University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Sigismunda, Laura.
Sigismunda.
Ah fatal Day to Sicily! The King
Then touches his last Moments?

Laura.
So 'tis fear'd.

Sigismunda.
The Death of those distinguish'd by their Station,
But by their Virtue more, awakes the Mind
To solemn Dread, and strikes a saddening Awe:
Not that we grieve for them, but for ourselves,
Left to the Toil of Life—And yet the Best
Are, by the playful Children of this World,
At once forgot, as they had never been.
Laura, 'tis said—the Heart is sometimes charg'd
With a prophetick Sadness: Such, methinks,
Now hangs on mine. The King's approaching Death
Suggests a thousand Fears. What Troubles thence
May throw the State once more into Confusion,
What sudden Changes in my Father's House
May rise, and part me from my dearest Tancred,
Alarms my Thought.

Laura.
The Fears of Love-sick Fancy!
Perversely busy to torment it self.
But be assur'd, your Father's steady Friendship,
Join'd to a certain Genius, that commands,
Not kneels to Fortune will support and cherish,
Here in the publick Eye of Sicily,
This—I may call him—his adopted Son,
The noble Tancred, form'd to all his Virtues.

Sigismunda.
Ah form'd to charm his Daughter!—This fair Morn
Has tempted far the Chace. Is he not yet
Return'd?

Laura.
No.—When your Father to the King,
Who now expiring lies, was call'd in haste,
He sent each way his Messengers to find him;
With such a Look of Ardor and Impatience,
As if this near Event was to Count Tancred
Of more Importance than I comprehend.

Sigismunda.
There lies, my Laura, o'er my Tancred's Birth
A Cloud I cannot pierce. With princely Cost,
Nay, with Respect, which oft I have observ'd,
Stealing at times submissive o'er his Features,
In Belmont's Woods my Father rear'd this Youth—
Ah Woods! where first my artless Bosom learnt
The Sighs of Love.—He gives him out the Son
Of an old Friend, a Baron of Apulia,
Who in the late Crusado bravely fell.
But then 'tis strange; is all his Family
As well as Father dead? and all their Friends,
Except my Sire, the generous good Siffredi?
Had he a Mother, Sister, Brother left,
The last Remain of Kindred, with what Pride,
What Rapture, might they fly o'er Earth and Sea,
To claim this rising Honour of their Blood!
This bright Unknown! this all-accomplish'd Youth!
Who charms—too much—the Heart of Sigismunda!

Laura.
He has sometimes,
Like you, his Doubts; yet, when maturely weigh'd,
Believes it true. As for Lord Tancred's Self,
He never entertain'd the slightest Thought
That verg'd to Doubt; but oft laments his State,
By cruel Fortune so ill-pair'd to yours.

Sigismunda.
Merit like his, the Fortune of the Mind,
Beggars all Wealth—Then to your Brother, Laura,
He talks of me?

Laura.
Of nothing else. Howe'er
The Talk begin, it ends with Sigismunda.
Their Morning, Noon-tide, and their Evening Walks
Are full of you; and all the Woods of Belmont
Inamour'd with your Name—

Sigismunda.
Away, my Friend;
You flatter—yet the dear Delusion charms.

Laura.
No, Sigismunda, 'tis the strictest Truth,
Nor half the Truth, I tell you. Even with Fondness
My Brother talks for ever of the Passion,
That fires young Tancred's Breast. So much it strikes him,
He praises Love as if he were a Lover.
He blames the false Pursuits of vagrant Youth,
Calls them gay Folly, a mistaken Struggle
Against best-judging Nature. Heaven, he says,
In lavish Bounty form'd the Heart for Love;
In Love included all the finer Seeds
Of Honour, Virtue, Friendship, purest Bliss—

Sigismunda.
Virtuous Rodolpho!

Laura.
Then his pleasing Theme
He varies to the Praises of your Lover—

Sigismunda.
And what, my Laura, says he on that Subject?

Laura.
He says that, tho' he were not nobly born,
Nature has form'd him noble, generous, brave,
Truely magnanimous, and warmly scorning
Whatever bears the smallest Taint of Baseness:
That every easy Virtue is his own;
Not learnt by painful Labour, but inspir'd,
Implanted in his Soul—Chiefly one Charm
He in his graceful Character observes:
That tho' his Passions burn with high Impatience,
And sometimes, from a noble Heat of Nature,
Are ready to fly off, yet the least Check
Of ruling Reason brings them back to Temper,
And gentle Softness.

Sigismunda.
True! O true, Rodolpho!
Blest be thy kindred Worth for loving his!
He is all Warmth, all amiable Fire,
All quick Heroic Ardor! temper'd soft
With Gentleness of Heart, and manly Reason!
If Virtue were to wear a human Form,
To light it with her Dignity and Flame,
Then softening mix her Smiles and tender Graces,
O she would chuse the Person of my Tancred!
Go on, my Friend, go on, and ever praise him;
The Subject knows no Bounds, nor can I tire,
While my Breast trembles to that sweetest Musick!
The Heart of Woman tastes no truer Joy,
Is never flatter'd with such dear Enchantment—
'Tis more than selfish Vanity—as when
She hears the Praises of the Man she loves—

Laura.
Madam, your Father comes.

SCENE II.

Siffredi, Sigismunda, Laura.
Siffredi.
[To an Attendant as he enters.
Lord Tancred then
Is found?

Attendant.
My Lord, he quickly will be here.
I scarce could keep before him, tho' he bid me
Speed on, to say he would attend your Orders.

Siffredi.
'Tis well—retire—You, too, my Daughter, leave me.

Sigismunda.
I go, my Father—But how fares the King?

Siffredi.
He is no more. Gone to that awful State,
Where Kings the Crown wear only of their Virtues.

Sigismunda.
How bright must then be his!—This Stroke is sudden.
He was this Morning well, when to the Chace
Lord Tancred went.

Siffredi.
'Tis true. But at his Years
Death gives short Notice—Dropping Nature then,
Without a Gust of Pain to shake it, falls.
His Death, my Daughter, was that happy Period
Which few attain. The Duties of his Day
Were all discharg'd, and gratefully enjoy'd
It's noblest Blessings; calm, as Evening Skies,
Was his pure Mind, and lighted up with Hopes
That open Heaven; when, for his last long Sleep
Timely prepar'd, a Lassitude of Life,
A pleasing Weariness of mortal Joy,
Fell on his Soul, and down he sunk to Rest.
O may my Death be such!—He but one Wish
Left unfulfill'd, which was to see Count Tancred—

Sigismunda.
To see Count Tancred!—Pardon me, my Lord—

Siffredi.
For what, my Daughter?—But, with such Emotion,
Why did you start at Mention of Count Tancred?

Sigismunda.
Nothing—I only hop'd the dying King
Might mean to make some generous just Provision
For this your worthy Charge, this noble Orphan.

Siffredi.
And he has done it largely—Leave me now—
I want some private Conference with Lord Tancred.

SCENE III.

Siffredi
alone.
My Doubts are but too true—If these old Eyes
Can trace the Marks of Love, a mutual Passion
Has seiz'd, I fear, my Daughter and this Prince,
My Sovereign now—Should it be so? Ah there,
There lurks a brooding Tempest, that may shake
My long-concerted Scheme, to settle firm
The publick Peace and Welfare, which the King
Has made the prudent Basis of his Will—
Away! unworthy Views! you shall not tempt me!
Nor Interest nor Ambition shall seduce
My fixt Resolve—perish the selfish Thought,
Which our own Good prefers to that of Millions!—
He comes—my King—unconscious of his Fortune.

SCENE IV.

Tancred. Siffredi.
Tancred.
My Lord Siffredi, in your Looks I read,
Confirm'd, the mournful News that fly abroad
From Tongue to Tongue—We then, at last, have lost
The good old King?

Siffredi.
Yes, We have lost a Father!
The greatest Blessing Heaven bestows on Mortals,
And seldom found amidst these Wilds of Time,
A good, a worthy King!—Hear me, my Tancred,
And I will tell thee, in a few plain Words,
How he deserv'd that best that glorious Title.
'Tis nought complex, 'tis clear as Truth and Virtue.
He lov'd his People, deem'd them all his Children;
The Good exalted and depress'd the Bad.
He spurn'd the flattering Crew, with Scorn rejected
Their smooth Advice that only means themselves,
Their Schemes to aggrandize him into Baseness:
Nor did he less disdain the secret Breath,
The whisper'd Tale, that blights a virtuous Name.
He sought alone the Good of Those, for whom
He was entrusted with the sovereign Power:
Well knowing that a People in their Rights
And Industry protected; living safe
Beneath the sacred Shelter of the Laws,
Encourag'd in their Genius, Arts, and Labours,
And happy each as he himself deserves,
Are ne'er ungrateful. With unsparing Hand
They will for Him provide: their filial Love
And Confidence are his unfailing Treasure,
And every honest Man his faithful Guard.

Tancred.
A general Face of Grief o'erspreads the City.
I mark'd the People, as I hither came,
In Crouds assembled, struck with silent Sorrow,
And pouring forth the noblest Praise of Tears.
Those whom Remembrance of their former Woes,
And long Experience of the vain Illusions
Of youthful Hope, had into wise Content
And Fear of Change corrected, wrung their Hands,
And often casting up their Eyes to Heaven
Gave sign of sad Conjecture. Others shew'd,
Athwart their Grief, or real or affected,
A Gleam of Expectation, from what Chance
And Change might bring. A mingled Murmur run
Along the Streets; and, from the lonely Court
Of him who can no more assist their Fortunes,
I saw the Courtier-Fry, with eager haste,
All hurrying to Constantia.

Siffredi.
Noble Youth!
I joy to hear from Thee these just Reflexions,
Worthy of riper Years—But if they seek
Constantia, trust me, they mistake their Course.

Tancred.
How! Is she not, my Lord, the late King's Sister,
Heir to the Crown of Sicily? the last
Of our fam'd Norman Line, and now our Queen?

Siffredi.
Tancred, 'tis true; she is the late King's Sister,
The sole surviving Offspring of that Tyrant
William the Bad—so for his Vices stil'd;
Who spilt much noble Blood, and sore oppress'd
Th' exhausted Land: whence grievous Wars arose,
And many a dire Convulsion shook the State.
When He, whose Death Sicilia mourns to-day,
William, who has and well deserv'd the Name
Of Good, succeeding to his Father's Throne,
Reliev'd his Country's Woes—But to return—
She is the late King's Sister, born some Months
After the Tyrant's Death, but not next Heir.

Tancred.
You much surprize me—May I then presume
To ask who is?

Siffredi.
Come nearer, noble Tancred,
Son of my Care! I must, on this occasion,
Consult thy generous Heart; which, when conducted
By Rectitude of Mind and honest Virtues,
Gives better Counsel than the hoary Head—
Then know, there lives a Prince, here in Palermo,
The lineal Offspring of our famous Heroe,
Roger the First.

Tancred.
Great Heaven!—How far remov'd
From that our mighty Founder?

Siffredi.
His great Grandson:
Sprung from his eldest Son, who died untimely,
Before his Father.

Tancred.
Ha! the Prince you mean
Is he not Manfred's Son? The generous, brave,
Unhappy Manfred! whom the Tyrant William,
You just now mention'd, not content to spoil
Of his paternal Crown, threw into Fetters,
And infamously murder'd.

Siffredi.
Yes—the same.

Tancred.
By Heavens! I joy to find our Norman Reign,
The Light of Earth amidst these barbarous Ages!
Yet rears it's head; and shall not, from the Lance,
Pass to the feeble Distaff—But this Prince
Where has he lain conceal'd?

Siffredi.
The late good King,
By noble Pity mov'd, contriv'd to save him
From his dire Father's unrelenting Rage;
And had him rear'd in private, as became
His Birth and Hopes, with high and princely Nurture.
Till now, too young to rule a troubled State,
By Civil Broils most miserably torn,
He in his safe Retreat has lain conceal'd,
His Birth and Fortune to himself unknown;
But when the dying King to me entrusted,
As to the Chancellor of the Realm, his Will,
His Successor he nam'd him.

Tancred.
Happy Youth!
He then will triumph o'er his Father's Foes,
O'er haughty Osmond, and the Tyrant's Daughter.

Siffredi.
Ay, That is what I dread—that Heat of Youth;
There lurks, I fear, Perdition to the State.
I dread the Horrors of rekindled War:
Tho' dead, the Tyrant still is to be fear'd;
His Daughter's Party still is strong, and numerous:
Her Friend, Earl Osmond, Constable of Sicily,
Experienc'd, brave, high-born, of mighty Interest.
Better the Prince and Princess should by Marriage
Unite their Friends, their Interest and their Claims:
Then will the Peace and Welfare of the Land
On a firm Basis rise.

Tancred.
My Lord Siffredi,
If by myself I of this Prince may judge,
That Scheme will scarce succeed—Your prudent Age
In vain will counsel, if the Heart forbid it—
But wherefore fear? The Right is clearly his;
And, under your Direction, with each Man
Of Worth, and stedfast Loyalty, to back
At once the King's Appointment and his Birthright,
There is no ground for Fear. They have great Odds,
Against the astonish'd Sons of Violence,
Who fight with awful Justice on their Side.
All Sicily will rouze, all faithful Hearts
Will range themselves around Prince Manfred's Son.
For me, I here devote me to the Service
Of this young Prince; I every Drop of Blood
Will lose with Joy, with Transport, in his Cause—
Pardon my Warmth—but That, my Lord, will never
To this Decision come—Then find the Prince;
Lose not a Moment to awaken in him
The Royal Soul. Perhaps he now desponding
Pines in a Corner, and laments his Fortune;
That in the narrow Bounds of private Life
He must confine his Aims, those swelling Virtues
Which from his noble Father he inherits.

Siffredi.
Perhaps, regardless, in the common Bane
Of Youth he melts, in Vanity and Love.
But if the Seeds of Virtue glow within him,
I will awake a higher Sense, a Love
That grasps the Loves and Happiness of Millions.

Tancred.
Why that Surmise? Or should he love, Siffredi,
I doubt not, it is nobly, which will raise
And animate his Virtues—O permit me
To plead the Cause of Youth—Their Virtue oft,
In Pleasure's soft Enchantment lull'd a while,
Forgets itself; it sleeps and gayly dreams,
Till great Occasion rouse it: Then, all Flame,
It walks abroad, with heighten'd Soul and Vigour,
And by the Change astonishes the World.
Even with a kind of Sympathy, I feel
The Joy that waits this Prince; when all the Powers,
Th' expanding Heart can wish, of doing good;
Whatever swells Ambition, or exalts
The human Soul into divine Emotions,
All croud at once upon him.

Siffredi.
Ah, my Tancred,
Nothing so easy as in Speculation,
And at a distance seen, the Course of Honour,
A fair delightful Champian strew'd with Flowers.
But when the Practice comes; when our fond Passions,
Pleasure and Pride and Self-Indulgence throw
Their magic Dust around, the Prospect roughens:
Then dreadful Passes, craggy Mountains rise,
Cliffs to be scal'd, and Torrents to be stem'd:
Then Toil ensues, and Perseverance stern;
And endless Combats with our grosser Sense,
Oft lost, and oft renew'd; and generous Pain
For others felt; and, harder Lesson still!
Our honest Bliss for others sacrific'd;
And all the rugged Task of Virtue quails
The stoutest Heart of common Resolution.
Few get above this turbid Scene of Strife,
Few gain the Summit, breathe that purest Air,
That heavenly Ether, which untroubled sees
The Storm of Vice and Passion rage below.

Tancred.
Most true, my Lord. But why thus augure Ill?
You seem to doubt this Prince. I know him not.
Yet oh, methinks, my Heart could answer for him!
The Juncture is so high, so strong the Gale
That blows from Heaven, as thro' the deadest Soul
Might breathe the godlike Energy of Virtue.

Siffredi.
Hear him, immortal Shades of his great Fathers!—
Forgive me, Sir, this Trial of your Heart:
Thou! Thou art he!

Tancred.
Siffredi!

Siffredi.
Tancred, thou!
Thou art the Man, of all the many Thousands,
That toil upon the Bosom of this Isle,
By Heaven elected to command the rest,
To rule, protect them, and to make them happy!

Tancred.
Manfred my Father! I the last Support
Of the fam'd Norman Line, that awes the World!
I! who this Morning wander'd forth an Orphan,
Outcast of all but Thee, my second Father!
Thus call'd to Glory! to the first great Lot
Of Human Kind!—O wonder-working HAND
That, in majestic Silence, sways at will
The mighty Movements of unbounded Nature;
O grant me HEAVEN! the Virtues to sustain
This awful Burden of so many Heroes!
Let me not be exalted into Shame,
Set up the worthless Pageant of vain Grandeur!
Meantime I thank the Justice of the King,
Who has my Right bequeath'd me. Thee, Siffredi,
I thank Thee—O I ne'er enough can thank Thee!
Yes, thou hast been—thou art—shalt be my Father!
Thou shalt direct my unexperienc'd Years,
Shalt be the ruling Head, and I the Hand.

Siffredi.
It is enough for me—to see my Sovereign
Assert his Virtues, and maintain his Honour.

Tancred.
I think, my Lord, you said the King committed
To you his Will. I hope it is not clogg'd
With any base Conditions, any Clause,
To tyrannize my Heart, and to Constantia
Enslave my Hand devoted to another.
The Hint you just now gave of that Alliance,
You must imagine, wakes my Fear. But know,
In this alone I will not bear Dispute,
Not even from Thee, Siffredi!—Let the Council
Be strait assembled, and the Will there open'd:
Thence issue speedy Orders to convene,
This Day ere Noon, the Senate: where those Barons,
Who now are in Palermo, will attend,
To pay their ready Homage to their King,
Their rightful King, who claims his native Crown,
And will not be a King of Deeds and Parchments.

Siffredi.
I go, my Liege. But once again permit me
To tell you—Now, now, is the trying Crisis,
That must determine of your future Reign.
O with Heroic Rigour watch your Heart!
And to the sovereign Duties of the King,
Th' unequal'd Pleasures of a God on Earth,
Submit the common Joys, the common Passions,
Nay, even the Virtues of the private Man.

Tancred.
Of That no more. They not oppose, but aid,
Invigorate, cherish, and reward each other.
The kind all-ruling WISDOM is no Tyrant.

SCENE V.

Tancred
alone.
Now, generous Sigismunda, comes my Turn,
To shew my Love was not of thine unworthy,
When Fortune bade me blush to look to Thee.
But what is Fortune to the Wish of Love?
A miserable Bankrupt! O 'tis poor,
'Tis scanty all, whate'er we can bestow!
The Wealth of Kings is Wretchedness and Want!—
Quick, let me find Her! taste that highest Joy,
Th' exalted Heart can know, the mixt Effusion
Of Gratitude and Love!—Behold, She comes!

SCENE VI.

Tancred. Sigismunda.
Tancred.
My fluttering Soul was all on Wing to find Thee,
My Love! my Sigismunda!

Sigismunda.
O my Tancred!
Tell me, what means this Mystery and Gloom
That lowrs around? Just now, involv'd in Thought
My Father shot athwart me—You, my Lord,
Seem strangely mov'd—I fear some dark Event
From the King's Death to trouble our Repose,
That tender Calm we in the Woods of Belmont
So happily enjoy'd—Explain this Hurry,
What means it? Say.

Tancred.
It means that we are happy!
Beyond our most romantic Wishes happy!

Sigismunda.
You but perplex me more.

Tancred.
[pausing.

Sigismunda.
Royal Tancred,
None at your glorious Fortune can like me
Rejoice;—yet me alone, of all Sicilians,
It makes unhappy.

Tancred.
I should hate it then!
Should throw, with Scorn, the splendid Ruin from me!—
No, Sigismunda, 'tis my Hope with Thee
To share it, whence it draws it's richest Value.

Sigismunda.
You are my Sovereign—I at humble Distance—

Tancred.
Thou art my Queen! the Sovereign of my Soul!
You never reign'd with such triumphant Luster,
Such winning Charms as now; yet, thou art still
The dear, the tender, generous Sigismunda!
Who, with a Heart exalted far above
Those selfish Views that charm the common Breast,
Stoop'd from the Height of Life and courted Beauty,
Then, then, to love me, when I seem'd of Fortune
The hopeless Outcast, when I had no Friend,
None to protect and own me but thy Father.
And would'st thou claim all Goodness to thyself?
Canst thou thy Tancred deem so dully form'd,
Of such gross Clay, just as I reach the Point—
A Point my wildest Hopes could never image—
In that great Moment, full of every Virtue,
That I should then so mean a Traytor prove
To the best Bliss and Honour of Mankind,
So much disgrace the human Heart, as then,
For the dead Form of Flattery and Pomp,
The faithless Joys of Courts, to quit kind Truth,
The cordial Sweets of Friendship and of Love,
The Life of Life! my All, my Sigismunda!
I could upbraid thy Fears, call them unkind,
Cruel, unjust, an Outrage to my Heart,
Did they not spring from Love.

Sigismunda.
Think not, my Lord,
That to such vulgar Doubts I can descend.
Your Heart, I know, disdains the little Thought
Of changing with the vain external Change
Of Circumstance and Fortune. Rather thence
It would, with rising Ardor, greatly feel
A noble Pride to shew itself the same.
But, ah! the Hearts of Kings are not their own.
There is a haughty Duty that subjects them
To Chains of State, to wed the publick Welfare,
And not indulge the tender private Virtues.
Some high-descended Princess, who will bring
New Power and Interest to your Throne demands
Your royal Hand—perhaps Constantia—

Tancred.

Sigismunda.
Cease, cease, to raise my Hopes above my Duty.
Charm me no more, my Tancred!—O that We
In those blest Woods, where first you won my Soul,
Had pass'd our gentle Days; far from the Toil
And Pomp of Courts! Such is the Wish of Love;
Of Love, that, with delightful Weakness, knows
No Bliss and no Ambition but itself.
But, in the World's full Light, those charming Dreams,
Those fond Illusions vanish. Awful Duties,
The Tyranny of Men, even your own Heart,
Where lurks a Sense your Passion stifles now,
And proud imperious Honour call you from me.
'Tis all in vain—You cannot hush a Voice
That murmurs here—I must not be persuaded!

Tancred,
kneeling.
[Trumpets and Acclamations heard.