University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Sophronia and Wolfe.
Sophronia.
Then you resolve to leave me?

Wolfe.
Madam, I do.—
Our sage and patriot Minister on me
Has fix'd his choice, to stand prime candidate
For honour in this glorious enterprise;
Our martial King, (well pleas'd) gave his royal
Assent to that choice, and glory calls me forth.

Sophr.
Have not those British troops you've train'd to war,
Giv'n ample proof of skill and courage, in
The day of battle, and by their conduct,
Reflected honour on you their former
Chief? And Louisbourg bore dreadful witness,
To your impetuous and unbated
Fury in the siege: Why then shou'd future
Fame ingross th' attention of your soul?

Wolfe.
Those troops you're pleas'd to hint at; when they fought,
Were headed by another: Besides, it
Is too scant an honour to shine by their
Reflection, and borrow glory from those
Gallant soldiers deeds:—
At Louisbourg, I was not first in the
Command, and cannot claim the foremost rank
Of fame: Then I only took a gentle
Sip of honour's cup, but was with-held by
Destiny from draining it, which like true
Lovers kisses, (still raising new desires,)
Has let my thirsty soul in flame for more!
And being chief, I long to swallow down
Whole draughts of glory; like Philip's conq'ring
Son, I'd bathe in seas of danger, brave all
The horrors of the fight, and with eyes of
Warlike jealousy, stand on the watch for
Some advent'rous deeds, worthy of the King,
My country, and a British General.

Sophr.
Forgive, my son, a mother's fears:
I wou'd not check you in your full career
To glory, nor from my country's service
Willingly detain a brave and useful leader.—
My heart distends with secret pride, and joy
Maternal fills my bosom, whene'er I
Call you son! But oh! (sad thought!) I much fear
Th' impetuous fury of your soul, will
Greatly spur you on to wounds, and dangers,
And perhaps to death:—
Oh! think what I must then endure!—
You have already gain'd great honour;—
Be sedately brave, and cautiously
Intrepid;—repress the furious ardor
Of your mind;—be content;—and—

Wolfe.
Madam, I guess your speech;
You'd say, and stay at home.—That cannot be.
Shall I, with a dull tortoise pace, set out
In honour's path, and at the slightest touch
Of danger, like him, skrink back into my
Shell? No!—let these resemblances of men,
Who outside wear the martial garb, and seem
To look the lion in their surly port,
Yet bear within a tim'rous deer-like soul:
Let such as these, (if such there are in life)
In grov'ling sloth, receive their country's pay,
Tremble at the thought of action! and when
The foe is nam'd, start! look aghast! and grow pale!
Th' animating trumpets! th' artillery's roar!
My soldiers steady manly looks! the drums!
The fifes! and all the grand apparatus
For the war, have charms for me to rouze my
Faculties, and kindle up an ardor
In my soul, beyond what speech can paint! or
Any but a warrior feel!—
Madam I am resolv'd.

Sophr.
Since you will go, come to my arms and take
A mother's blessing.
[Embracing him.
Hear me all sufficient Heav'n! inspire, and
Guard my son: Let him not seek danger for
The sake of danger, nor feel a coward's
Pang: Oh! give him victory, and to my
Arms, again restore the darling of my age.
Now, go my son:—Deserve a Briton's name;—
With honour come;—or,—oh my fault'ring tongue!
I would say, come not at all;—and yet a
Mother's fond anxiety, would make me
Say, at any rate return.—

Wolfe.
Be pleas'd to wait with patience this event;
And during this intended siege I hope
All things will so concur together, that
I shall at last return with life and honour.

Sophr.
Oh! direful thought! in battle fell'd you may
Be trodden under foot, in the purple
Stream, flowing from the fountain of your heart:
[Weeps.
Perhaps whilst bleeding, and ebbing life but
Tardily retreats from the weak shatter'd
Mansion, you may fall a prey to some fell
Savages, who stand insulting o'er
Departing life, and add a racking pang!
(A pang!) more exquisite to manly souls,
Than glorious death cou'd e'er inflict.

[Leans on his breast, as if to faint, but recovers again.
Wolfe.
Madam, I beg you'd calm the inquietudes
Of your soul, and grieve no more at thoughts of
What may come to pass, but has no certainty:
Yet be assur'd, whate'er shall hap, I'll bring
No stain upon my family, or my
Country; what wounds I gain, shall be by me
Most honestly receiv'd, against my front
Shall ev'ry terror fly, and I will face
The hostile thundring storm of death, and if
I fall, I'll fall at least with honour.

Sophr.
At length my resolution, and a warm
Regard for Britain's welfare, seem to stand
Almost on an equality with my
Maternal fondness; and now the intestine
Conflict in my soul partly subsides:—
Oh! poignant thought of deep distress! shall I
E'er spur my son to battle, and to death!
And yet, oh! keener thought of woe! shall I
Receive a dastard to my arms! and hear
My country curse th' inglorious war he made!
Forbid it Heav'n!—avert it, oh—my son,—
Another dear embrace before we part;
[Embracing him, weeping.
Perhaps to meet no more below.—
Oh! cruel war!—oh! dear bought fame!—
Oh! wou'd'st thou court a gentler mistress than
Rough honour!—but 'tis the will of fate, and thine.
Then go;—thy King commands; thy country calls;
—Forget not thyself!—and guess the rest:

Wolfe.
You'd say return victorious;—at least come
Home with honour;—bring home no dastard looks
To me:—Your fears are just;—your caution's good;
I'll not forget myself.—When in danger
Most extreme, I'll recollect the glory
Of my King, Britannia's weal, and what should
Be to ev'ry soldier dearer than his
Life, my own honour is at stake; with this
Threefold recollection back'd, what horrid
Shape can death put on, to chill the ardor
Of my heart, or shock my steady soul?
Who would not fight in mighty George's cause,
When mothers pray, and sigh a fond applause!
Madam, Farewell,—
[Exit Wolfe.

Sopronia
sola.
Oh! 'tis hard indeed to root affection
Up in outward show, and bid a son go fight!
None but a mother knows the bitter task,
To quell the tender yearnings of a parent's
Soul, and for a son so full of manly
Fortitude, and patriotic worth!
If he returns victorious, I'm bless'd indeed!
If he falls, with him fall all my fond hopes,
And I am gloriously unhappy!—
[Exit Sophr.