to Victory;
Wonder with me, Lysander, at the Pow'r,
That turns th'injurious Stroke upon themselves;
At once the Suff'rers, and our great Avengers.

Lys.
How dreadful is the View! The Front of War,
On either Side, looks Ruin and Dismay:
The Armies, opposite in hostile Rage,
Seem like the Verges of tremendous Fate,
The Space between a vacant Grave for Thousands.
How many look erect in manly Strength,
Healthy to View, that, but some Moments hence,
Shall prostrate, press the crimson Field in Death!

Scand.
That Thought, tho' shocking, is not yet the worst—
Death is the lightest Evil we shou'd fear;
'Tis certain, 'tis the Consequence of Life:
Th'important Question is not that we die,
But how we die.

Lys.
O Misery of Thought!
That traces Thousands to the End of Being
In mortal Clothing, and yet leaves 'em there
Dark, chearless, and uncertain where to wander.

Scand.
While to our View a pleasing Hope appears,
And brightens the safe Way with Christian Beams:
Here the serene, the tranquil Mind, tho' bent
By Fate unequal, struggles out to Day
Eternal: While the trembling Beast of Guilt,
Wretched in Recollection, fears in private
The Pow'r that impotently he disclaims;
Unwilling, yet instinctively a Coward.

Lys.
'Tis a sad Prospect, turn th'o'er-labour'd Mind
To Scenes of happier View; let Fancy bring
Somewhat of fairer Cast; let Innocence,
Or Maiden Virtue, undefil'd and pure,
Strike pleasing on the Sight, and fill the Soul
With Images of Joy, and bright Ideas.

Scand.
Christians and Fellow-Warriors, you behold
How Heav'n in Justice to it self and Us,
Strikes back the meditated Blow on them,
Who meant it here: That great, all-seeing Pow'r,
By their own Paths lets 'em find out Destruction;
And leaves to us the easiest, lightest Task:
With Gratitude receive the Benefit,
Nor idly lavish the rich Gift of Good—
But hark—the Death-denouncing Trumpet sounds
The fatal Charge, and Shouts proclaim the Onset—
Destruction rushes dreadful to the Field,
And bathes itself in Blood: Havock, let loose,
Now undistinguish'd, rages all around;
While Ruin, seated on her dreary Throne,
Sees the Plain strew'd with Subjects truly hers,
Breathless and cold—the Work of fell Revenge:—
My self will at a distance mark which way
Conquest inclines; while each Commander here,
Stands ready for the sudden Rush of Fate,
To find at once a glorious Victory.

SCENE IV.

Heli, Deamira.
Heli.
How loud Death sounds! how terrible his Voice!
Death, that in Chambers steals so softly on,
And comes like Sleep or Ease to tir'd Mortals;
Here boldly rouses ev'ry Faculty,
With dreadful Preparation for the Blow,
As if—
He scorn'd the Triumph of a single Fall:
But here, where Thousands perish, he exults,
And gives the Stroke in his full Pomp of State—
Thou trembl'st, Fair—Alas! thy gentle Nature
Ne'er felt Alarms like these—The Sound, too harsh,
Jarrs with the Harmony that dwells in thee,
And strains Concordance to a Pitch too high.

Deam.
Blame not my Nature, that admits too soon
My Sex's Fears; I own, I feel 'em all—
And yet the Hopes of the Reward in View,
Might arm my Mind against this Woman's Weakness,
And feel the Nerves of sickly Resolution:
Come, lead me on then, 'tis to thee I go,
O Scanderbeg! to thee, whom my strain'd Eyes
Ake to behold: To thee, whom these glad Arms
Long to embrace, and hold for ever there:—
I feel new Strength, new Vigour shoot around;—
My Fears melt down, and manly Force inspires me:
Let us be gone—

Hel.
Be not impatient, Lady:—
Still Danger threatens unperceiv'd by thee:
Send thy Sight thitherward, where thro' those Trees
Thou seest the hostile Rage of Fate strike wild;
That must be pass'd, ere we can reach the Port
So much desir'd; a River widely flowing,
Hinders our Progress any other Way,
Than by a Bridge there plac'd: The Chance of War
May soon remove 'em from that Spot of Earth,
And then we pass secure; 'till when, this Wood
With its green Shade envelopes us around,
Unseen, yet seeing; here the tufted Grass
Affords a kind Relief to weary Nature,
Unus'd to such Fatigue; here let us sit,
And talk of Love, and its bright Influence;
Of Joys that rise up to the Point of Madness,
And Beauty that lights up the fierce Desire.

Deam.
Alas! that Subject ill becomes us now.

Heli.
Never so well:—Look round, no curious Eye
Prys thro' these thick Recesses; Love alone
Sits sportive on the Boughs: The warbling Birds
Chant Courtship to each other, and reproach
My Negligence.

Deam.
Ha! what can all this mean?

Heli.
Consult yourself, and then, what can it mean?
What, but a boundless Passion? Ask this Touch;
Trembling, it answers Ecstasy and Transport:
It means the Bliss unrival'd; the fierce Pow'r
That springs thro' ev'ry Alley of the Soul,
To bring in melting Joy, and balmy Transport.

Deam.
O Heav'n! for Pity's sake—

Heli.
No more I say—
True, this Hypocrisy looks well in Publick,
'Tis a Decorum to Brow of Beauty,
And awes the Crowd to distant Reverence:
In private 'tis but ill-judg'd Obstinacy
To coy it thus, and but affect Indiff'rence;
We know your Appetites like ours are fierce;
Passions as furious sweep along the Soul,
And Nature wholly rules the weak Machine.
To one who knows—

Deam.
O gen'rous Sir, yet hear,
Hear the sad Pray'r of kneeling Wretchedness:
Thou seest a Maid whom the whole World forsakes,
Whom Fortune has cast off: Whom Pity can,
And only can make happy: Think, great Sir,
How much more great the Attribute to save
Than to destroy! I know you cannot mean it;
Humanity sits gentle on your Brow,
And your looks bid me disregard your Words.

Heli.
Thou reason'st right, for I too long have talk'd.
O 'tis a kind Reproach!—

Deam.
You will not, sure—

Heli.
Not trifle longer, nor wou'd I have you—
Think that each Moment is a Loss to Love,
Thus idly spent—he will exact severely
The strict Account, and term us Loiterers.

Deam.
And was that Honesty but false Appearance,
Which you so boasted, and I so believ'd?

Heli.
How ignorant thou talk'st! what, Honesty!
A Name, scarce Echo to a Sound:—Honesty!
Attend the stately Chambers of the Great—
It dwells not there, nor in the trading World:
Speaks it in Councils? No; the Sophist knows
To laugh if thence: Why shou'd we waste the Time
In dull Discourse on nothing?—Come, no more—
Let me not take what I wou'd have a Gift—
Hence with Resistance—

Deam.
O! for Mercy's sake!—

Heli.
'Tis all in vain—

Deam.
No Help, no Succour nigh?—

Heli.
None can approach; no Cries can here alarm
The distant Ear: Remoteness all around
And solitary Intricacy dwell.

Deam.
Then Heav'n assist me in this dreadful Hour;
See my sad State, hear my distracted Cries,
And send some speedy Miracle to save me.

Heli.
I tell thee, Fair, Heav'n hears not all this Sorrow,
The Voice is much too weak to reach so high,
'Twas made on purpose so; for well it knew,
Had you a Voice in common with Mankind,
They shou'd be deaf with your eternal Clamours.
Therefore no more—

Deam.
You cannot, sha'not force me—
My Cries shall spirit up the brute Creation,
Ev'n they, less sensible,—but less inhuman
Than thy fell self, shall rise up on my Side
And fight the Cause of injur'd Innocence,
Of lost, unhappy, wretched Deamira—

SCENE V.

Heli, Deamira, Vizier.
Viz.
Behold her Champion here!

Heli.
The Vizier!—Hell!—
But 'tis in vain to think of a Retreat,
And I must on, or fall.

Viz.
Perfidious Wretch!
Thy num'rous Promises of Truth and Honesty
Made me suspect thee Faithless—Partly that—
And that I wou'd not venture such a Treasure,
As Deamira, in another Hand,
Urg'd me to have thee watch'd—A diff'rent Course
To that appointed didst thou take: The News,
Ev'n at the Head of charging Thousands, reach'd me;
I left th'Event of clashing Fate uncertain,
And swiftly flew to overtake thy Purpose.

Heli.
Thou hast overta'en, but may not yet prevent it;
I will not offer at a dull Excuse,
And plead the Force of Stars, or Destiny;
What I have done, this Arm must justify,
Which thus obeys the Dictates of its Master,
And dares thee to thy strongest Proof of Manhood.

Viz.
Insolent Wretch! ungrateful and accurst!—
Thou hast the best Excuse for Perfidy,
Thy Love for Deamira—But no more;
Take thy Reward, enobled by my Hand.

[They fight. Heli falls.
Heli.
Thou hast o'ercome—what, what is Life or Man?
How quickly do we pass from one Extreme
To the steep Verge of t'other!—how we haste
From Joy to Misery—from Life to Death—
And from a Something, bustle into Nothing—
'Tis painful—Now 'tis easy.—

[Dies.
Viz.
Why, this is well—'tis fit that so the Slave
Shou'd die, a Victim to his bold Presumption;
So shou'd he fall who proudly soars at Heav'n.—
How far'st thou, Love?—what, quite beset with Fears?
The Sight of Blood, of Wounds, and Death affrights thee.
Come, let me hide thee from the dismal View
In my safe Bosom—Nay, this Coldness wrongs thee—
It calls thee thankless, sullen, and ungrateful,
To him who sav'd thee from a Slave's Pollution.

Deam.
O say not so—what Words—what great Return
Can rise up equal to the mighty Gift?
My Gratitude stands waiting but to know
How it may be employ'd.

Viz.
'Tis easy done—
Nor shall it wander far, to find the Means
Of ample Restitution.

Deam.
Name it, Sir.
Task ev'ry willing Faculty of Mind,
Command my Pow'r—(if the sad Wretch like
Has any left) or failing there, my Prayers.

Viz.
No, my fair Charmer, be those treasur'd up
For wint'ry Age, for joyless, sleepless Nights,
When Pleasure palls, and Appetite decays—
Give me the present Moment of thy Love—
Give me what he wou'd take.

Deam.
Alas, my Lord!—

Viz.
And have I not deserv'd it—Ask myself
Why have I led yon shining Host to fight,
And giv'n 'em up to Fate, but for thy Sake?
Why flows the Blood of Millions on the Plain,
But all for thee?—And wherefore have I left
The Field of Death, where once I us'd to ride,
Triumphant over slaughter'd Heaps, but to attend
The Call of Love, that brought me to thy Aid.

Deam.
I own these Obligations, and would run
As far as Death to make you a Return—
But my eternal Fame—O think on that—
That gives me Comfort in the deepest Woe—
My Virtue lost, were to lose Rest for ever;
Murder, Peace, and Innocence at once.

Viz.
Chimæras all! The Trial will betray
Your Fears unjust—Still Peace shall hover round you,
And not one stormy Thought disturb the Mansion.

Deam.
'Tis all in vain, for Oh my spotless Fame!
With Life is bound up in a single Knot,
Which cut, can never be restor'd to Union.
Oh think again, great Sir! is not Obedience
Flowing from Love, more sweet than from Constraint?
Time may do much—

Viz.
Such Sounds might once, I own,
Have chang'd the Purpose of my firmest Temper,
And made me wait with Patience for the Gift
Of Love and Deamira—Now 'tis past—
I will make sure of Part of Happiness—
Therefore no more—The Eloquence of Angels,
Temper'd with the Command of our great Prophet,
Shou'd lose their End, to sway me from my Purpose.

Deam.
Ill fated Wretch! with what Precipitance
Thy Sorrows fall! how quickly do they turn
The dreadful Round—Still baleful, still destructive!

Viz.
I can no longer dally—My hot Blood
Beats the fierce Charge—and irritates Desire—
That breathless Slave has made the Preparation,
And talk'd my Lesson over—Thus I seize—

Deam.
For Heav'n! for Mercy! look with Pity down!
Aid my weak Efforts! Help!—

Viz.
'Tis fruitless all—
Thy Cries grow weak, and with thy Strength decay—
Be then advis'd—

Deam.
Never—But thus to Heav'n,
To Earth will call for Succour, and for Help:
Hear me, some Angel, wing to my Relief!—
Take my sad Life, but spare the Violation—

SCENE VI.

Scanderbeg, Deamira, Vizier.
Scand.
The Sound of female Sorrow and Distress,
Has thro' a Maze of Windings hither led me:
'Tis Virtue's Call—Ha! do I awake, ye Pow'rs?—
Say, can I see?—or see I Deamira?—
'Tis she—'tis she herself—my Heart confirms it
By this fierce Start—that labours to o'er-leap
The Verge of Being, to be nearer her.

Viz.
Wilt thou not yield?—Resistance is as vain
As Hopes of Help.

Scand.
Die, Villain, in that Thought,
[Stabs him.
And learn thy Error in this Stroke for Virtue.

Deam.
O Bliss unlook'd for—Ha! my Prayers are heard—
And sent ev'n him, ev'n Scanderbeg to save me.
'Tis so—I know him well—and yet scarce
Whether 'tis he—so boundless is the Joy.

Scand.
O Deamira!—

[Embrace.
Viz.
Hell and Furies!—Cou'd there yet
Be an Addition at the Verge of Life,
To Misery like mine? I thought the Sword
Had giv'n me Pain enough—but that Embrace
Throws a redoubled Hell of Tortures on me—
Eyes, burst thy Strings, and start to instant Blindness.
So, the remaining Cord of Being cracks—
'Tis Death! 'tis Darkness—but to me 'tis Ease.

[Dies.
Scand.
Return, my Love, nor let th'unwieldly Joy,
For ever sink thy Beauties in the Vale
Of gloomy Death—Fly not, Oh partial Life!
Just as we come to taste thy Happiness!—
But see—Death hears the earnest Call of Love,
And gives her back new-rising in her Charms.

Deam.
Still I am here—and still the mighty Transport
Wou'd overbear again the Seat of Life—
Stop the big Flow, and keep the Torrent down—
It will have Vent—it rises at my Eyes
In Tears of flowing Joy, to give me Ease!

Scand.
O Deamira! thus at last to meet—
I wou'd say something to tell what I feel,
But 'tis impossible!—I have thee here—
That comprehends it all.

Deam.
But say, my Love,
What Miracle cou'd bring thee to my Aid,
So greatly wanted, yet so unexpected?

Scand.
Heav'n order'd all—The Battles loudly joining,
I chose this Shade to watch the Turn of Fate
Unseen; the Voice of distant Sorrow here
Assail'd my Ears, just as I had dispatch'd
Lysander, the Companion of my Steps,
To lead our Army to the Rush of Fate,
On their disorder'd Troops, and end the War—
I trac'd the Sound—it brought me to thy Aid,
And to this Happiness—Ha! Death I see
Has been already here.

Deam.
The Traitor, Heli.
O Scanderbeg, I have a length of Woes
To tell thee of; but that this Place of Horror
Startles Imagination with what's past.

Scand.
Let us retire—I too am call'd upon
To animate the War—The Care of thee
Shall be my first Concern, and Conquest next.

SCENE VII.

Amurat.
Where are these Slaves? Why do they shun a Fate
So noble, as to die by Amurat?
Where is the faithless Vizier—Scanderbeg—
Have their pale Fears transform'd into Air,
To cheat my Vengeance?—Let but them appear,
Tho' arm'd with the Artillery of Heav'n,
And let us tug for Life and Deamira—
Ha! Fancy brings 'em to the working Brain—
The Vizier dead—I thank thee, Scanderbeg—
Confusion!—Deamira there?—Perdition! Hell!
She smiles Content—and riots in my Torture—
Shew me where Læthe rolls Oblivion on,
And let me drown Remembrance—Fix me, Gods—
To the Rotation of the ceaseless Wheel—
Let me have Loads of Pain, to divert this,
This worse than all Hell's Pains—their Happiness.

SCENE VIII.

Abdalla, Amurat.
Abd.
Fly, mighty Sultan, from this Place of Death;
All is o'erthrown, the very Hope of Conquest lost:
Ev'n Life uncertain—Haste—delay not, Sir—

Amur.
Ha! who art thou, who with an Ague Hand
Strikes trembling on the Coward Note of Fear?
The Day has caught th'Infection of thy Look,
And sickens to a Gloom: ev'n I perceive
An icy Fear creep shiv'ring to my Heart—
Thou hast done this—Away, Timidity!—
Now I blaze up, and emulate the Sun—
I am all Fire—our blended Rays descend,
And set the World on Flame—'tis a fit Torch,
To light me to Destruction and Revenge.

Abd.
Alas! he raves—give Reason, Sir, the Rule,
And fly pursuing Fate—Your Armies conquer'd—
The Vizier's too—by Scanderbeg o'ercome.

Amur.
What hast thou found him?—Ha! thy Looks are chang'd,
And stern Dismay has redden'd over Fear,
With Terror's Painting.—Lead me quickly on,—
I forgive all this Ravage of my People,
The Loss of Empire, Reason and of Love,
I forgive all but to o'ertake that Slave—
Knit thy stern Brow, Revenge—Let Desolation
Take Hands with Vengeance: Let the Furies join
Their complicated Horrors—Sun, stand still
And see me act this Justice—Prophet, blush
At thy own Impotence, that cou'd not strike
So bold a Blow as Amurat.—Away—
Hark! how Fate thunders to the wondring World;
The Sultan strikes—the Universe falls down,
And at one Blow I end the human Race.

[A Retreat

SCENE IX.

Scanderbeg, Deamira, Zaida, &c.
Scand.
Stop the Pursuit of Fate—enough already
Has furious War destroy'd—O Deamira!—
Tho' thus to have thee, has been still the Wish
Of ev'ry Thought—tho' the Extent of Pray'r
Aim'd but at thee; yet oh! believe me fair One—
This Slaughter of my Kind has damp'd that Joy,
Which else had sprung without the least Allay—
But Nature form'd thy Excellence so rich,
Thou wer't not to be bought at a less Price.

Deam.
How can my Joy find Birth amidst my Fears?
How can my Fears prevail against my Joy?
Be thou my Guide in both, and temper both;
Thou know'st to mould the Heart so much thy own.

Scand.
Supremest Good! What Comfort can I bring,
O gentle Zaida, for a Father lost?
But as thy Goodness knows to bear the worst,
It therefore knows to stand the Shock of this.

Zaida.
O think not—Gracious Sir, but as a Child
I feel a Father's Loss—yet I consider,
Lost to himself, he must be so to me:
'Tis Heav'n's Decree, and I think Happiness,
Far better not to be, than what he was.

SCENE X.

Scanderbeg, Deamira, Zaida, Lysander, &c.
Scand.
Thou wer't dispatch'd to call the Field to Rest,
And find the Sultan out: What News, Lysander?

Lys.
Alas, my Lord, I have beheld a Sight,
Which in an Enemy is pitiful—
The Sultan, mad with disappointed Rage,
Flew restless round the Field to find you out;
Revenge sat on his Brow and Desolation;
But finding all his Search and Rage in vain,
He cast a Look so terrible to Heav'n,
As he wou'd send his Wrath to War above;
Which his vain Impotence design'd—for lo,
He loudly cries—Be thou accurst, O Prophet!
And tho' I cannot overturn one Slave,
One earthly, creeping Slave, yet think not thou
Shall be secure, tho' in thy Paradise.—
No—I will tumble down thy whole Machine,
And make thee share my Ruin—Having spoke—
He stretch'd his Arm with so secure a Grasp,
As if the Axis of the World were his,
And he cou'd pull down Chaos at his Will:—
Then strongly straining, he cry'd out—'tis done—
And falling under the imagin'd Weight,
His Soul by Supposition took its Flight,
And left the tortur'd Mansion now at Ease.

Scand.
'Tis terrible, but such his Passions were,
Might warrant such an End as has befallen—
See for the next remaining Heir, Lysander;
And let the regal State devolve on him;
Ours be the Crown of Virtue, and of Love.
Let the Ambitious labour to be great,
Still long for Canopies and Godlike State;
While humble Minds substantial Blessings prove,
Content their Portion, and a virtuous Love.