University of Virginia Library

THE SACK of ROME.

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

TO THE PUBLIC.

Almost every page of the story of Rome, exhibits a tragedy, without the exaggeration of poetic fiction; yet there are few of its interesting scenes, that have not furnished the machinery for some dramatic work. But, amidst the innumerable writers, that almost every age has produced, the author of a piece, now offered the public, does not recollect to have seen the weakness and cruelty of Valentinian—the character of Petronius Maximus—the resentment, indiscretion and revenge of Edoxia—(the more immediate causes of the invasion of the imperial city, by the Vandals)—chosen for the subject of theatrical instruction.

The subversion of the western empire, and the Sack of the city of Rome, by Genseric, form an era in the revolution of human affairs, that strikes the mind with peculiar solemnity: Perhaps, at that period, the character of man was sunk to the lowest stage of depravity. Debilitated by the habits of every species of luxury, a long series of tragical events, and the continual apprehensions of proscription, or death; the powers of

the mind were, at the same time, obscured by the superstitions of weak, uninformed christians, blended with the barbarism and ignorance of the darker ages.

Thus an impenetrable cloud was thrown over the religious and political institutions, both of the Roman and the Gothic world; which hastened on the destruction of the former, without exhibiting any thing more honourable to the genius and virtue of mankind, in the establishment of the latter, nor have more enlightened and polished ages been taught, by their examples, to shun the luxurious vices, or the absurd systems of policy, which have frequently corrupted, distracted, and ruined the best constituted republics; as well as divided and overturned the strong fabric of monarchic government.

In tracing the rise, the character, the revolutions, and the fall of the most politic and brave, the most insolent and selfish people, the world ever exhibited, the hero and the moralist may find the most sublime examples of valour and virtue; and the philosopher the most humiliating lessons to the pride of man, in the turpitude of some of their capital characters: While the extensive dominions of that once celebrated nation, their haughty

usurpations and splendid crimes, have for ages furnished the historian and the poet with a field of speculation, adapted to his own peculiar talents. But if the writer of the Sack of Rome has mistaken her's, she will, doubtless, be forgiven, as there have been instances of men of the best abilities who have fallen into the same error.

There is but little mixture of fable in the narration, and, I hope, a just purity of stile has been observed, while the writer has aimed at moral improvement, by an exhibition of the tumult and misery into which mankind are often plunged by an unwarrantable indulgence of the discordant passions of the human mind.

Theatrical amusements may, sometimes, have been prostituted to the purposes of vice; yet, in an age of taste and refinement, lessons of morality, and the consequences of deviation, may perhaps, be as successfully enforced from the stage, as by modes of instruction, less censured by the severe; while, at the same time, the exhibition of great historical events, opens a field of contemplation to the reflecting and philosophic mind.

My first wish is to throw a mite into the scale of virtue, and my highest ambition to meet the approbation of the judicious and worthy:—In the one, I am gratified from the reflections of my own heart; for the other, I wait with diffidence the determinations of the candid public.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• MEN.
• VALENTINIAN—Emperor of Rome.
• HERACLIUS—favourite Eunuch to Valentinian.
• PETRONIUS MAXIMUS—a noble Citizen.
• ÆTIUS—Commander of the Roman Troops.
• GAUDENTIUS—Son to Ætius, betrothed to Eudocia.
• LEO—Bishop of Rome.
• GENSERIC—King of the Vandals, reigning in Carthage.
• HUNNERIC—Son to Genseric.
• TRAULISTA—a barbarian Prince.
• WOMEN.
• EDOXIA—Empress of Rome.
• EUDOCIA—Daughter of Valentinian.
• PLACIDIA—Daughter of Valentinian.
• Senators, Soldiers, Servants. &c. &c.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Camp near Rome.
ÆTIUS and GAUDENTIUS.
Ætius.
A solemn stillness reigns throughout the camp;
The hostile sound of martial musick's hush'd;
A truce agreed, the proud Attila gives,
Perhaps, a short liv'd peace to bleeding Rome:
But nations pouring from their frozen dens,
Rough, naked boors, from every northern wild,
Untutor'd, or by nature, or by art,
With scarce a trait that speaks the species man,
Except the semblance of the human form,
Must be the chosen scourge, by heaven design'd,
To chasten Rome for that tyrannick sway
Usurp'd and stretch'd o'er all her wide domain,
And proudly held by her remorseless sword;
Her insolence, her stubbornness of soul,
That trod down nations, trampled on the necks
Of mighty kings, and taught her weaker foes.
To fear alike her senators and gods.

Gaudentius.
Though from each quarter of the peopled globe
Some hostile foe, or new invader rise,
Imperial Rome must ever awe the world.

Ætius.
With hideous shouts the northern hords retir'd
O'er the bleak mounts to Sogdiana's wilds;
But fierce Attila look'd indignant back
On weaken'd Rome, by luxury undone;
Flush'd with success, by vulgar kings ador'd,
Who watch his nod and tremble at his frown,
The Scythian savage left the Latian shore,
Like some wild beast just gorg'd with human blood,
Full glutted with his prey, to breathe awhile
In his ferocious den—to whet his taste
For new refreshing hecatombs of blood.

Gaudentius.
Extreme distress unites the firm and brave;
True virtue might each obstacle surmount;
Rome, like a phenix, from her smoking towns,
Dissolving columns, cities wrapt in flames,
Might vet emerge and more illustrious shine,
If party rage and luxury should cease,
And peace give time to make a just reform
Through each corrupted channel of the law;
Or if simplicity again returns,
And government more energy assumes,
Her ancient codes restor'd on equal terms,
She yet might reign from Danube to the Po.

Ætius.
There's little hope from such a noble source;
So chang'd her manners, so debas'd the mind
By faction, pride, intemperance and lust.
Lost in inglorious ease, all valour melts
Beneath incrusted roofs, emboss'd with gold,
Egyptian pearls and emeralds of the East.
The sword alone is all that Rome can boast
That bears affinity to former fame;
Yet see the sons of Romulus dismay'd,
The trembling youth of Italy alarm'd
Whene'er the trumpet summons to the field.
Before the vernal equinox returns
To cheer the Hetrurian plains, war wakes anew;
I saw the tyger gnash his hungry teeth
When fair Honoria's ample dower was nam'd,
On which the savage stipulated peace;
This brings him back to claim his royal bride.

Gaudentius.
But while transported with the youthful charms
Of beauteous Elda—taken to his bed;
Amidst barbarick pomp—he may forget
Both enmity and gold and his Honoria,
Till Rome's prepar'd to meet him in the field.

[Exeunt:

SCENE II.

ÆTIUS—LEO—GAUDENTIUS.
Leo.
I come my lord with tidings on my tongue.

Ætius.
Say, what new foe has Rome? I am prepar'd.

Leo.
I come to hail the valiant friend of Rome,
Whose arm and prowess are her best support;
With the glad news of fierce Attila's death.

Ætius.
How did the monster fall?

Leo.
Hot from the riot of a barbarous feast;
Sent swiftly down to Pluto's gloomy shade,
By lewd debauch and great excess of joy
That his rough arm had humbled haughty Rome.

Ætius.
Humbled indeed! the world's proud mistress
Trembles at th' approach of Suevick valour;
The harden'd lance dip'd in the Wolga's stream;
Hurl'd in the face of her degenerate sons;
They start appall'd e'en at a distant foe;
The next invader seals Rome's heavy doom.

Leo.
Though weaken'd Rome by furious factions torn,
Imbitter'd by decline, sinks deep in vice—
Yet, was the empire held in bolder hands
The fierce barbarick rage might still be check'd:
Within Liguria all would be secure,
And sav'd from pillage all the Latian states;
Then let the world beyond the towering Alps
Be still possess'd by Goth, or Vandal tribes,
Ravag'd by wolves, or yet more savage Huns.

Ætius.
Where is the emperor? Does he not awake
From his soft slumbering lethargy of soul?

Leo.
Supinely sunk in dreams of wanton bliss,
Ignoble pleasures of a splendid court,
Or peace, or war, or truce, the same to him.

Ætius.
Yet, when he heard of the barbarian's death,
Did he not rouse, nor dread the ill omen'd birds
That late have brooded o'er the capitol,
And augur'd evils round the city walls,
That the twelve centuries were near complete,
Since Romulus the founder of the state
Had prophesied the measure of her guilt
Would tempt the destinies in wrath to rise
And shake the empire from its ancient base?

Leo.
The fair Ardelia fills the monarch's heart;
He secret sighs for Maximus's wife.

Ætius.
Ardelia!—the good—the chaste Ardelia—
The first and fairest matron left in Rome!

Leo.
To triumph over her superiour charms,
He cog'd the dye at Maximus's cost:
Long practis'd in the tercerarian art,
Petronius is play'd a double game;
The die was thrown while fortune turn'd the wheel
That makes him wretched as he has been bless'd.

Ætius.
'Mongst the long list of celebrated names,
Matrons of ancient or of modern fame,
None boasts a fairer claim to virtue's palm
Than the discreet, the excellent Ardelia;
Nor can she forfeit by a shameful fall
That modesty, and grace, and decent pride,
That dignifies, nor less adorns, the sex.

Leo.
Yet heavenly virtue, or angelick worth,
May fall the victim of a wanton wish,
When power lends its iron hand to guilt.

Ætius.
Petronius ador'd Ardelia's charms.

Leo.
As well he ought—though innocent as fair,
Pity's too weak her anguish to express—
Language too poor to speak one half her griefs:
But Maximus returns—Ah, hapless man!
I would not see him till he knows his fate,
And time has calm'd the tumults of his soul.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

ÆTIUS—MAXIMUS.
Ætius.
Hah! Maximus—
Art thou the last to hail thy friend's success?
Or has long absence blotted friendship out?

Maximus.
Forgive me, Ætius—
I esteem thy virtues—nor envy thee
The laurels, thou hast won: Absence, nor time,
Can e'er obliterate that love, that friendship,
Merit makes thy own, and worth commands:
Give me thy hand—thou know'st my heart is thine,
Nor can I more until we meet again.

Ætius.
What means this haste? Why that disturbed brow?

Maximus.
Return'd this moment from the Aquilean camp
Where I've been sent with such impetuous speed,
So much unlike the slowness of the emperor,
I scarce believe that he could mean me fair.

Ætius.
What cause is there for doubt? or why suspect?

Maximus.
I think some latent mischief lies conceal'd
Beneath the vizard of a fair pretence;
My heart ill brook'd the errand of the day,
Yet I obey'd—though a strange horror seiz'd
My gloomy mind—and shook my frame
As if the moment murder'd all my joys.

Ætius.
But what excites distrust?

Maximus.
Not like a child am I about to weave
In piteous accents a sad tale of woe:
But if I'm bubbled by a mean device.
No lingering vengeance shall repair my wrongs.

Ætius.
What mean these fears? this agony of doubt?

Maximus.
Thou art a gen'rous and a valiant friend:
I'll not conceal the anguish of my soul,
Nor yet the secret worm that gnaws my heart.
Myself forgot in an ignoble vice,
A vice below the dignity of man,
Without temptation but in avarice,
A blacker passion still—fate threw the die,
Or by superiour skill the emperor won
My beauteous grottos—my paternal groves—
My pleasant villas—and, meandering streams—
The sweet cascades that gurgled o'er the dales—
The noble busts that mark'd th' Anician name—
My poplar walks—and my Ardelia's bower—
(Those soft retreats of innocence and love)
And thus for once made Maximus a slave.
But ah! he gave a treacherous release;
He only ask'd the signet from my hand
To seal a promise that I'd reach the camp
Where Accimer commands before the eve:
But 'twas a poor, a frivolous pretence;
Yet did I not suspect a base design,
Till I receiv'd, without a signature,
In characters familiar to my eye,
A sentence like a thunderbolt from Jove.
I kiss'd the hand—in raptures broke the seal—
“Read—tremble—and despair—adieu, Petronius!”
Was all the page—the solemn page, contain'd;
And now I haste to find my lov'd Ardelia;
If she's not wrong'd, Petronius Maximus
May still be bless'd.

Ætius.
Though Valentinian doats on beauty's charms,
Ardelia must be safe: True virtue checks
A bold licentious wish, and guards the fair;
He durst not drag an angel to his bed.

Maximus.
As truth and virtue dignifi'd my bliss,
The gods alone who judge of spotless worth,
Must clear her fame, and vindicate my own;
Or let their vengeance pour in dreadful peals
Their heated bolts—till chosen curses fall,
In blasts distinguish'd, on the emperor's head.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

ÆTIUS—GAUDENTIUS—HERACLIUS.
Ætius.
Heraclius!—Say, what has brought thee hither?

Heraclius.
The emperor's command—he, on the tide
Of pleasure and success, congratulates,
Both on the peace, and on Attila's death,
The brave Gaudentius, and his noble sire;
He greets with thanks, his hardy, veteran friends,
For valour, faith, and every great exploit
Their arms atchiev'd in the rough field of Mars.
When Ætius finds it safe to leave the camp,
It is his will ye both repair to Rome,
To rest awhile from toilsome scenes of war,
And taste the pleasures of the imperial court.

Ætius.
We shall obey—and ere tomorrow's dawn,
I reach the city and salute my prince.
But whence that sigh, my son? Art thou afraid (to Gaud.)

To venture on the threshold of a court,
Lest it melt down thy valour or thy fame?
Or does soft hope present th' hymenial torch,
Rekindle in thy breast a lover's flame.
And bring the fair Eudocia to thine eye?
Thy valour claims her from the emperor's hand
Nor will he longer now protract his vow.

Gaudentius.
Nor shall he—Eudocia is my wife—
A soldier's honour rests upon his sword,
And mine shall claim its right.

Heraclius.
He gives Eudocia to thy longing arms,
And bids thee haste to solemnize thy love,
In festal joys and holy nuptial rites.

Gaudentius.
Thou art the harbinger of bliss indeed;
Command my gratitude, it shall be thine:
I'll hasten on, and meet thee in the forum;
If yet thou hast one wish ungratified,
Command my aid—it shall ensure success.
Complete thy fortune, and fill up thy hopes.

Heraclius.
The princess waits impatiently to hear
The happy moment of her lord's return.
[Exit Heraclius.

Ætius.
There's not a prince in Valentinian's court
Has serv'd with more fidelity and zeal;
Nor does he slight the services of Ætius,
But as a prince he bounteously rewards.
My son! the bravest, most deserving youth
That e'er paternal love clasp'd to his breast,
He crowns thy valour with the choicest gift
A lover ever wish'd, or hero claim'd.
Yet while my heart anticipates thy bliss,
Thou must remember that thou liv'st for Rome:
Let not ambition, avarice, or love,
Contaminate thy patriotick worth:
And as my sword has sav'd the commonwealth,
Drove back her foes, and given peace to Rome,
Let thine example teach her to be free.

Gaudentius.
Inspir'd by thee, by glory, and by fame,
No deed of mine shall ever stain thy name.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Palace of Valentinian.
Enter VALENTINIAN and HERACLIUS.
Valentinian.
Hast thou seen Maximus?—Is he return'd?
'Tis whisper'd that he's now about the court:
I order'd Ricemar to urge his stay
To try his valour in the feats of war,
Till I found means to sooth Ardelia's grief,
Or reconcil'd her to my ardent love:
Yet I suspect my will is disobey'd.

Heraclius.
I, through the Campus Martius, saw him pass,
Sullen and fierce as is the baited bull,
Whetted for blood and roaring for his prey,
When rushing on the victim of his rage.

Valentinian.
He surely meditates some great revenge.
He has a bold, assuming, haughty soul—
A daring pride that spurns the least affront—
I fear him more than Ætius.

Heraclius.
But Ætius is the idol of the army,
And at his beck—the young barbarian princes.
Haughty and brave, he brooks not thy delay;
Impatient for the promise made Gaudentius,
Sighs for a union with the fair Eudocia.
A son so near—a sceptre in his eye,
May empire give to his aspiring father.

Valentinian.
Go lead him hither with his favour'd son,
My hand shall rid me from all fear from them:
Once in the palace, and the work is done:
I'll save my daughter for a nobler union.
But find out Maximus—'tis him I dread;
A man thus injur'd never can forgive.

Heraclius.
He lov'd Ardelia with the purest flame;
Indeed she was, for innocence and truth,
For elegance, true dignity, and grace,
The fairest sample of that ancient worth
Th' illustrious matrons beasted to the world
When Rome was fam'd for every glorious deed.
But she's no more!

Valentinian.
Hah! slave, forbear—
Mean'st thou to try my love, or wake my fears?
Say thou at once—suspense I ne'er could bear.

Heraclius.
Despair, resentment, agonizing grief,
This morn have clos'd the period of a life
Too pure and spotless for the Roman world.

Valentinian.
[Exit Heraclius.
Enter Edoxia.

[Retiring hastily.
Edoxia.
Oh! fly me not, my sovereign—
I only come to warn my much lov'd lord,
A lowering storm may burst upon his head.

Valentinian.
I fear no storms but from an injur'd wife;
The sharp invectives of neglected beauty.

Edoxia.
My wrongs I here forgive—thy safety now
Is all I have to wish—my soul is all alarm.

Valentinian.
What idle terror has assail'd thy brain;
Or what new rupture threatens empire next?

Edoxia.
No foreign foe awakes my anxious thought;
The faithful Ætius commands the legions,
And guards the posts from Tyber to the Rhine,
From bold inroads and fierce barbarick foes.

Valentinian.
A woman, weaken'd by a sense of wrongs,
With a creative fancy, spreads contagion,
If she names her fears—yet tell the cause,
If any cause thou hast, thus to alarm
And agitate my mind.

Edoxia.
Petronius Maximus.

Valentinian.
What of Petronius?

Edoxia.

Valentinian.
Thou best of women! how shall I atone
For half the wrongs my faithless heart has done
To beauty blended with superiour worth?

Edoxia.
Ill boding dreams and gloomy apparitions—
Fresh bleeding ghosts, and shades of darkest hue,
Haunt all my slumbers—some deep design,
Of terrible import, in Maximus I saw;
Waste not a moment—oh! secure thyself,
And when we meet again, we'll talk of love.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

VALENTINIAN and HERACLIUS.
Heraclius.
Ætius attends thy will, as does his son—
With them Beotius, prefect of the city.

Valentinian.
Let only Ætius enter—tell him
The business is of such import—
No other ear must witness—thou wilt thy self
Take care of both Beotius and Gaudentius.

Heraclius.
I will my lord—he and his noble friend
May fight Attila in the shades below,
If that fierce warrior still remembers Rome.

Valentinian.
No vulgar souls we'll send the gods this day;
Petronius next, and then defy the world.
[Exit Heraclius.
My arm be strong—away with conscious qualms—
His is a life worthy of Cæsar's sword:
'Tis true I but suspect his cover'd treason:
Yet, Ætius must die—as shall Gaudentius.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

EUDOCIA and PLACIDIA.
Eudocia.
Oh! my Placidia,
The good, the generous Ætius is dead,
And murder'd by the hand of Valentinian.

Placidia.
Impossible!—'tis but the tale of malice, whisper'd round,
By some vile foe to Valentinian's house.

Eudocia.
'Tis done,
And hell itself records the dreadful deed.

Placidia.
My father ne'er could stain the imperial throne
By such a crime as this!
What! like the madman of old Philip's race,
Plunge his drawn dagger in the faithful breast
Of such a friend as Ætius?

Eudocia.
He has,
And my Gaudentius just escap'd the blow
Heraclius design'd, by speedy flight,
And in his stead Beotius was slain.

Placidia.
Where is the virtuous youth?—and where his friends?

Eudocia.
He pass'd the guards, Traulista by his side,
And, through the western gate, they, swift as lightning,
Hasted to Liguria—though much he lov'd,
He'll ne'er forgive the murd'rer of his sire;
He has a filial heart and valiant arm,
And nature's instinct wakes a tender strife.
The genuine virtues of his youthful heart,
Cherish'd by reason—ripen'd to sublime,
Nurs'd up by honour, gratitude and worth,
Call loud for vengeance o'er his father's tomb.

Placidia.
Alas! the gath'ring storm—what chosen blasts,
Heaven's vengeance next pours down, is with the gods.

Eudocia.
The death of Ætius augurs ill to Rome;
His soul, too firm to fear, or Goths, or Huns;
Too great to be corrupted, or deceiv'd,
Sooth'd their rough passions, balanc'd their ambition;
They lov'd, they fear'd, and will avenge his death.

Placidia.
When jealousy's at war with wild ambition,
And reason quits the helm amid the storm,
The furious hurricane of passion swells
Till ev'ry sail hurls on to sure perdition.

Eudocia.
Ah! my Gaudentius—could Eudocia's blood
Wash off the guilt contracted by her sire,
These veins I'd ope, and warm libations pour
Down at thy feet, to make his daughter
Worthy of thy love—love did I say?—no—
He must forever hate—despise—detest—
And curse the name of Cæsar's blasted race,
And fly the sight of his too wretched daughter.

Placidia.
Alas! I fear—I know not what I fear—
Imagination's short of what I dread
From complicated guilt, which stalks abroad.
Oh! Heaven avert the destiny of Rome!

Eudocia.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

VALENTINIAN and HERACLIUS.
Valentinian.

Heraclius.
No superstitious dread should ere pervade
The royal bosom of a Roman prince;
Encircled deep by faithful veteran bands
Who wait his fiat, and observe his nod,
To feed his pleasures, or to blast his foes;
To light the capitol, or guard the state,
Or make the empire tremble at his frown.

Valentinian.
The noble Ætius, of princely birth,
Possess'd a soul by Roman valour warm'd,
That won the plaudits both of friends and foes;
The legions lov'd—the citizens ador'd,
And all will murmur at his sudden fall:
Yet more I fear Petronius's rage,
Than all the city, senators, or troops.

Heraclius.
Thou hast done well to cut a traitor down
Ere he usurp'd and rob'd thee of a throne;
And if plebeian, or patrician tongues,
Should utter menace, or a plaintive word,
Teach them the fate of Rome hangs on thy will.

Valentinian.
But where is Maximus?
Though he's in friendship, gen'rous and sincere,
Yet injur'd once, implacably he hates:
'Twou'd beggar language to describe his pride,
His strength of passion when arous'd to rage;
Inexorable vengeance tears his soul
Constant and noble, as a god he loves,
But as a furious fiend, rewards his foes;
Nought but their death can cool his passions down.

Heraclius.
Petronius Maximus returns no more
To interrupt the pleasures of the court:
Ardelia dead—the funeral pile burnt down—
Her ashes gather'd in a golden urn;
He in despair has left the imperial city.
Beside the margin of the Tuscan shore,
In a small villa of the Anician name,
He's gone to weep his folly and his fate.

Valentinian.
Where are his friends?—his num'rous train of clients?
Where the admiring crowds fed by his hand,
And basking in his wealth?

Heraclius.
Just as the world in ev'ry age have done,
Paying their court where better fortune smiles;
'Tis not the sun, when muffled up in clouds
And plunging down the western briny main
Mankind adore.
The eastern monarch just from Thetis' bed,
With rosy blushes on his morning beams,
Majestick rising o'er the burnish'd world,
Beholds his homagers on ev'ry side;
As in the field of Mars amid the sports,
The son of Theodotius, is a god.

Valentinian.
Yet anguish tears, and love inflames my breast;
Oh! would oblivion wrap a sable veil
O'er my remorse, and o'er Ardelia's grief,
O'er her bright form, and her untimely death,
I might defy the vengeance of her lord:
Methinks I see her lovely tearful eye
With scornful glances fir'd—till grief and fear,
And consternation numb my torpid frame.

Heraclius.
Why should an emperor fear?

Valentinian.
Say, where's Gaudentius?

Heraclius.
He, swift of foot as an Herulian archer,
Escap'd my sword, and shelters in the camp;
But after him—with thy express command—
A trusty messenger I have dispatch'd:
This night his sire may meet him in the shades.

Valentinian.
Where is Traulista—prince of the Ostrogoths,
Dauntless and brave—his first—his chosen friend?

Heraclius.
Gone to Liguria with the son of Ætius;
He lov'd him much.

Valentinian.
Then let him share his fate.

Heraclius.
Leave them to me, and chase thy cares away;
The sports are ready—guarded every post,
And while the victims in the Circus bleed,
Smile that thy foes on the same moment fall.

Valentinian.
Hafte to the field of Mars—there I'll forget,
A pang e'er touch'd my heart.

Heraclius.
There learn all Rome—
That if they brave the mandates of thy lip,
A sov'reign's arm shall punish as it ought.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

Gaudentius
solus—in disguise—just returned to the city, where he was shewn the murdered body of Ætius.
Was this the dowry of the fair Eudocia,
The mangled body of my much lov'd sire
Presented by her father's guilty hand?
Just gods avenge—the trait'rous deed avenge!
What is the faith—or what the gratitude,
Or what the sacred promise of an emperor!
As cruelty portrays an abject mind,
Servility precedes the fall of states
In this declension of the Roman world,
While tyrants dip the scymitar in blood,
And sport on human misery at large,
Shall I sit down with folded arms and see
A monster gorging on a parent's blood;
Or unaveng'd behold a father die
By Valentinian's base ungrateful hand!
Yet he, alas! is my Eudocia's sire:
But glory, fame, ambition and revenge
Bid me erase this passion from my heart,
And boldly stem the madness of the times,
Recover Rome and reinstate her power,
And bring her back to glory, wealth and fame.
But hah!—Eudocia, pensive and alone;
[Seeing Eudocia at a distance.
Shall I advance, or banish her forever?
[While he hesitates, Eudocia slowly crosses the stage without observing him.]
One tear dissolves the firmness of my soul,
Unmans the mind, and melts the warrior down;
Dashes his hope, and weakens his resolve;
'Tis ruin to retire—death to speak.
Chaste as Diana in each graceful move,
While Venus lights the features of her face
And gives her son the torch to fire my soul;
Yet honour, conscience, virtue and the world
Forbid a union with his bloody house;
My father's murderer—the gods forbid!
Yet she's all innocence—and virtue's soul
Shines forth conspicuous in her heavenly form:
I haste from her as from the hand of death.

[Exeunt different ways.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Maximus
solus, in the Anician Palace, the sun just rising.

Enter TRAULISTA.
Traulista.
What cause is there for Maximus's grief?
Why is thy bosom tortur'd with despair?
Unfold the tale, command Traulista's sword;
Wake up full vengeance, or forbear to grieve.

Maximus.
Tortures may seize, and furies tear my heart,
But words can't utter what my soul endures;
Confusion darkens all my powers of speech,
And blushes blast the wretch that sacrific'd
His fame—his peace—his honour—and his wife
To glut a tyrant's lust.—My brain grows hot—
It kindles to distraction—yet Valentinian lives.

Traulista.
What, did the monster, in thine absence, dare
Profane the sacred threshold of thy peace?

Maximus.
She, ever duteous to her lord's command,
Was, by the darkest plot of hell, deceiv'd;
This ring, so often by her husband sent
In times too dangerous for other message,
To her presented, by the base Heraclius,
Reluctantly, she hasten'd to the palace—
Though terror seiz'd and chil'd her frighted soul:
She through each hollow, vacant room was drag'd,
Till in the silent deep abode of guilt,
As a dark fiend, the emperor alone
Waited the victim of his madden'd flame:
He seiz'd his prey—nor cries, nor tears avail'd;
She Heaven implor'd—to pitying Angels pray'd,
And in despair she call'd on her Petronius,
Yet thought his sanction back'd the vile design.

Traulista.
And hates thee for suspected perfidy.

Maximus.
'Twas a past the midnight watch when I return'd;
With anxious dread and deep suspense I flew
To her abode of misery and grief.
In sables dress'd—a taper just burnt down—
That darkly glimmer'd gloom from side to side—
Indignant scorn glanc'd from her languid eye;
While tears bedew'd her bright angelick face,
As if a cherub wept, the radiant beams
Of stars obscur'd, or of extinguish'd suns:
Dismay'd she held a dagger in her hand
As half resolv'd to plunge it in her breast,
Yet trembled at the purpose of her soul;
I caught her hand, and drew the weapon thence,
Ere she perceiv'd her wretched husband nigh.

Traulista.
Sure she's too good to let resentment burn.

Maximus.
“Poor Maximus she cry'd—spite of thy guilt,
My soul still pities thee—receive this pledge
To cheat some other soft, believing fool:
Blot from thy thought that e'er Ardelia liv'd
To be the sport of riot and debauch.”
Then fix'd the fatal signet on my hand,
This cursed signet that has seal'd my doom,
[Shews the signet.
And branded me with infamy forever.
She breath'd a sob as if a seraph sigh'd,
Drop'd a kind tear, and smil'd a last adieu.

Traulista.
Hah! dead!—say'st thou Ardelia's dead?

Maximus.
All the big passions of a noble soul
Thrill'd through her heart, and stiffen'd all her frame;
The shining angel left this blasted world,
And now methinks, ineffably serene,
On yon bright azure golden skirted cloud,
Ardelia gently chides this tardy hand
That lingers thus while unaveng'd her death.

Traulista.
I bind me by this sword, a soldier's oath,
To vindicate in blood her wounded fame.

Maximus.
Her soul unstain'd, immaculate and pure.
Not meagre malice dare impeach her mind;
Nor e'en Megara's tongue, though it were dip'd
In all the poisons of her curling snakes,
Till the gall ganger'd every name but hers,
Durst whisper aught to wound Ardelia's fame:
But yet her wrongs may urge thy dauntless arm,
And give full vigour to a bold design,
To smite a scepter'd brow—yes—that is all—
The man himself's a poltroon—
Yet he's an emperor.

Traulista.
This makes him worthy of Traulista's sword.
My arm shall aid till justice holds the scale
To soften grief, or injury repair.

Maximus.
Go, find thy friends, and ere the work begins,
I ask a moment to indulge my grief;
‘The luxury of tears’ is not for me—
My soul's too big for such a soft relief;
Yet I may rave and riot o'er my woes.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

MAXIMUS and GAUDENTIUS.
Maximus
That dignity the gods themselves inspir'd,
When Rome inflam'd with patriotick zeal,
Long taught the world to tremble and admire,
Lies faint and languid in the wane of fame,
And must expire in luxury's lew'd lap
If not supported by some vigorous arm;
Th' Armorici 'tis said have pass'd the Rhine,
And ruder tribes, both Goth and Vandal hosts,
May soon be thundering at the gates of Rome;
While here, a treacherous, bloody minded prince
Stains the imperial court with slaughter'd friends,
And riots in the zenith of his pride.

Gaudentius.
And are there none in this distracted state
Whose courage, zeal, and energy of mind
May stem the tide, and break the tyrant's yoke!

Maximus
The Roman people, sicken'd by his sloth,
Detest a weak, a lecherous, dastard prince
Who yet cuts down the bravest men Rome boasts,
And mocks the most heroick of her sons
Abused virgins rave in wild despair;
Affronted matrons weep, and beauty sighs,
While groans reecho from the tomb of grief,
And cry for vengeance on the emperor's head;
For innocence betray'd, and virtue sold.

Gaudentius.
Dismay'd by blood, the senators detest
A sovereign, cruel, impotent and base,
And all the army's ripen'd for revolt.

Maximus.
'Tis time to dash him from th' imperial throne;
Name his successor, and the work is done.

Gaudentius.
The crown, the sceptre, the regalia wait,
Petronius's will to guide the realm,
And bid the mistress of the world revive.

Maximus.

Gaudentius.
Ambition, in a noble, virtuous mind,
Is the first passion that the gods implant,
And soars to glory till it meets the skies:
If it has place in Maximus's breast,
Fortune, who sports with diadems and crowns
This day may hail him emperor of the west
Gaudentius pauses a moment, retires thoughtfully a few steps, smothers an exclamation, and only articulate.
—Oh! my Eudocia.

Maximus.
'Tis just revenge that animates my arm;
But did ambition urge my purpose on?
Yet, my young pensive friend, if Valentinian
Wraps his mantle o'er his trembling head—
Like Julius Cæsar crys—“Brutus my son,”
Will not Eudocia unnerve thy arm?

Gaudentius.
Ah! my Eudocia!—would he were not thy sire;
But from my heart I tear thee for a moment,
'Till Ætius's manes are appeas'd,
And fair Ardelia's wrongs are all aveng'd.

Maximus.
But art thou sure thou canst this test sustain?
This test severe, of friendship, honour, love,
Will try thy soul, and probe thee to the heart.
Will not thy purpose shake, when her soft image
Dances in thine eye, and pity pleads?
But yet thou hast a struggle more severe;
Thou may'st as well avenge thy bleeding friends
And draw thy sword in injur'd virtue's cause:
'Tis whisper'd through the court the Suevick chief,
The valiant Ricemar, has purchas'd peace
With Genseric the terror of the west;
And that the heiress of the imperial throne
Is the rich price—that Hunneric his son
Is on his way to wed the fair Eudocia.

Gaudentius.
Petronius, thou hast fix'd my wav'ring will;
Let me lead on—my sword alone,
Without another's aid, shall find its way
To Valentinian's heart.

Maximus.
The hour draws nigh—the exercise begins—
Arm thy brave heart, and bid adieu to love.
[Exit Maximus.

Gaudentius

[Exit.

SCENE III.

MAXIMUS and TRAULISTA.
Maximus.
Hail, mighty prince of great Hermanric's line!
Is thy sword whetted to avenge thy friends?

Traulista.
No eagle darting down the slaughter'd field
Of human carnage strew'd with mangled limbs,
More swiftly bends its talons to the prey,
Than shall my sword deal thunderbolts around,
Whene'er Petronius wishes for its aid.

Maximus.
But art thou sure that not one traitor lurks,
Nor coward heart in thy selected band?

Traulista.

Maximus.
Have they ne'er trembled at an emperor's frown,
Nor felt the servile homage of a slave?
Will not the valiant arm grow sick and flag,
And the drawn dagger droop e'en in thy hand
As it approaches Valentinian's breast?

Traulista.
Have I not sworn by Mars's fiery sword,
The redden'd symbol of the Scythian faith,
To aid thee to avenge thine injur'd love?
Not Casca's arm e'er gave a surer blow
Than shall Traulista's.

Maximus.
The great Triumvirs of the world have fall'n
By weaker hands than thine—thou art my Cassius—
But I fear Gaudentius—he's of a softer mould—
Humane and tender—though a valiant prince
He feels the softest passion for Eudocia.

Traulista.
He feels no pang but for Eudocia's sake;
Yet jealousy has wak'd a war within;
Resentment, love, and rage, by turns distract,
And make his soul a chaos of despair.

Maximus.
Will he o'ercome this painful struggle
In a noble breast?—Can he renounce her charms?
When filial tears are leagu'd with just revenge,
When duty, fame, and glory combat love,
Will the fond lover act the hero's part,
And snatch the princess from a rival's arms,
Mid'st blood and slaughter, and the fresh grown yews
His sword may strew around her father's tomb?

Traulista.
Strike, now's the time, before his passions cool.

Maximus.
Will Valentinian venture to the sports?

Traulista.
The emperor comes with more than usual pomp,
A chosen cohort added to the guards.

Maximus.
Though guilt makes cowards, justice finds them out:
Not all the legions of the western world
Shall screen him from my sword, my just revenge.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

EUDOCIA and PLACIDIA.
Eudocia.
Alas! my fears—my throbbing heart lie still,
Nor startle thus, e'en at a quiv'ring leaf:
The downy pillow gives me no repose,
And slumbers fly from the soft silken couch;
Ill boding terrors shake the gilded roof;
Methinks I hear a distant din of arms—
—alarms—and shouts—
[Shouts without.
As though from heaven's battlements were burst
Some dreadful ruin, that may empire shake.

Placidia.
Another shout—I fear some signal blow:
This early morn, as sleep forsook my lids,
I from my window saw Traulista haste;
Two chiefs beside led on a chosen band,
So like Thuringian blood hounds in their gestures,
I trembled at the sight; yet as they pass'd
I caught a signal meant to be conceal'd,
A hoarse, low, hollow voice growl'd from the midst,
“Haste to the Campus Martius.”

Eudocia.
Ah! what new shock?—the tumult bends this way—
Oh! Valentinian!

[The noise draws near.
Placidia.
The furious multitude rush towards the palace
I hear the legions shout—long live the Emperor
Petronius Maximus.

Eudocia.
Undone—undone forever!
Where is our father?—Oh! where the good Edoxia?
And midst the group of misery and woe—
Would heav'n permit—ah! where is my Gaudentius?

[Gaudentius rushes suddenly into the Palace—Soldiers and Guards in tumult without.]
Gaudentius.
He's here, my princess—he guards the fair Eudocia—
Protects her life from every ruffian hand,
Nor fate again shall snatch her from mine arms.

Eudocia.
Oh! leave a wretch abandon'd to her fears.

Gaudentius.
What! leave Eudocia midst this furious storm!
Name it no more—death stalks abroad,
And vengeance lifts his arm—but Heaven forbid
That innocence should feel the dread effects
Of cruelty and guilt.

Eudocia.
If e'er thou lov'd—if pity touch thy soul—
Fly hence to succour Rome, and save my father.

Gaudentius.
Thy father!—he had a friend whose arm—
Yes, Ætius was his friend—Oh! Ætius.

Eudocia.
Barbarous man! can'st thou reproach Eudocia,
And chill her with the terror of a name
That rives her inmost soul with guilt and horror?

Gaudentius.
Forgive me, princess.

Eudocia.
Oh! Gaudentius—
Could my poor life atone—my clay cold corse
I'd lay on Ætius' tomb—sprinkle his urn—
Refresh his memory with the last purple drop
That warms to love, the heart of thy Eudocia.

Gaudentius.
Pardon the transports of my filial breast,
That pours its sorrows o'er a father's tomb;
Great Ætius's virtues justly claim
A tributary tear from half the world.

Eudocia.
Had'st thou a marble heart, or stoick soul,
Unmov'd at aught the destinies decree,
Though death cut down the hero, father, friend,
I'd spurn a wretch that mock'd these tender names
Back from my soul to ravage the wild woods.
But say, what tale hangs on thy tongue—
Thou durst not name?

Gaudentius.
If fate commands, and wraps both in a shroud,
We must forget that e'er our fathers liv'd.

Eudocia.
Hah! parricide!
Hast thou the death of Ætius aveng'd?
What! durst thou lift thy sacrilegious hand,
And hurl a blow that severs me forever
From thine arms? then come with this bold front
And subtle tongue, to lay thy sword
Wet with her father's blood, at his Eudocia's feet?

Gaudentius.
Not all the wrongs I suffer'd from thy sire,
Nor yet the vengeance that my own demand
Could urge my arm to aim an impious blow
That might a moment interrupt thy peace!
But Maximus—

Eudocia.
What of the traitor Maximus?

Gaudentius.
Ought never to forgive Ardelia's wrongs.

Eudocia.
Tell me the worst—am I the only wretch
Of all my house, that lives to weep?

Gaudentius.
Like the thrice heated bolt from heav'ns high arch,
Through the dark gloom of dreary night and horror,
That falls and blasts the cedar's lofty top,
The light'ning fell on Valentinian's head.

Eudocia.
From heaven?—no, 'twas hell that belch'd the flame;
By jarring fiends the pointed sword was whet,
And thou wast witness to the horrid deed.
Let us, Placidia, haste with trembling steps,
(Ere earth shall sink beneath his guilty feet,
Like the twin sisters of misfortune lead,
If yet the empress lives, to her apartment.

[The Princesses in an agony of grief retire.—Exit Gaudentius.]

SCENE V.

The Palace—EDOXIA, sola.
When will these dark and lowering clouds pass o'er,
And brighter aspects tinge the western skies?
This day is big with omens of despair,
And some wild tumult rages loud abroad;
Each face is pale, and every eye's askance,
As wrapt in dark mysterious intrigue:
That Maximus must meditate revenge
There's not a doubt; and when he strikes
'Twill be a deadly blow—his arm disdains
A mean or vulgar stroke—and his bold spirit
Shakes at no resolve—yet 'tis too soon
To execute the deed—his dreaded rage,
Oh! Heaven!—just Heaven restrain!
Hah! who art thou that ent'rest thus abrupt?
[Leo enters hastily in disguise.
Disguis'd, as if beneath a vizard, lurk'd
Mischief and treason—murder—guilt and death!

Leo.
There is no time for leave of audience now;
Haste hence my empress—fly the palace gates
Ere all the avenues are seiz'd by Maximus.

Edoxia.
Is then the emperor slain!
Am I the slave of Maximus?
Forbid it all ye powers of heaven and earth!

Leo.
Thy person may be safe, if not a moment's lost.

Edoxia.

Leo.
Petronius led the band—the cohorts join'd—
Traulista waited at the Campus Martius,
'Till Valentinian enter'd.
The fierce barbarian struck his helmet off,
And, swift as light'ning, fell an hundred blows;
His trembling soul escap'd without a groan;
The army and the Gothic princes cry'd
Long live the emperor, Petronius Maximus.

Edoxia.
Forsook—betray'd—and widow'd in an hour!
Alas! my daughters!—where are the lovely maids?
Are my Eudocia and Placidia safe,
Or are the charms or innocence and worth,
Of virgin beauty, piety, and truth,
The sport of Gothic slaves?
[Enter Princesses.
—Ah! my Placidia!
This tender woe becomes thy filial eye:
Alas, Eudocia!—lovely in thy grief;
I can no more than sighs and tears bestow.
'Tis all I have to lend my hapless children.

Eudocia
Lend not a sigh to me—I am too wretched—
But spare thy tears for those who may be blest.

Edoxia.

Eudocia.
Name him no more—
Let me forget that e'er I was belov'd.

Edoxia.
These tears indulge, to bathe his sacred urn,
And while they trickle o'er thy blooming cheek,
Water the willows round thy father's tomb,
Till the brave veteran Ætius shall chace
The bold Petronius from the imperial throne.

Eudocia.
Ah! Ætius!—Oh! happy Rome, if Ætius had liv'd.

Edoxia.
Had Ætius liv'd!—Just gods! what means Eudocia?
Has the monster slain the noble Ætius,
And rais'd so high the mounds of death around,
That justice cannot reach a traitor's heart?

Eudocia.
Great Ætius is dead—spare me the rest,
Nor from my bleeding breast the story wring.

Edoxia.
I'm lost and wilder'd in this mazy path;
What furious fiend presides this awful day!
On every side some spectre ghastly grins,
Through floods of reeking gore, and beckons down
To Hades' dark, benighted, dismal shore.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

MAXIMUS,
solus.
Enter Leo.

Leo.
I am the friend of Rome, and of Petronius—
Of law—of justice—and the rights of man—
The senators of Rome—and of Edoxia.

Maximus.
Is the imperial family secure?
Let not the smallest disrespect be shewn
Or to the empress, or her royal house.

Leo.
Edoxia sits like some majestick oak,
Or fairer cedar, that o'ertops the hills,
Strip'd of its leafy robes—shook to the root,
By the rude tempest, or autumnal blasts;
The storm subsides, the naked branches hush'd,
Silent and still, demand a pitying tear
From ev'ry way worn traveller's weeping eye,
Who us'd to rest beneath its friendly shade.

Maximus.

Leo.
The faithful minion caught a thousand wounds,
Aim'd at his master by Traulista's band,
He curs'd alternate, heaven, himself and thee,
And di'd an hero, though he'd liv'd a slave.

Maximus.
Then bid a truce to slaughter;
Let not a drop of Roman blood be spilt:
And now, I have another game to play;
Edoxia must be mine—her hand I'll seize—
Her heart I leave till time may do its work.
By a long line of ancestry, a queen,
Her regal title to the imperial crown
Must bind it fast on Maximus's brow.

Leo.
She stands superiour to life's roughen'd storms;
Looks calmly down, and bids the waves roll on
Till the last surge ingulphs her weary head.
Yet this new scene may shake her firm resolve,
And raise a tempest in her tranquil breast.

Maximus.
[Exit Leo.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

EDOXIA.
solus.
Where shall I fly?—to what sequester'd shade
Where the world's distant din no more alarms,
Or warring passions burst through nature's tie
And make mankind creation's foulest stain.
Horror and guilt stare wild in every eye;
Freedom extinguish'd in the fumes of lust
Bleeds fresh beside Rome's long expiring fame;
Virtue's become the rude barbarian's jest,
Barter'd for gold, and floating down the tide
Of foreign vice, stain'd with domestick guilt:
Oh! could I hide in some dark hermitage,
Beneath some hollow, dismal, broken cliff,
I'd weep forlorn the miseries of Rome,
Till time's last billow broke, and left me quiet
On the naked strand.— Enter Leo.]
—Ah! Leo,
Durst thou be still the friend of sad Edoxia?
Hast thou the courage yet to visit grief.
And sooth a wretch by sympathetick tears;
And reconcile me to the name of man?
Can'st shew me one less cruel than the tyger
Nurs'd in the wilds, and feasting on the flesh
Of all but his own species?
This predilection's left to man alone,
To drink and riot on his brother's blood.

Leo.
Fate has ordain'd—'tis thou must give us peace;
Thy lenient hand alone.

Edoxia.
Mock not my woe.

Leo.
'Tis thou my empress, who must stop the tide
That threats the deluge of the Roman world;
The jarring factions that tear up the state
Thyself must quell, and reconcile—

Edoxia.
Insult not my distress.

Leo.
The emperor Maximus—

Edoxia.
Whose name strikes daggers through my shivering soul!

Leo.
Demands an audience.

Edoxia.
Speak not a word my soul disdains to hear.

Leo.
The Roman people—

Edoxia.
Ah! what is Rome to me?

Leo.
All wish a union in the royal pair;
And Maximus adores Edoxia's virtues.

Edoxia.
What is the sanction that emboldens thee,
Thus to affront thy queen?

Leo.
Oh! pity Rome—the empire—and thy country—
Save thy noble house.

Edoxia.
I have no country.
What's life, or empire, or the world to me?

Leo.
Yet hear—oh! hear—for Maximus resolves.

Edoxia.
And art thou come to sue for Maximus,
Whose blacken'd soul, blown up by fierce ambition,
Assumes the reins, and drives the courser on,
With furious passion and unbridled lust?

Leo
The emperor admits of no delay,
When once resolv'd.

Edoxia.
Remember, Leo,
The blood that flow'd from Poplicola's veins,
From breast to breast through the Horatian line,
And thence to me convey'd—a gen'rous stream
That animates and warms Edoxia's heart,
Shall ne'er be tainted by a base submission.

Leo.
Impatiently, he waits thy last reply.

Edoxia.
Tell him I'm not the coward fool he thinks,
That guilty greatness has no charms for grief;
I scorn his impious passion—detest his name.

Leo.
Yet save thyself—thus on my bended knee,
[Kneels.
Let me beseech from thee a mild reply.

Edoxia.
Tell him, a traitor's heart, though swell'd
By adulation's base perfume, has not a hand
To wield the imperial sceptre.

Leo.
And therefore needs thy aid,
Both to secure and dignify the throne.

Edoxia.
This insolence from thee!—the pious Leo—
My former friend—the guardian of my youth;
I thought thy soul cast in a purer mould—
Above the servile line—not thus to court
And meanly grovel, for a tyrant's smile.
Leave me, base wretch—go fawn on thy new master;
Tell him at once, Edoxia dares to die.

Leo.

[Weeps.
Edoxia.
[Exit Leo.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

MAXIMUS and LEO moving to the Apartment of the Empress.
Maximus.
Hah!—does the empress haughtily reject
My proffer'd vows, and spurn me from her arms?

Leo.
Lost in the tender agonies of woe,
She wept, regardless of thy ardent prayer;
'Till grown outrageous by my urgent suit,
She started wild, as if despair awoke,
And rav'd, and sob'd, and imprecated death:
At last, collected in majestick pride,
She drew a poignard from beneath her robe,
And solemn swore, in most indignant strains,
If you presum'd to speak to her of love,
Its point transfix'd should send her to the grave,
More welcome far than thy abhor'd embrace.

[Scene opens and discovers Edoxia
Enter MAXIMUS and LEO.
Maximus.
I ask thy hand, and claim thee as my queen—
Jointly to govern and reform the state.

Edoxia.
And must an empress bear this bold outrage—
These stings of insult?—Shall a villain's hand
Drag to the altar—sacrifice my fame,
To each black passion that deforms the soul?
Oh! Heaven look down—his bold ambition curse—
Destruction send on him and all his race.

Maximus.
Did lust of empire, or of fame alone.
Thus bid me urge the fair Edoxia's hand—
Ambition, that proud source of human woe,
Thou might'st suspect had push'd my purpose on:
But though the lustre of a crown allures,
And sanction gives to deeds of boldest hue.
Justice alone, and love of virtue warms,
My ardent heart, and animates my arm.

Edoxia.
Durst thou profane the sacred name of virtue?
A sacrilegious murd'rer talk of virtue!
Thou know'st not what it means—an heart like thine
Ne'er felt its sacred warmth—not an idea
Of the heavenly flame could e'er exist
In thy corrupted brain—blown up by lust—
Revenge—ambition—death—
Thy dagger reeking with thy sovereign's blood,
Thou still would'st heighten thy detested crime
And make his wife a partner in thy guilt.

Maximus.
Thou wrong'st me much—to plead my cause
Would wound so chaste an ear;—false to his vows,
And faithless to thy bed, he wrong'd at once
The empress and myself.

Edoxia.
Him, I forgive—
But not the assassin of my injur'd lord;
Oh! let me fly from thee, and from perdition.

Maximus.
My destiny impell'd against my will,
My evil genius and my fate combin'd;
Nor will I now recede and yield a throne.
Thy wisdom, grace, and dignity of soul,
Command respect, and bend me to thy charms;
I ask thy aid to extirpate from Rome
Injustice—vice—with anarchy and crimes.
My gracious princess, sovereign, queen and wife,
Reign still in Rome, and grace the imperial throne.

Edoxia.
Thy perfidy thou think'st is made secure
By plunging Ætius in the general wreck;
His valorous hand would from thine impious grasp
Have pluck'd the sceptre, stained by thy touch:
Yes, if through Rome there was a Roman left.
As brave as Ætius, the diadem
Would of itself drop off,
From thine imperious brow.

Maximus.
Does not the empress know who murder'd Ætius?—
[To Leo.
And that Petronius would avenge his death?

Leo.
The bloody deed had not yet reach'd her ear,
When Valentinian fell.

Edoxia.
It is enough, she knows the miscreant—
The proud usurper of the vacant throne,
Who dares aspire to Valentinian's bed;
But witness, all ye powers of earth and heaven,
Ere my soul bends to sanctify the deed,
Or yields a victim to this bold offence,
The horrid void beneath the Tarpeian rock
Shall first be fed by all the Anician race.

Maximus.
Prepare the rites—Edoxia must be mine—
[To Leo.
Before the wood lark hails the morning dawn,
Or early matins call the virgins forth
To chant their lays—the empress is my bride—
Then time and love shall soften by degrees,
'Till Lethè lends forgetfulness to grief.

[Exit Maximus and Leo
Edoxia.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

GAUDENTIUS and EUDOCIA.
Gaudentius.
Though nature frowns, and monsters howl around
And threat the bands of each domestick joy,
Yet innocence and truth should cease to weep;
'Tis guilt alone should tremble in the storm.

Eudocia.
My native land distain'd with Roman blood
Warm from the veins of patriots and kings—
A father slain—a mother's tender woe—
Her virgin daughters weeping by her side,
Add stings to pain, and poignancy to grief.

Gaudentius
Let Angels guard and calm thy ruffled breast,
Let love and virtue cheer thy drooping soul;
And let thy peace reanimate again
A prince that lives but in Eudocia's smile.

Eudocia.
[Gaudentius trembles, and turns pale.

Gaudentius.
My love—my grief—my fears—
A sudden illness that will soon subside.

Eudocia.
Thy fears—why should Gaudentius fear?

Gaudentius.
For all my soul holds dear beneath the stars—
Thy peace—thy health—thy happiness and love.

Eudocia.
Is there a latent cause, this moment wak'd,
To doubt Eudocia's love?

Gaudentius.
Thy deep dejection—thy too curious eye—
A brow o'ercast with something like a frown,
Ne'er seen before, where sweetness sits enthron'd,
And soft complacence has been us'd to smile,
Amidst the grief that wrung the aching heart.

Eudocia.
Does thine own conscience smile, and whisper peace;
And art thou sure that all's secure within?
I much suspect, thy friend, Traulista,
Is a secret foe—and that his hostile hand,
Oft steep'd in blood—fierce as the vulture's fang,
Was not inactive on that fatal day,
When the remorseless sword mow'd down as grass
The faithful friends to Valentinian's house.
But Heaven forbid, that e'er the brave Gaudentius,
A good, a generous, noble minded prince,
Should join a murderous band—impossible!
I will not wrong thee thus—yet some strange horror
Seizes all my frame—as if my father's ghost
Stood bleeding by, and chid this parley
With a parricide.

[Eudocia turns abruptly to withdraw.
Gaudentius.
Oh! leave me not, my princess, thus suspected.

Eudocia.
If thou art guilty, own thy crime at once;
A poor defence will make thee doubly so.
If the least guilt contaminates thy soul,
My own would share by hearing thy excuse;
I see thee not till time restore thy fame;
And yet I fear—Oh! death to name—I fear,
Thy infamy is fix'd—forever fix'd,
Beyond redemption's call.

[Eudocia exit hastily.

SCENE V.

TRAULISTA and GAUDENTIUS.
Traulista.

Gaudentius.
A heart like thine—insensible to love—
Dead to the soft sensations of the soul—
Only to fierce Bellona's voice awake—
Though all the sex were offer'd to thy choice,
Knows not the joy, nor feels the tender pang,
Fear may excite, or expectation raise.

Traulista.
What hast thou got by all thy love sick dreams?
Go shew the mighty Goths thy baby face,
And see if one would know it was Gaudentius,
Who fought and conquer'd on the Danube's banks;
Tell them you've whin'd for more than twenty moons—
Crest fallen, sigh'd before a puling chit,
The daughter of thy most inveterate foe—
The murderer of thy sire.

Gaudentius.
But he's aveng'd—
And, like the frighted hare, she fled my sight—
Suspects me an accomplice, charg'd me home,
With treason, murder, perfidy and blood

Traulista.
Come, be thyself again; nor longer bask
Upon the silken, downy lap of hope;
Leave her to sigh, and whisper to the winds—
Else snatch by force, and bear her o'er the wilds,
Through growling forests—hideous, broken cliffs,
And frozen seas—to Scythia's icy banks,
Where rugged winds pour from the brindled north
Adown the mountain's brow—a blast may cool
The transports of thy love.

Gaudentius.
Heaven blast a wretch, whose fierce barbarick heart
Would violate in thought so chaste a fame—
A purity allied to heaven itself.
Alas! the charms that have subdu'd my heart
Have something more than human in their birth.

Traulista.

Gaudentius.
Forbear, Traulista—nor sport thus with my pain.

Traulista.
Come then, erect the scymitar of Mars,
And twang the bow string at the trumpet's sound.

Gaudentius.
Go, clear my wounded fame—assure the princess
That I did not strike—that her fair image,
Hovering round his head, held back my hand—
Repell'd the pointed sword—for aught I did,
Her father might have liv'd.

Traulista.
I know ye acted as a coward would—
But half resolv'd, and trembling at thyself:
Yes, I will see Eudocia is inform'd,
She's made a poltroon of a noble prince.

Gaudentius.
Hah!—this from thee?—yet know he has a sword,
That will not fail to reach a villain's heart,
And let the venom out that rankles there.

[Lays his hand on his sword.
Traulista.
For this I love thee—come on and try its mettle—
I fear'd thou had'st forgot who was thy sire,
And that the lustre of his burnish'd blade,
Wielded by him in many a hardy field,
Had hurt the opticks of the gentler son
Of noble Ætius.

Gaudentius.
Draw and defend thyself.— (Draws)


Traulista.
What shall I tell Eudocia, when she chides,
If I should scratch, or let out Roman blood?

(Insultingly)
Gaudentius.
The empress comes—forbear—I, on the morrow,
Meet thee in the Circus.

Traulista.
Come on, my boy—
The morrow may have other work to do;
This day shall tilt thee swiftly out of time,
If thou art weary of thy silken chain.
[Exit Traulista.

Enter EDOXIA.
Edoxia.
My son—my friend—my injur'd friend Gaudentius,
Canst thou forgive the noble Ætius' death?
Thou lov'st Eudocia with the purest flame:
Remember Valentinian was her sire,
Then vindicate the honour of her house.

Gaudentius.
While life glows warm in this my faithful breast,
Eudocia holds my fortune and my fate.

Edoxia.
I know thou'rt noble, generous and just,
And not less brave than Ætius thy sire;
He wore a sword, he dar'd to draw
In injur'd virtue's cause—nor fear'd the frowns
Of tyrants or of kings—it is thy birthright,
Durst thou grasp it hard, and boldly venture,
For Eudocia's sake, to extricate
Her mother from the arms—the hated bed
Of an usurper of her father's throne?

Gaudentius.
There's nought, true courage prompts the brave to do,
Or virtue justifies, or honour calls,
But what I dare attempt.
But if it mars the peace of Rome—

Edoxia.
The peace of Rome is an ideal thing;
Lost in the tide of every shameful vice,
Rapine and blood; and violence and lust
But mock the story of her ancient fame.
Canst thou a moment balance in the scale
The tranquil scenes of harmony and peace,
With all the lustre that adorns a crown?
Eudocia gives an empire with her hand.

Gaudentius.
My sword—my services—my life are thine—
Ambition burns, and love and glory join—
Yet name no task that more distracts my country.

Edoxia.
Then thou canst see the empress bath'd in tears,
Drag'd by Petronius to the sacred altar—
Compell'd to be his bride—the fair Eudocia,
But a moment lent, to dry the filial tear,
Ere she's compell'd to wed his worthless heir?

Gaudentius.
Not all the powers of earth, or hell combin'd,
Shall rob me of my wife, my lov'd Eudocia.

Edoxia.
Wilt thou apply to Genseric—my friend?

Gaudentius.
A dangerous expedient indeed—
A faithless friend—a treacherous ally.

Edoxia.
The time forbids evasion, or excuse—
Admits of no delay—my purpose is
Irrevocably fix'd.—Say, wilt thou,
At the port of Ostia, meet Genseric—
Bear him my signet—bring him on to Rome?

Gaudentius.
Not for the golden treasures of the east,
Or all the wealth the tempting world bestows;
No, though Eudocia were the bright reward,
Could I betray the capitol of Rome,
And sell my country to the Vandal king?

Edoxia.
Wilt thou betray the mother of Eudocia,
And blast my hopes of most severe revenge?

Gaudentius.
Though great thy wrongs, much greater must thou fear,
If Genseric's rapacious brutal hosts
Should enter Italy—my sovereign forbear,
And like the gods, benignantly forgive;
Nor let resentment kindle up anew
The flames of war; nor introduce in Rome,
Those savage, hostile guests to riot there,
To subjugate the state—subvert thy house,
To extirpate thy name, and rudely reign
And triumph o'er the West.

Edoxia.

Gaudentius.
Thou hast struck deep—a sure and deadly blow.

Edoxia.
The tangled lion can't escape the toils.

Gaudentius.
Nor thou—nor Rome—nor all thy house, perdition.

Edoxia.
Secure thyself, and leave the rest to me.

[Trumpets without.
Gaudentius.
Hark! the shrill trump!—Genseric's herald
Cannot yet be nigh.—

Edoxia.
Like a brave friend, he instantly prepar'd
To plant his banners round the towers of Rome.

Gaudentius.
The senate—people—all the royal house,
For slaughter ripe, in its most dreadful form—
Proud Rome the seat of arms, and arts, and fame,
Stands tottering on the verge of mighty ruin.
A soldier's duty calls; I haste away;
Fate may do much before we meet again;
She has a busy hand, and swiftly rides
On revolution's wheel—Rome may be sack'd,
And crowns and sceptres toss'd from shore to shore,
Transplanted, or despoil'd.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Senate assembled in the Palace.—Enter an Herald.
Herald.

Senator.
Tell mighty Genseric, Petronius yields,
Appall'd and frighten'd at his potent name.
He left the city, sick of life and empire;
No more ambitious of the world's applause,
He wish'd to hide beyond the rapid Rhine;
But fate forbad—a bold Burgundian chief,
Arrested his career, and cleft him down—
Amidst the cries of citizens and friends,
Of foes to Rome, and of Edoxia's slaves.
His body, mangled by a thousand wounds,
Was thrown contemptuously from Tyber's bank.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Opens and discovers the Citizens in great Confusion—Leo at the Head of a Procession of Priests, Senators and Nobles, meet Genseric in suppliant postures, without the Palace.
Leo.
Edoxia sends all health to Genseric,
Her friend—her royal brother, and demands
Protection for the imperial house:
That no rough foot approach the palace gate,
Or hostile arm to plunder, or invade,
The royal daughters, or the wife of Cæsar.

Genseric.
Tell her that Genseric himself will haste,
To guard the princesses and Cæsar's wife.

Leo.
She begs repose after the furious storm;
And thy permission to be left retir'd,
To weep awhile the destiny of Rome;
To pour the balm of pity on the breast
Of virgin sorrow—to lift the drooping head
Of undissembled grief—hung like the lily
O'er the wasted vale—when the rough surge's
Roaring deluge sweeps down all around,
Except the naked bloom—propless and weak,
And quivering on the marge of the next tide—
Whose wat'ry wave may wash the broken fragment
From its natal soil.

Genseric.
Hymenial songs must cheer these drooping maids—
They each shall choose a Goth or Vandal lord,
And rase the lineage of the Roman name
In the warm grots of Asdrubal and Hanno,
For which their ancestors in Carthage bled,
And armies perish'd in the Lybian sands.

Leo.
Now thou art master of the Roman world,
Let clemency bespeak thee more a king,
Than all thy triumphs o'er subjected Rome.

Genseric.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

EDOXIA and LEO in the Imperial Palace.
Leo.
Fortune ingulphs thy family and throne,
Beneath her shifting tide they're floating down,
And for thine house my soul in anguish bleeds;
The capitol—thy crown—and freedom lost—
Thy daughters seiz'd, Placidia borne away,
And made the mistress of a Gothic lord,
And Genseric himself is near the palace,
With hosts of Vandals crowding in the rear.

Edoxia.
Enter Genseric.

Genseric.
A milder tone becomes a captive queen,
At whose request invaded and subdu'd,
Rome prostrate lies beneath her conquering lord.

Edoxia.
Ah! what a contrast to the splendid tale
Of Roman greatness—her illustrious fame.—

Genseric.
Empire decays when virtue's not the base,
And doom'd to perish when the parts corrupt.

Edoxia.
My soul's as hot with rage, remorse, revenge,
As are the Lybian sands when Sirius reigns,
Or the thrice heated summer solstice burns.

Genseric.
Then, to console and mitigate thy rage,
I'll haste to Tunis with the illustrious throng,
Where Hunneric, my son, shall wed Eudocia.

Edoxia.
Oh! dreadful threat—severer far than death.
Where are the sacred, celebrated shades,
Who wash'd the stains from chaste Lucretia's fame
In red libations from a tyrant's heart—
Oh! shield Eudocia—snatch her from despair.
Rescue a hapless, chaste, and friendless maid
From base, abandon'd, prostituted slaves!—

Genseric.
Fix'd as the fates that roll th' etherial orbs,
I now forbid a murmur, or a sigh.

Edoxia.
Thou may'st forbid the morning sun to rise;
Bid ocean cease to lave the pebbled shore,
Or Roman souls to mix with Vandal slaves,
And be obey'd—ere sighs are hush'd,
Or execrations cease.—

Genseric.
Each chief has seiz'd a princely Roman dame,
The booty's safe, and prosperous gales invite;
And now my guards escort the empress on.

Edoxia.
What! thus commanded in imperious strains,
To haste from Rome to Africk's scorching realms,
Where Tophet gapes and slaughter'd infants cry,
By thousands offer'd their infernal gods:—
Jehovah! why do all thy thunders sleep—
While each black crime the demons perpetrate,
Is acted o'er by this infernal race.

Genseric.
Slaves, hasten on, and seize your royal charge,
And guard her safe to Carthagena's coast.

Edoxia.

[Draws a conceal'd poignard, and attempts to stab herself.
Genseric.
Slaves, seize her hand—she must not die—
'Twill half defeat the triumph of the day.

Edoxia.
Enough of life and all life's idle pomp—
Nor by a tyrant's fiat will I live—
I leave the busy, vain, ambitious world
To cheat itself anew, and o'er and o'er
Tread the same ground their ancestors have trod,
In chace of thrones, of sceptres, or of crowns,
'Till all these bubbles break in empty air,
Nor leave a trace of happiness behind.

[Edoxia is led off in golden chains.
Genseric,
from the Palace Gates, gives Orders to the Vandal Troops.

[Exeunt.

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,
As the young lambkin in the shepherd's cot;
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;
Both by the cross, and by the ancient gods,
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.

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.

SCENE V.

A Grotto in the Garden of the Palace—EUDOCIA solus— GAUDENTIUS approaching.
Gaudentius.

Eudocia
within, in a soft, plaintive, agonizing voice.
Oh! some kind seraph snatch my soul away,
And shroud my griefs beneath the peaceful tomb;
Or must a dagger ope a passage hence,
To set me free from Hunneric's embrace?

Gaudentius.
'Tis she herself—'tis her symphonious voice:
The murmuring maid in broken accents sighs;
Tis my Eudocia whispering to her God.
[Enters the Grotto.
Let not those sighs fear up an angel's breast;
Nor let the wreck of empire strike too deep.

Eudocia.
Hah!—who art thou that boldly dares intrude
On the last hour of this my still retreat?
Some spy of Hunneric's, to watch my steps,
Lest one short moment of repose I find,
This last sad night, ere I'm completely curs'd.

Gaudentius.
May all the powers who guard the good and just
Protect my princess!—

Eudocia.
Hah! my belov'd Gaudentius!—
Dost thou yet live, through all the perils
Of a barbarous siege, to see Eudocia
Snatch'd from thy lov'd arms?—Alas! my fate,
To what a hated rival am I doom'd!

Gaudentius.
I had not liv'd but for Eudocia's sake.

Eudocia.
Yet save a life much dearer than my own;
Nor linger here, 'tis on the verge of death:
Leave me to perish in my country's fall.

Gaudentius.
Not all the clangor, or the din of arms,
Or roughen'd tempests, whose impetuous blasts,
In fiery bolts, may rive the mountains up,
Again shall tear me from my lov'd Eudocia.

Eudocia.
My lips can't utter, nor my tongue express,
The anguish that my tortur'd soul endures:
'Twas early duty nurs'd my infant love,
And strictest virtue sanctifi'd the flame,
'Till Valentinian fell—alas! no more;
Nature—religion—reason—filial love,
Forbid a union with the son of Ætius.

Gaudentius.
My brain grows hot—it kindles to distraction—
This night secures my bliss—or—certain death.

Eudocia.
Oh! live Gaudentius—live for Rome's defence;
Nor rob thy country of so brave an arm.
Not crowns, or sceptres, or the world besides,
Has aught to balance with my love for thee;
Yet urge no more—fly hence and save thyself—
One parting sigh—one solemn, last adieu—
Then, for thy country's sake, forget Eudocia.

Gaudentius.
Not till the pulse of life forgets to play,
And death's cold dews pervade my quivering lip.
Within this garden will I find a grave,
Unless my princess dares an enterprise,
Which lost this night, may never more return;
I must attempt thy rescue ere the morn.

Eudocia.
In what new horror would this scene involve?

Gaudentius.
Arouse thy noble fortitude of mind—
'Tis the decisive hour—the next subjects
To Hunneric's embrace.—

Eudocia.
Not all that nature shudders at in death,
Has half the terrors that his name conveys;
Oh! save, if possible—prevent my fate.

Gaudentius.
Then fly with me from misery supreme.

Eudocia.
The port of Ostia's shut—and all the seas
Fill'd with Genseric's fierce piratic slaves:—
Where can the wretched fly?

Gaudentius.
Fly any where from Hunneric and death.

Eudocia.
Alas! my heart—my weak, my wavering heart!

Gaudentius.
Come, let us move to yonder small alcove;
The brave Traulista, whom Genseric trusts,
Most fortunately heads the nightly watch,
Patroles the posts until the morning dawns;
The moment that the midnight bell resounds,
He brings a Vandal garb for my Eudocia,
And aids our flight to the Tarentiae sea.

Eudocia.
Traulista!—I like not this Traulista—
Traulista has a rough, a savage soul,
Wrought up to treasons of the darkest hue.

Gaudentius.
His life he owes to Ætius and myself.

Eudocia.
But gratitude can never bind the base:
An infidel to God—there is no tie—
No principle to bind a worthless heart.

Gaudentius.
Hs is my friend; come, dissipate distrust.

Eudocia.
A thousand spectres stare on every side.

Gaudentius.
Let's lose no time, nor let thy fears retard;
[He offers to lead her out of the Bower.
The hazy moon enwraps her tranquil face,
And hides behind a thin transparent cloud,
Lest she betray, by her resplendent beam
Thy trembling step—the terror in thy eye.

[Moving slowly on.
Eudocia.
Methinks I hear some speedy foot advance.

[She starts back.
Gaudentius.
My generous friend anticipates the hour.

Eudocia.
Lie still, my heart—
Nor burst the brittle casement of my breast.

Enter SERVANT.
Servant.
Away, my lord—fly to the thickest shade,
Or, ere thou can'st escape, thou art undone.

Gaudentius.
Hah! betray'd!—

Servant.
Two ruffians arm'd, crawl round the citron walk—
They nam'd Gaudentius—I stay'd to hear no more—
But rush'd—and shot across the darken'd grove,
To serve the princess and to save my lord.

Gaudentius.
Alas! my faithful Cassio—thou'rt too late,
Yet as a soldier will I sell my life.

Enter HUNNERIC and TRAULISTA.
[Gaudentius makes a furious pass and mortally wounds Traulista.]
Traulista.
Death to my hopes—damnation to his hand!—

Gaudentius.
Oh! heavens! Traulista—art thou the villain—
Traitor—dastard—slave—lurking in secret,
To betray thy friends?

Traulista.
Coward, come on—
To brave in words thou may'st a dying man;
Yet know I've life enough to dash to hell,
And send thy puny soul to Pluto's shades,
For daring once to threat Traulista's life.

Gaudentius.
High heaven has levell'd at thy treacherous heart
The fatal stroke that justice' hand demands.

Traulista.
Now are there deities or devils—ghosts or gods,
I'd thank them all had he have dy'd before me.
My eye balls sink—my stiffen'd fibres fail!—
Haste, Charon—with thy boat—and set me o'er
The Stygian pool—blot out this being—
'Tis a curse to man—yet if these Romans live
In other worlds, I would exist again,
To chase them from Elysium, as from Rome.

[Dies.
Hunneric.
Seize this young furious prince, and on the rack
[To his Guards.
Extend each limb—with heated pincers tare,
'Till I have time to find new tortures out.

Gaudentius.
Not thee, nor death, nor tortures do I fear,
Would angel guards and ministers of fate
First snatch Eudocia from thy loath'd embrace—
Yet know, Gaudentius dies not as a slave.

[He rushes forward and engages Hunneric, who mortally wounds him.—Eudocia runs between their swords, and offers her breast to Hunneric.]
Eudocia.
Strike here, most noble Hunneric—end my pain—
Now if thy soul can do one generous deed
Emancipate thy prisoner—enhance the gift—
Nor like a niggard do thy work by halves;
But let me die with him, my life, my lord,
My husband, my Gaudentius.

Hunneric.
No, my Eudocia, live—thou art my queen.

Eudocia.
If hell's dark empire had a charm for me,
Then I might wish to be the Vandal queen.

Gaudentius.
Adieu, my fair—adieu, my lov'd Eudocia—
Adieu to glory, empire and renown!— [Falls.


Eudocia.
Oh! stay Gaudentius—let me assuage thy wounds,
Support thy drooping head one moment more—
Then I accompany my much lov'd lord.

[She faints.
Hunneric.
Slaves, bear her off—these are the sex's tricks—
While her fond eyes hang on her paramour
She'll play them o'er, and weep, and sigh, and rave,
And faint again—yet cannot die with grief—
But in mine arms she'll sink an easy bride.

Eudocia.
[The guards attempt to force her from the corpse of Gaudentius.]

EPILOGUE.

THE LADIES of CASTILE.

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

To a Young Gentleman in Europe, at whose Request a regular Dramatick Work was first attempted.

MY DEAR SIR,

You have often requested something in the stile of the drama, from the hand of one ever fond of gratifying her friends; though not certain whether this request arose from a love of literary productions; from a curiosity that has affection for its basis; or the strong attachment of friendship; yet I have no doubt you will be pleased with the compliance.

I am sensible the writing an unexceptionable Tragedy, requires judgement, genius, and taste; and have felt such a diffidence in the attempt, as nothing would have overcome but the repeated request of a very dear friend.

Though the piece now put into your hand may not afford equal entertainment with the compositions of a Corneille, a Racine, or a Crebillon, yet I dare say, from your partiality, you will find pleasure in your closet, though it should not be encored on the stage.

You have never named me a subject, though you prohibited an American, and seemed to have no predilection in favour of British incident; therefore, notwithstanding events in the western world have outran imagination; notwithstanding the magnitude of prospect a rising empire displays, and the many tragical scenes exhibited on an island whence it derived its origin, I have recurred to an ancient story in the annals of Spain, in her last struggles for liberty, previous to the complete establishment of despotism by the family of Ferdinand.

The history of Charles the fifth, the tyranny of his successors, and the exertions of the Spanish Cortes, will ever be interesting to an American ear, so long as they triumph in their independence, pride themselves in the principles that instigated their patriots, and glory in the characters of their heroes, whose valour completed a revolution that will be the wonder of ages.

What a field for genius! What a display of capacity, both in science, in business, and in politics, does this revolution exhibit! Certainly, enough to fire the ambition, and light up every noble spark in the bosom of those who are in the morning of life.

The nations have now resheathed the sword; the European world is hushed in peace; America stands alone:—May she long stand, independent of every foreign power; superiour to the spirit of intrigue, or the corrupt principles of usurpation that may spring from the successful exertions of her own sons:—May their conduct never contradict the professions of the patriots who have asserted the rights of human nature; nor cause a blush to pervade the cheek of the children of the martyrs who have fallen in defence of the liberties of their country.

Perhaps the subject I have chosen for the machinery of a tragedy, may be more proper for an epic, than a dramatic poem; yet I hope it will be acceptable in its present garb, and that the candor of the public will be exercised, not so much for the sake of the sex, as the design of the writer, who wishes only to cultivate the sentiments of public and private virtue in whatsoever falls from her pen.

I am most affectionately, Yours,

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• MEN.
• DON VELASCO—Regent of Spain in the absence of Charles fifth.
• CONDE HARO—Son to Velasco, Commander of the royal Army.
• DON JUAN DE PADILLA—Commander of the Troops raised by the States of Spain.
• DON FRANCIS—Friend to Padilla, Brother of Donna Maria, in love with Louisa.
• DON PEDRO GHIRON—a young Nobleman in love with Louisa.
• ZAMORA—Bishop of Toledo.
• SOCIA—confidential Servant to Don Juan de Padilla.
• WOMEN.
• DONNA MARIA—Wife of Don Juan de Padilla, Sister to Don Francis.
• DONNA LOUISA—Daughter of Don Velasco.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Near Toledo.
DON JUAN DE PADILLA and DON FRANCIS.
Don Francis.

Don Juan de Padilla.
Methinks some languor hangs about thy steps,
Too like despair, though not alli'd to fear;
When virtue arms, and liberty's the prize,
No cloud should set on brave Don Francis' brow.
The love of glory, victory and fame,
A noble sense of dignity and worth,
Is the best birth right of Castilia's sons:—
Inur'd to glory, and the feats of war,
Our fathers held their freedom from the gods.
A jealousy for freedom kept alive
Precludes the softer passions of the mind.

Don Francis.
Nurs'd in the fierce and hostile field of war,
I, from long ancestry, may boldly claim
That innate force and vigour of the mind
Which mocks the sense of danger or of death;
But yet Louisa wakes my soul to love.
De Haro's sister has ten thousand charms;
But ah!—the daughter of Velasco chills,
And horror opes the gates of wild despair,
As if the fates forbad a distant hope.

Don Juan de Padilla.
Spurn these soft fetters—fly the fond disguise,
Ere it unnerves the vigour of thine arm—
Let freedom be the mistress of thy heart:—
She calls to arms, and bids us draw the sword:—
Come, clear thy brow, and whet the pointed steel,
To crush the foes of liberty and Spain.

Don Francis.
I would suspend, but ne'er exterminate
The noblest passion of the human soul;
That softens the ferocious breast of man,
And checks the ruder billows of the mind.

Don Juan de Padilla.
Not like the lover, but the hero talk—
The sword must rescue, or the nation sink,
And self degraded, wear the badge of slaves.
We boast a cause of glory and renown;
We arm to purchase the sublimest gift
The mind of man is capable to taste.
'Tis not a factious, or a fickle rout,
That calls their kindred out to private war,
With hearts envenom'd by a thirst of blood—
Nor burns ambition, rancour, or revenge,
As in the bosom of some lordly chief
Who throws his gauntlet at his sov'reign's foot,
And bids defiance in his wanton rage:—
'Tis freedom's genius, nurs'd from age to age,
Matur'd in schools of liberty and law,
On virtue's page from sire to son convey'd,
E'er since the savage, fierce, barbarian hords,
Pour'd in, and chas'd beyond Narvasia's mount,
The hardy chiefs who govern'd ancient Spain.
Our independent ancestors disdain'd
All servile homage to despotick lords.

Don Francis.
I own my weakness—yet forgive my love;
My life and honour sacredly I plight,
To aid a brave and veteran band of chiefs,
Whose fathers fearless, dip'd the glittering sword,
Whet with revenge, in tides of Moorish blood,
To save their sons from servitude and chains.

Don Juan de Padilla.
But we have not a moment's time to lose.
The pageant mounted on his gilded car,
Sweeps all the fickle multitude along:
Inaction or delay will ruin all,
And place the fav'rite nurs'd in fortune's lap,
Beyond the reach of aught but heaven itself,
To teach him what from man to man is due.
A battle ere tomorrow's sun retires
Shall shew the world our pedigree and fame;
The Celtiberian race shall ne'er be slaves,
Nor blush to own Don Juan for their son.

[Exeunts.

SCENE II.

Palace of Velasco.
Enter DON VELASCO and CONDE HARO.
Don Velasco.
The brighten'd dawn lifts up its cheerful face:
The sun beams play to lighten thee to fame;
The hill tops smile, and each propitious gale,
Wafts victory onward, with expanded wing,
To crown the glory of Velasco's house.

Conde Haro.
Unhappy Spain, by civil factions torn,
Assaulting friends, while foreigners invade.
Her burning cities, and her reeking sons,
Are drench'd in blood, our valour should protect;
While fierce disunion scowls on every brow,
And rancour whets the sword against ourselves,
The Turkish banners spread the German plains,
And France, resolv'd to humble Charles's pride,
Unites the crescent with the sacred cross.

Don Velasco.
Francis indeed may triumph at our gates,
Unless Don Juan, and the restless Cortes,
Are soon subdu'd, and peace restor'd to Spain.
One glorious conflict, one successful day,
Will shew the world the heir of Ferdinand
For empire born, in spite of all his foes.

Conde Haro.
The sword is drawn, and down the gulph of time,
Perhaps, its useless scabbard may be toss'd,
'Till years roll on, and revolution's wheel
Whirls nations down, and empire sweeps away,
Ere peace benignant smiles on hapless Spain.

Don Velasco.
Then lose no time to crush this rebel race.

Conde Haro.

Don Velasco.
'Tis but a faction of cabal and strife,
Bound by no ties of dignity or worth;
Devoid of honour, discipline, or faith;
Discord will waste, and jealousy divide.
And drive them backward from the routed field,
Dispers'd by thee, as dust before the wind.

Conde Haro.

Don Velasco.
Methinks some latent cause beclouds thy zeal
And checks the vigour of thy val'rous arm,
Retards thy glory, and may blast thy fame.

Conde Haro.
Not less resolv'd, or fearless than thyself,
No tongue shall e'er reproach thy house or name
With glory tarnish'd by De Haro's fall
From valour, virtue, dignity, or fame,

Don Velasco.
Then haste, and chase these miscreants from the land—
Cut down their line, and blast their idle hopes,
And extirpate the bold seditious race.
Their houses wrap in one devouring flame—
The sword shall quell all factions in the land.

Conde Haro.
When virtue's vanquish'd, justice bids us spare,
And lend compassion to an hapless foe.
I ne'er will tinge the field with human blood,
If milder means can bloodless victory win.

Don Velasco.
Adieu, my son—my soul is all on fire.
Proud glory waits to make thy name immortal,
By promis'd triumphs ere the morrow close.

De Haro.
Urg'd on by thee, by glory and renown,
I'll serve my sov'reign as a soldier ought,
And take the field against my former friends,
But in the hero ne'er forget the man.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

DON JUAN DE PADILLA and DON PEDRO.
Don Juan.
The kingdoms of great Ferdinand are left,
To hunt for crowns in Germany and France,
While here Velasco plunders all the states.
Our delegates have yesterday return'd,
Without an audience at the sov'reign's court;
Stop'd on the way—forbid on pain of death,
With their complaints—their idle tales of wrong—
T' invade the regal dignity of thrones,
Or whisper murmurs in a monarch's ear.
Resentment, and a noble thirst of fame,
Must rouse the bold, reanimate the brave,
And brace the arm with vigour to repel
These bold invasions on great nature's rights.

Pedro.
Has then the band of Dutch and Flemish race,
Who hover round, clos'd up the monarch's ear,
And steel'd his heart against the cries of Spain?
Ambition low'ring on a lordly brow
May yet subdue the citizens of Spain.

Don Juan.
Valencia arm'd, and Arragon arous'd,
Hold their's and Castile's righteous cause the same.
The trump of war is echo'd through the land,
Wrought up to tempests by the cruel arm
Of base oppression, breaking o'er the mounds
Of law—of justice—equity and truth.
Is thy mind firm—irrevocably fix'd,
Or, to secure the sacred rights of Spain,
Or die a martyr in her glorious cause.

Pedro.
The storm beats high—yet, will I hazard all,
My honour, fortune, freedom and my fame:—
I, by thy side, all danger will defy.

Don Juan.
Then reconnoitre round De Haro's posts;
The noble house of Albert's overcome,
Navarre's subdu'd—dismantled all her towns—
Peasants and nobles, citizens and slaves,
Promiscuously enroll'd in Charles's pay,
Sullen and fierce, disdain th'ignoble service:
Ripe for revolt, they, at my signal join,
And list themselves in a more noble cause:
Prepare their leaders for tomorrow's work.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

DON JUAN DE PADILLA and DON FRANCIS.
Francis.
Hast thou yet seen th' unhappy queen of Spain?
The vulgar ear, forever caught by sound,
Allur'd by pomp, by pageantry and show,
Revere her person and adore her name;
Her standard planted on the field of war,
Would sanction give to every bold design.

Don Juan.

Francis.
Does she yet know the miseries of Spain?—
The indignant wrongs and injuries we feel,
Beneath the reign of her oppressive son?—

Don Juan.

Francis.
Unhappy queen! thus to her people lost.
In melancholy's cell, let her remain,
While her son raves at large about the world,
Not less a madman than the Macedon,
Who kindled up the Grecian world in flame,
And rear'd a pile o'er all his murder'd friends.

Don Juan.
She, rescu'd from her guards, my prisoner is,
And, if we need, her signet is obtain'd.

Francis.
But malice whispers murmurs through the camp,
And half our soldiers clamour for their pay—
At least a part, before they take the field.

Don Juan.
Haste to Maria, whose undaunted soul
Reflects a lustre on her feeble sex;
By stratagem, she's gain'd an ample sum
To quiet mutiny, and pay the troops.
But ere the solemn midnight clock shall strike,
Return, and meet me at the gate of Toro.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

DON FRANCIS and DONNA MARIA.
Maria.

Francis.
Hah!—durst thou venture on so bold a deed!—
Leap priestly bounds—invade the churches' rights—
Disrobe the saints, and risque the public hate!—

Maria.
Necessity must sanctify the deed.—

Francis.
Thy soul was form'd to animate the arm
Of some illustrious, bold, heroic chief,
And not to waste its glorious fire away,
Beneath the weakness of a female form.

Maria.

Francis.
Name not Louisa—I would forget she lives—
Or that she is the sister of my foe
Mistaken man!—he deprecates this war
That lights his country in a wasting flame;
But thinks the era of her freedom lost,
Since first Ximenes' artful subtile wiles,
Threw such a weight in the despotic scale,
A standing army at the sov'reign's nod,
Which makes the monarch master of the laws,
And gives at will both liberty and life.
Yet Conde Haro has a noble soul,
Nor is less virtuous than truly brave.

Maria.
Virtue must spring from the maternal line
If it adorns the Conde Haro's breast.

Francis.
Tomorrow proves him what the world reports,
And weaves a garland to adorn his brow,
Or leaves his trunk a headless sacrifice,
To stamp fresh glory on Don Juan's name.

Maria.
Go, hasten on, and not a moment lose;
Remind the soldiers of Segovia's rights—
Review the battles fought on Ebro's banks—
Assure them all is safe, if they're but brave.
The sword maintains what their forefathers won.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An Alcove in an artificial Wilderness.—DONNA LOUISA, sola.
The burnish'd hills o'erlook the verdant dales,
And nature's deck'd in all her bright array.
The whispering breeze plays o'er the dappled mead,
And fans the foliage on the flowery bank:—
The towering wood lark trills her tender note,
And soft responsive music cheers the lawn;
Yet here I wander wilder'd and alone,
Like some poor banish'd fugitive who seeks
The meagre comfort of a moss grown cave.

Enter DONNA MARIA.
Maria.
Awake fond maid—nor thus supinely waste
Thy youth—thy bloom. Thy matchless beauty fades
Mid'st sorrow, sighs, and unavailing tears.

Louisa.
Thought feeds my woes, nor can my reason aid
To calm the passions of my grief torn breast,
'Till concord weaves again her palmy wreath,
To deck the face of this distracted land.

Maria.

Louisa.
I retrospect, and weep Spain's happier days—
Survey the pleasures once we call'd our own,
When harmony display'd her gentle wand,
And every peasant smil'd beneath his vine—
'Till nature sickens at the sad reverse,
And my swoln bosom heaves with smother'd sighs,
Too big to be repress'd.—I yield to grief
'Till floods of tears relieve my tortur'd soul.

Maria.
Maria has a bolder part to act—
I scorn to live upon ignoble terms—
A supple courtier fawning at the feet
Of proud despotic nobles, or of kings.

Louisa.
Had I thy firmness, yet my heart would bleed
To see my country torn by civil feuds.
Each hero hurls a javelin at the breast
His heart reveres, and friendship's soul recoils
When the bold veteran urges home the blow,
To pierce the man he venerates and loves;
While the brave patriot parries back the shaft
Against a life that virtue's self would save.

Maria.

Louisa.
But ah, Maria!—this little self obtrudes;
I cannot boast disinterested grief;
Louisa's tears can never cease to flow.
If brave Don Juan wins a glorious day,
My father—friends—and family are lost;
If victory for loyalty declares—
Or if Don Francis—noble Francis, falls—
Is there a name from Castile to the Rhone,
So wretched as thy friend—thy lov'd Louisa!

Maria.
Thou should'st have liv'd in mild and gentler times,
And breath'd, and slumber'd in the lap of peace,
As innocent and soft as infant love,
When lull'd to rest by a fond mother's song:
The smiling babe, wak'd by the wind's rude breath,
The pearly dew drop trickles from its eye,
'Till sooth'd to quiet by its favourite toy;
But for myself—though famine, chains, and death
Should all combine—nay, should Don Juan fall—
Which Heav'n forbid—I ne'er will yield,
Nor own myself a slave.—But see thy lover,
Pensive, walks this way.—Adieu, my friend,
I must be gone—the busy moments call—
My mind is fraught with cares of high import.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Enter DON FRANCIS and DONNA LOUISA.
Francis.
Let hope return and spread her silken wing,
And smile beneath the canopy of love;
The heav'n born mind, where virtue sits enthron'd,
Should be serene, nor waste itself in sighs.

Louisa.
Talk not of love, while sympathetic pain,
And keenest sorrows, rive the boldest heart;
While thousands fall at freedom's sacred shrine,
And bathe her pedestal with the rich blood
Of the best soldiers that the world can boast;
While the fond wife droops o'er her dying lord,
And orphan'd babes, and widow'd matrons weep,
Thrown helpless, on a cold, ungrateful world,
As pitiless as winter's frozen hand.

Francis.
For human woes my heart has often bled—
Yet dry thy tears, and calm thy ruffled mind—
Anticipate my bliss, and bid me live:—
Oh! give thy hand, and plight thy sacred vow,
Ere war's hoarse clarion summons to the field,
That nought but death shall tear thee from my arms.

Louisa.
Why wilt thou urge and importune my vows
While all my soul is agony and grief?—
Name love no more, till peace shall bless the land;
When redden'd wrath no longer lifts the sword,
Dip'd to the hilt in rancour's baneful stream—
That the steel'd heart may deeper plunge the blade,
Without a sigh—when from the gaping wound,
Out rushes, staring, the astonish'd soul
Of his lov'd friend, or of a brother slain.
Ah!—whither do I rove—let me retire,
Lest I betray the weakness of my heart.

Francis.
O might I claim that tender trickling tear,
And call those sighs my own—they'd waft me on
Towards the field of fame, with fresh blown hope,
That ere tomorrow's sun engulphs his brow,
And cools his steeds beyond the western main,
I might return victorious to thine arms,
And lay my trophies at Louisa's feet.

Louisa.
And what these trophies—but a brother's spoils?
Who is the victim thy success would doom
To infamy—disgrace—despair and death?

Francis.
Ah! there's the pain—the sharpest pang I feel
To lift the sword, and tread the hostile ground.
The Conde Haro is a virtuous foe.

Louisa.
The Conde Haro—is—Louisa's brother—
The only heir of Don Velasco's house—
And if he falls—fate severs us forever.

Francis.
Forever!—revoke the sentence ere it reaches heaven.

Louisa.
Forever. Remember this, and spare De Haro's blood.

Francis.
But, if in battle he should bravely fall—

Louisa.
A stern, enrag'd, inexorable sire,
Might hold Louisa guilty of his death.

Francis.
Just Heaven forbid!—Could he arraign a mind
As pure and spotless as the infant morn?

Louisa.
Velasco is to royalty alli'd,
A feudal lord, of ancient pedigree;
In rank, in wealth, in fame, the first in Spain;
His high swoln pride bursts forth in peals of rage,
Whene'er he talks or names the rebel chiefs;
Forbids his son to spare a single life,
If fortune makes him master of the field:—
Think then what agonies pervade my breast.

Francis.
When honour calls, and justice wields the sword,
True virtue spares, and clemency forgives;
But when a fierce, tyrannic lust of sway,
Deforms the soul, and blots out nature's stamp,
The wolf, or tyger, prowling for his prey,
Is less a savage than the monster man.

Louisa.

Francis.
What makes me bless'd beyond the power of fate.

Louisa.
Deception oft beneath a limsy veil,
Hides human hearts, nor lets man know himself.
Should fortune snatch the victory from thee—
Thyself—thy friends—and freedom lost at once—
Perhaps you'll curse, in agonies of grief,
Louisa's house—her venerated sire—
Her noble brother—and yet more I dread—
Yes—my lip trembles at the rising thought—
The hapless daughter of thy cruel foe.
Is thy love proof against this test severe?—

Francis.
Description would but beggar love like mine;
Measure the earth and mount beyond the stars,
There's nought below can bound its full extent;
Not death itself can blot thee from my heart.

Louisa.
Then am I thine!—witness ye heavenly powers!—
This is the signet of thy wedded wife;
[Gives him a ring.
In the last exigence weigh well its worth,
And claim thy life from Don Velasco's hand.
This was the pledge of his Zelinda's faith:
Knowing the sallies of his haughty soul—
In a fond moment of paternal love.
He kiss'd my cheek, and caught my trembling hand,
Fix'd on my finger this invalu'd gem,
And by a solemn oath he bound his soul,
To grant each prayer when this should plead its claim.

Francis.
Language is poor, and time itself would fail
To speak the raptures of my grateful heart.

Louisa.
What have I done—my filial love,
And the connubial ties—at variance set—
A brother's life against a husband's stak'd—
My country's weal, with loyalty at war—
Confusion—tumult—death and slaughter reign;
As if the demons leap'd Tartarus' bounds
To sport with misery and grin at pain.

Francis.
Heaven has the means to extricate from woe,
Though veil'd from man—if patience waits his will:—
When fortitude, her sister virtue joins,
They both triumphant, meet a just reward.
Adieu, my love—my duty bids me haste;
[Trumpets without.
Soon I return, victorious from the field,
And clasp an angel to my faithful breast.

[Exit.
Louisa,
solus.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

CONDE HARO, solus.
De Haro.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

DON JUAN DE PADILLA and DONNA MARIA.
Don Juan.
First of thy sex—thou mistress of my heart—
Not all Hesperia can boast a fair
So amiably soft, discreet and wise;
With such a firm, heroic, noble soul,
Why should a tear bedew thy lovely cheek?

Maria.
I see distress on every side I turn;
Some sad dejection marks the soldiers brow;
Though veterans in arms, they fear the king,
And tremble at the frown of majesty:—
The nobles all, though emulous of fame,
Are jealous, proud—are turbulent and rash—
The people fierce, yet ever prone to change.
Today the cap of liberty's toss'd up—
Tomorrow torn and given to the winds,
And all their leaders, by the fickle throng
Are sacrific'd by violence, or fraud.

Don Juan.
So far above the weakness of thy sex,
Let me beseech thee never to despair;—
Support thy courage, arm thy noble mind—
Sure never more did thy Padilla need
Thy wisdom, counsel, fortitude and zeal,
To animate amidst ten thousand cares.
But my firm purpose never can be shook;
While life glows warm within my beating breast,
I will defend, against the proudest foe,
The liberties of Spain, my country's rights.

Maria.
So dangerous a foe has Spain ne'er seen
Since from the brindled North, the savage hords
Pour'd from their frozen hives, where gendering storms
Have rush'd, and swell'd fair Ebro's banks with blood.

Don Juan.
We have been free e'er since the mighty Goths,
In barb'rous swarms, compell'd the peaceful swain
To bare his breast, and meet the stranger's sword;
The raw and hardy peasants of the field,
Train'd up to arms, inur'd to feats of war,
Op'd their full veins, and wash'd in native gore
The field, the village, and their father's tombs,
Ere they establish'd liberty and peace.
Their ancient victories shall be recall'd
By the warm fluid from Don Juan's heart,
Ere he'll submit to drag about this shell
Through nature's system, as an useless drone,
Or live the slave of any lawless power.

Maria.
O Heaven forbid!—nor dash my country's hopes;
Or premature, cut down before the noon
A life of glory and heroic worth,
And blast success, while virtue lifts the sword.

Don Juan.
Sure life protracted is a vulgar wish,
Unless some noble end blows up the flame.

Maria.
Spite of myself, I have betray'd a tear;
But feel my courage brighten by thy side;
Nor shall the weakness of my sex again,
Create a fear that may disturb thy peace.

Don Juan.
Haste back, my love, lest some mishap befal;
The good Zemora guards Toledo's gates
With vigilance and faith;—there thou art safe.
Protect my son, and guard his infant years;
In his young bosom nurture every truth,
'Till ripen'd worth and manly virtue glow,
And mark him thine and thy Padilla's son.
The hasty moments fly—I must away—
I risque a battle on the morning dawn.

Maria.
O may we meet again with brighter hopes!—

Don Juan.
We meet again with glory and renown—
Or, meet no more.—

Maria.
—Or meet no more!
The dread idea stiffens every nerve.

Don Juan.
Let no ill omen'd word escape thy lip.
Fair freedom stands, and waves her laurel high,
She, on the acme of her burnish'd throne,
Shall hail the morrow with applauding shouts,
And greet Maria, as the guardian queen
Of union, peace, and liberty to Spain.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

DON JUAN DE PADILLA and DON PEDRO.
Pedro.
Toledo's banners reach the pendant skies,
And kiss the winds, and hail the work begun:
I sicken for the signal to the field,
When a decisive conflict must ensue;
I burn, I languish, till the tyrant falls,
With all the flatt'rers that surround his throne.

Don Juan.
Be temperate in words, but bold in deeds;
Most men are brave till courage has been try'd,
And boast of virtue till their price is known:—
But thirst of gold—the cursed thirst of gold,
Which plunder'd Mexico of all its wealth,
And broil'd her valiant sons in quest of more,
Is a severer tyrant of the mind,
Than coarser vice that mark'd our simpler state,
Ere cruel Spain explor'd that distant world.
Then golden bribes corrupted not the mind;
No son of Castile, or of Arragon,
E'er sold his honour, or relinquish'd fame,
For soft refinements that flow in with wealth,
Nor stoop'd to wear the liv'ry of a slave.

Pedro.
Let not a coward, or a knave be spar'd.
Who shrouds his head from danger or from death,
When freedom's cause stands trembling on the sword.

Don Juan.
Tomorrow gives a glorious test of worth;
Courage will shine conspicuously bright,
Or guilt may shake and dash the nerveless arm,
That draws a sword to massacre the brave.

Pedro.
Virtue's fair image then will shield thy head,
And animate the man who dare be free.

[Flourish of trumpets, and alarm without.
Don Juan.
The hostile clarion summons to the field.
[Pedro greatly agitated.
Hah!—pale and trembling at the trumpet's sound!—
Pedro, haste on, and take thy destin'd post,
'Twill lead to glory, conquest, and to fame;
To sure renown, if valour guides thy arm;
But certain infamy, disgrace and death,
If treason lurks beneath the guise of zeal.
[Exit Don Juan.

Don Pedro,
solus.

[Exit.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

CONDE HARO and LOUISA.—(De Haro arm'd and equipt for battle.)
Louisa.

De Haro.
Upbraid me not—nor sharpen thus the pangs
That rankle here, and wound thy brother's breast.
Words cannot paint—nor can Louisa feel,
The agonizing pains that pierce my heart.

Louisa.
What can disturb the hero arm'd for fame?—
The prince's favour, and his father's love,
Anticipate the glory he pursues.

De Haro.
The secret dies within De Haro's breast,
Unless some strange, fortuitous event,
Should heal my heart, and reinstate my peace.

Louisa.
O might I weep my weary life away,
And close mine eyes on misery at large!—
Yet I could bear my griefs tenfold enhanc'd,
If this might heal, or mitigate thy pain,
Or sooth the anguish of a brother's heart.

De Haro.
Bear up thyself against the storms of life—
The sharpen'd pangs of disappointed love.

Louisa.
Canst thou forgive th' involuntary sigh,
The starting tear—that, as an April morn,
Pours down in torrents and obscures the sun?

De Haro.
I know the secret thorn that wounds thy peace.

Louisa.
I would conceal the weakness of my heart;
Yet not from thee—but from a sterner eye.

De Haro.
Blush not, Louisa—'tis a noble flame,
And Francis' virtues merit all thy love.

Louisa.
Yet he's thy foe—the brother and the friend
Of noble Juan—and can this lead thy hand—
This gentle hand—bath'd in a sister's tears,
To plunge thy dagger in a hero's breast,
From whence may rush a most exalted soul,
Adorn'd with every grace that wins the heart,
Or dignifies the man?—

De Haro.
Great souls—form'd in the same etherial mould,
Are ne'er at war—they, different paths
Of glory may pursue, with equal zeal;
Yet not a cruel, or malignant thought,
Or rancorous design, deform the mind.
I much esteem Don Juan and his friends,
But numerous ties engag'd my sword to Charles,
And gratitude had bound the buckler on,
Ere I was nam'd the champion in his cause:
Yet if success my loyal purpose crowns,
Mercy shall spare, where justice don't condemn;
Believe Louisa, not Don Francis' life
Is more thy care than it shall be my own.

Louisa.
The indiscriminating arrow flies,
And often wounds where friendship's arm would save;
Should war's uncertain chance make him thy captive—

De Haro.
The monarch and the laws must then decide.

Louisa.
My bleeding heart anticipates my fate:
Oh! what a bubble 'tis, ye glory call—
Mistaken name—a phantom of the brain,
That leads the hero on to leap the bounds
Of every social tie—till blood—till death,
Spreads horror over nature's frighted face:—
Ambition rears his fierce and furious fang—
In grizly tresses jealousy attends—
'Till discord reigns, and civil fury burns,
And arms the son against a father's life,
Or plants a poignard in a dearer heart.
Oh! how severely mark'd my hapless fate;
The best of brothers whets the dagger's point—
The fondest husband wields the sharpen'd lance,
And both are aim'd at sad Louisa's breast.

De Haro.
Thy husband!—hah—rash maid—

Louisa.
Yes—by each sacred tie.—
Thus incoherent my distracted prayer,
Prophanes the altar when to God I bow;
I start—I tremble—lest kind heaven grant
The boon I ask. Affrighted at myself,
I call it back, and quick revoke my wish,
Lest it involve me in supreme distress.

[Trumpets and martial music without.
De Haro.
A day decides—the trumpet sounds to arms;
Tomorrow will disclose new scenes of woe,
Or ope the gates to happiness and peace.

Louisa.
My heart's too full—it bends me to the grave:
My anger'd sire suspects—he solemn moves,
Majestically grave—with awful brow,
And chides severe whene'er I meet his eye;
Oh!—could I hide forever from his frown!—

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

DON VELASCO and DONNA LOUISA.
Velasco.
Fond foolish maid—what secret guilt's conceal'd,
That thus in tears—all pensive and alone,
Thou seek'st to hide, e'en from a father's eye?—

Louisa.

Velasco.
But most of all, a daughter is a curse,
Whene'er she lets her wanton thoughts run loose.
Weak maid retire—in thy apartment hide,
Nor dare to shew thy weeping face abroad,
'Till war shall cease, and business gives me time
To crown thy nuptials with a noble lord,
To whom thou art betroth'd—who claims thy hand:
Thou shalt be his—when from the field are chas'd
These bold conspirators—I've pledg'd my faith.

Louisa.
Let thy Louisa wake compassion up.
[Falls on her knee.
Revoke thy vow, and let me live a maid.

Velasco.
Both by the host, and by St. Peter's key,
I've sworn, nor will revoke my plighted faith;
Prepare thyself for wedlock's sacred vows;
One week completes the matrimonial tie.

Louisa.
O let me live in some dark hermitage,
Or in some gloomy cell—I'll cloister'd die,
But can't this once obey my father's will.

[Louisa trembling and faint—Velasco, enraged, leads her off.

SCENE III.

DON JUAN DE PADILLA and DON FRANCIS.
Francis.
Alas! my lord, an unexpected blow!
But thou'rt prepar'd for all that fate can do,
Too great to fear—too good to be dismay'd.

Don Juan.
So well I know the shifting tide of life,
I'm not appall'd whene'er its ebb runs off,
And leaves man shallow'd on the oozy strand.

Francis.
Tordesilas is seiz'd—the queen betray'd—
Don Pedro fled, and join'd the emperor's troops.

Don Juan

Francis.
High heav'n in wrath supports the royal cause,
And gives success o'er Charles's foreign foes;
E'en Solyman the great, fatigu'd with war,
Of Mustapha afraid, sighs to return
To Roxalana's captivating charms,
Agrees a truce, and leaves th' Hungarian plains.

Don Juan.
Resentful, brave, and nurs'd in valour's school,
Francis still waits him at the Pavian gate.

Francis.
The king of France, whose evil stars combine
To give his rival empire o'er the world,
Has lost a battle at the Pavian gate,
And languishes a prisoner to Charles.

Don Juan.

Francis.
At freedom's pedestal I've laid my hopes,
The brightest boon of life—my promis'd bride—
My lov'd Louisa's charms;—to be her lord,
I would not riot in her arms a slave.
[Exit Francis.

SCENE IV.

DON JUAN DE PADILLA, solus.
Don Juan.

[Tumult, and noise of battle, without.
[Exit.

SCENE V.

Shouts of victory, hurry and confusion.—DONNA MARIA, sola.
Maria.

Enter SOCIA.
Socia.
Fly, dearest lady—save thyself and son—
And let the faithful Socia guard thy steps.

Maria.
Is all then lost—and is Don Juan slain?—
Tell the whole tale, and set my soul on fire,
Ere yet it freeze with agony and doubt.

Socia.
Haste, my dear mistress—fly these cruel scenes
Of murder, rapine, perfidy and blood.
The routed troops, with hasty frighted steps,
All backward tread, nor could Don Juan's zeal,
His valour, virtue, fortitude or fame,
Subdue their fears and rally them again,
Nor damp the ardour of the hot pursuit.

Maria.
And does he live to glut their barb'rous rage?
Or did some seraph catch the hero's breath,
His latest sight to see his country free,
And gently waft his kindred soul away?

Socia.
Our foes may boast that victory was theirs;
But royal ranks lie weltering on the plain
Where Juan's blood has mark'd the glorious spot.
Yet lose no time, for hither hastes a guard
To seize and drag to Conde Haro's tent
The wife and infant of my much lov'd lord.

Maria.
Alas! my child—my son—my darling boy!
The fairest virtues beam in his young eye;
Each dawning grace sits blooming on his cheek,
And speaks him heir of all his father's fame.
Shall he, an orphan on the world be toss'd,
And lose his name among a group of slaves?
Forbid it, heaven!—a mother's fears
Shall not disarm my heart.—

Socia.
I thought the strength of thy superiour mind
Could nobly brave the worst that fate could do.

Maria.
It shall—come, lead me on—
To my Padilla's tomb—
His clay cold corpse I'll bathe in streams of blood,
Drawn from his foes, and sprinkled o'er his grave.
The cypress gloom, in dark fix'd shades shall bow,
And weeping willows drop a silent tear,
'Till rolling years see the last sands run out,
When wither'd Time throws down his useless glass,
And shrouds beneath eternity's big orb.

Socia.
If thou would'st be more wretched than thy lord,
Then weep and linger—thoughtless of thy son.

Maria.
Go, bring him hither—rob'd in funeral pomp—
Attended by my retinue and guards;
I will not fly—Toledo yet is strong:
Maria ne'er will drag a wretched life,
To wail Don Juan's fate in vulgar grief:
Nor yet in slavery meet a lingering death,
Beneath a tyrant's foot.
I will avenge my lord—
Though the rough surges in loud tempests roar,
'Till the rude billows meet the lowering clouds—
I never will despair, till my soul flies
And mixes with the bold exalted shades,
The stern brow'd spirits of the feudal lords—
Who now bend down, and frowning from the skies,
Chide back their dastard sons to take the field,
Bravely to fight—to conquer or to die.

Socia.
My heart misgives—I fear thy rash resolve,
Yet I obey.—
[Exit Socia.

Maria.
Ye powers who sit in judgment o'er the world,
Or ye malignant fiends who blast our hopes,
Grant Charles's restless soul may be condemn'd
With Sisyphus to roll in endless pain,
Up the Tartarean hill—the load of empire—
That envy'd bauble which mankind adore;
Then drag him down, successlessly to weep,
This shadow hunted long in human blood.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Don Juan and Don Francis in Chains, led by the Guards across the Stage.—Pass off.
DON VELASCO and CONDE HARO.
De Haro.
To see my country bleed, distracts my soul;
But suffering virtue moves the gods themselves.
I must implore my father's lenient hand
To hold suspended yet the prisoner's fate,
Until the emperor himself arrives:—
His clemency may fix his royal power,
And make him worthy of the crown he wears.
A pardon granted to the good and brave
Will bind their faith by gratitude and grace.

Velasco.
The laws have fix'd their signet on their fate;
Nor will I pause, or hesitate between,
The wide extremes of pity and revenge.
Did conscience melt, and bid me spare their lives,
I'd spurn her back—bid the rude phantom fly,
And cease to check me in my fix'd design;
They die tomorrow ere the sun retires.

De Haro.
I plight my sword, my honour, faith and life,
Those sacred sanctions that bind men of worth,
That Francis' pardon, or Don Juan's life,
Shall not impede the glory of the king,
Nor cause new ruptures, or disturb the realm.

Velasco.
The block's prepar'd—by justice' hand they die.

De Haro.
Let pity touch thy breast—let innocence—
Let infant tears—let virgin sorrow plead—
And let the matron's grief torn bosom urge
A husband's cause:—O spare Padilla's life!—

Velasco.
And does my son—the glory of his house,
Stand half dissolv'd by pity's softening tear?

De Haro.
There is a secret cause I dare not name,
That yet might soften a fond father's heart.

Velasco.
This cursed cause—alas! too long conceal'd,
Unbends thy purpose, and unmans thy arm.
Louisa knows her secret guilt's betray'd;
Her trembling steps too weak to bear her there,
I yesterday confin'd her to her room;
Bade her paepare to pay her nuptial vows
To one I'd chosen for her rightful lord,
To save her honour from a wanton love.

De Haro.
Do not precipatate the lovely maid,
But gently lead with a paternal hand;
And let time heal her agitated breast.

Velasco.
Stay not to prattle here for pardoning grace.
Though weeping maids, or aged sires combin'd,
Or lisping infants join the matron's tears
To plead their cause, my resolution's fix'd:
These outcasts of the world shall be cut off,
As nature's shreds, and blotted out of time.

De Haro.
Then I repair to visit and console
Afflicted worth in its extreme distress.

Velasco.
Go, take thy leave—salute thy treacherous friends,
Ere my right hand shall send them to the shades.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

DON JUAN DE PADILLA, solus.—In Prison.
Don Juan.
Enter CONDE HARO.

De Haro.

Don Juan.
Too generous De Haro!—my full heart,
In tears of blood, shall mark my gratitude;
And my last breath its benediction pour
On worth—on glory—dignify'd as thine,
With all that's noble in a human soul.
But ah!—too flattering to such a wretch—
To see Maria once, is fancy'd bliss
The Deity has plac'd beyond my reach.

De Haro.

[Hurries off Don Juan in his own habit.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

DON VELASCO and DONNA LOUISA.
Velasco.
Presumptuous maid—how durst thou disobey,
And rush abroad, amid tumultuous scenes,
And risque the wrath of an offended sire?

Louisa.
Excuse, my lord, this hasty, bold intrusion;
The boon I ask admits of no delay.

Louisa.
What means this daring importuning girl?
What brought thee to the threshold of a jail?
Thy trembling gestures and thy frighted mein,
Are sad presages that relieve thy tongue
Ere it betrays some bold accurs'd request.

Louisa.
All gracious sire, whose goodness I adore,
Thus on my bended knee, my bleeding heart,
Swell'd with its gratitude, as if 'twould burst,
Intreats thee once to hear Don Francis speak,
Ere thy lip dooms to death the bravest man.

Velasco.
What int'rest hast thou in a rebel life,
That thus in tears—in agonies of grief—
In weeds of woe, thou pleadest for Don Francis?

Louisa.
The first impression of my early youth,
Thine own injunction, and my infant heart,
Taught me to love—whate'er Maria lov'd—
Her brother.—

Velasco.
—dies, as her husband shall;
Nor will thy tears retard the blow
Due to a traitor's crimes.—

Louisa.
Oh! grant an audience ere his fate is seal'd.

Velasco.
Think not I am deceiv'd, audacious maid!
'Tis not a childish fondness for Maria
Wakes up a zeal that misbecomes thy sex—
'Tis baser passions foster'd in thy soul;
Don Francis is the object of thy love:—
Thy quick blood flows, and loose desires now play
About thy heart, and wanton in thy eye;
Yet sense of shame, still burns thy redden'd cheek,
And cinders the smooth blush of innocence;
But I've the means to cool thy hot brain'd flame,
And from disgrace my family retrieve.

Louisa.
Oh! spare Louisa—save thy hapless child!

Velasco.

Louisa.
By the dear mem'ry of that sainted name
Forgive her daughter's agony of soul.
Zelinda, oh!—compassionate my woes—
Look down, bless'd saint, from thy divine abode,
And teach my sire to pity thy Louisa.

Velasco.
While guilt hangs on thy base degen'rate lip,
Durst thou appeal to purity itself?—

Louisa.
This keen reproach distracts my tortur'd soul—
A thought unworthy of Zelinda's self,
Ne'er found a place in this my spotless heart.

Enter DON PEDRO.
Velasco.
Then will I now bestow thee caste and pure,
And bless the noble Pedro with thy hand;
Thou art his bride—bound by my solemn oath,
A just reward for loyalty and faith.

Louisa.
Now all ye powers of earth and heaven, save
From this last stroke—this worst of human ills!—

Pedro.
I am too bless'd, by such an heavenly gift.

Louisa.
Revoke thy sentence—snatch me from perdition—
Or let me die with him my heart adores.

[Sinks on her knee before her father, and faints.
Velasco.
Poor lifeless maid—sure she's not dead;—
[Lays his hand on her forehead.
She almost wakes compassion in my breast:
But let my ear be deaf—my heart be fear'd
To every soft sensation of the soul,
'Till infamy is wip'd from off my house.

Pedro.
[Raises, and holds Louisa in his arms.

Louisa.
The tardy hand of death still lengthens out
A life of woe—Hah! where am I—
[Opens her eyes and finds herself in Pedro's arms—shrieks, and starts from him.
On earth—the grave—in hades—or in hell?—
Art thou the fiend chain'd to my frighted soul,
To add new tortures to the shades below?—

Velasco.
Be calm, thou frantic girl—
[Stops, and holds her.
Nor thus enrag'd fly from thy husband's arms.

Louisa.
Was I the price, for which at Villabar,
That perjur'd wight, betray'd and sold his friends?
Go, minion! traitor! hide thy guilty head,
Thy country blushes that she gave thee birth.

Velasco.
Respect becomes thy lip—he is thy lord.—

Louisa.
As much as does my soul abhor his name,
If possible, I more despise than hate,
The infamous—the cowardly Don Pedro.

Velasco.
Pedro, retire—I'll bend her to thy will—
She shall be thine—thou art my son—
By all the saints and angels I adore,
This eve shall solemnize the nuptial rights;
Ere Francis dies—let consummation crown
Don Pedro's wish, and wake full vengeance up.

[Exit Pedro.
Louisa.
Alas! my sire—Oh! let religion plead:—
Forgive thy child, and bless me ere I die.
Pardon the purpose of my daring soul:
But ere I yield, I'll bare my filial breast,
Meet the drawn dagger's point, and kiss the poignard
In my father's hand—uplift in wrath,
Its edge to bury in this spotless breast—
A breast replete with duty and respect—
With every sentiment that heaven requires,
Or to paternal or conjugal love—
From thy fond daughter, or Don Francis' wife.

Velasco.
Don Francis' wife!—Heaven blast my ears!—

Louisa.
His wife—his wedded wife—
Nor let the grave, the sacred tie dissolve:
By the same sanction let us perish both,
Or both be bless'd, and by thy pardon live.

Velasco.
Could my Louisa prostitute her fame;
In a mad fit of wanton love, entail
Disgrace eternal, on the illustrious name
Of Don Velasco!—abandon'd girl!—
Then take my sword, and use it as ye list;
Thy paramour this moment meets the death
Thy perfidy extorts and his deserves.
[Exit Velasco.

SCENE IV.

Sweet before Don Juan's House.
DON JUAN DE PADILLA and DON FRANCIS.
Don Juan.
Friend of my early youth—my brave Don Francis—
Unlike the world—a friend in fortune's wane;
Thou hast a soul that dares to mix with grief,
And kindly seek'st thy wretched sister out
To sooth the anguish of extreme distress.
But how did'st thou escape thy gloomy cell?—
Or by what means elude the watchful guard?—

Francis.
In sables clad, my face bedew'd with tears,
The guards suppos'd I was thy noble sire,
Who had permission to embrace his son,
Ere death had seal'd an heirless father's woe.
But on parole, I have De Haro's leave
To fly to Charles, and in Velasco's name,
To sue for pardon from the emperor's hand,
And claim my bride by his Zelinda's ring:—
He gave me both his signet and command,
And bade me on the moment haste away;
The next he said perhaps betray'd to death.
I caught the letters with a rapturous hand,
And kiss'd the seals, and dropt a grateful tear;
I've waited but to bid my friend adieu,
But not to see thy wife till I return.

Don Juan.
Ah!—if thou can'st retrieve so brave a life,
Protect Maria, and her infant son;
Let them not languish in a servile land,
To watch the nod of some imperious lord.
Then tell the gazing citizens, who o'er
My breathless corpse, before the morrow close,
Will weep, and sigh, and curse my hapless fate,
That they have cherish'd many valiant sons,
Who amply may avenge my early death,
And teach the world that fortune ne'er stands still:—
In the routine of her uncertain wheel,
She soon may jilt her fondled, favour'd sons.
The sycophant and prince may both be taught,
A sceptre's but the plaything of a day.
Then let my father, noble Lopez, know
Don Juan died, as Lopez' son should die,
A dauntless martyr in his country's cause.

Francis.
Thy orders shall be punctually obey'd.
I with my blood will seal the sacred charge;
Though I could willing leave so base a world,
And share with thee, the glory of thy death;
Yet, for Louisa's sake, I wish to live.

Don Juan.
Thou must away—'tis death to linger here—
'Tis rashness in extreme—thou can't escape
The prying eyes that lurk for human blood:—
Thy mein and aspect cannot be conceal'd—
Thy soul shines through, and virtue's here a crime.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

DON JUAN's House—DONNA MARIA looking pensively into a Garden from her Apartment—Thunder and Lightning.
Maria.
Enter JUAN in the Armour and Habit of a royal Officer. MARIA starting, accosts him.

Don Juan.
This interview—this moment is my own—

[Approaching.
Maria.
Off, ruffian, off!—or by the powers above,
The next shall fix a dagger in thy heart.

[Draws a poignard from under her robe.
Don Juan.
On this last night that thy Padilla lives,
Oh! let me clasp thee to my faithful breast.

[Throws off his disguise.
Maria.
Immortal powers!—Say, do my eyes behold
The injur'd ghost of my deceased lord?
Or does my husband—my Don Juan live?—

Don Juan.
He lives indeed—this one short hour he lives.
When through the sharpest storms of life he sees
Thee firmly stand—by fortitude secur'd,
'Tis worth a world to fold thee to my heart.

Maria.
Did not my lord—my lov'd Padilla fall,
Amidst the carnage of the noon tide rout?—

Don Juan.
The faithful Socia reported thus,
Lest thou should'st perish in some rash attempt
To see thy Juan, and neglect thy son.
But a severer doom awaits my fate;
I, on the morrow, as a traitor die.

Maria.
Jehovah stoop, and lend thy potent arm,
To snatch the victuous from so vile a fate;
Or let these curling fires, which, from the North,
Emblazon nature's face from pole to pole,
In mantling flames, in one devouring wreck,
Sweep down the stars and crush this nether world.

Don Juan.
The Deity enwraps his dark decrees
Beyond the ken of man's presumptuous eye:—
Yet souls sublime, serenely look abroad,
And bid the howling tempests rage in vain.
Though livid lightnings blaze from north to south,
The tempests of this last tremendous night
Are as the breeze that wafts the gentle bark
Down the still tide, when every gale is hush'd—
If my Maria's mind supports its poise,
And smiles, superiour to the shocks of fate,
They cannot reach the soul that spurns the world—
Its tinsel'd toys—its titles, and its wealth.
The tribute of a life, I hold but small,
Could it repurchase liberty to Spain:—
Yet he is free—and he alone is free—
Who conquers passion, and subjects his will,
When his misfortunes thicken in the skies.

Maria.
No more, my lord—the test is too severe—
I feel my boasted fortitude will fail.

Don Juan.
Oh! spare my heart—
The plaintive accents of thy voice restrain,
Nor sharpen, by thy tears, the pangs of death.
My heart I leave—nought else can I bestow,
And once ye thought the world could give no more.

Maria.
Ah!—every tender pang that woe can paint,
Or for my country—or my much lov'd lord,
Distracts and wounds my agitated breast.

Don Juan.
Forbear to pain my tortur'd soul afresh;
Exert thyself—magnanimously stand,
And save thy son—the city, and thyself.
Protect and guard the lovely smiling boy,
The only pledge of our unspotted loves,
'Till he, enraptur'd, hangs upon thy lip;
While his bright eyeballs swim in filial tears,
To hear the accents of his dying sire,
Tenfold enhanc'd by thy descriptive tongue.

Maria.
Maternal softness weakens my resolve,
And wakes new fears—thou dearest, best of men,
Torn from thy side, I'm levell'd with my sex.
The wife—the mother—make me less than woman.

[Maria opens an adjacent apartment, and shews the infant in the arms of his nurse.
Don Juan.

[Juan wipes off a tear, and attempts to withdraw in silence.
Maria.
Oh! leave me not, thus wretched and forlorn!—

Don Juan.
How like a thief has time stol'n on my wish!—
[Clock strikes one.
Must I away—hah!—this is death—
The bitterness of death.—

Maria.
Wilt thou return, and on the scaffold bare
Thy yielding neck, and as a traitor die?

Don Juan.
Though tottering on the margin of the grave,
For Charles's fortune balanc'd in the scale,
Or all the gold in Montezuma's realm,
I'd not exchange my probity of soul,
Unsulli'd honour, and unblasted fame.

Maria.
Is sentence past—irrevocably past—
Then try the courage of a female heart,
And let me die with thee—the treasons I avow—
The crime is mine:—I can as bravely die,
As e'er a Grecian, or a Roman dame—
And smile at Portia's celebrated feat,
Who drew her blood to worm a secret out:—
I'll kiss the glittering ax and hug the shroud
That wraps me ever from a servile world.

Don Juan.
Retard me not—but bid me haste away.
Thy virtue's rais'd so far above thy sex,
Come plight thy vow, thy sacred, faithful vow,
That fortune's roughest blasts, blight not thy fame.
This moment, by appointment, is my friend's,
It is the last that time has lent to love;—
My honour calls—her voice I must obey.

[Going.
Maria.
Oh stay!—Oh stay!—'twas not the midnight toll—
One hour more let envious time bestow.

Don Juan.
My throbbing heart from guile was ever free;
No breach of faith shall mark me for a knave.
Thou dost not wish—not ev'n to purchase life,
To stain my honour by a fraudful deed:—
No—when I'm shrouded in my peaceful tomb,
No impious, servile tongue shall e'er reproach
My name—my memory—my life, or fame.
Adieu! my love—Adieu! to life and time—
One last embrace, and I am gone—forever.

[Embraces, and retires hastily.
Maria.
Oh! harsh and cruel sound—adieu!—forever—
He's gone—
And heav'n's broad eye beholds the fatal stroke,
And thunders vengeance from the louring skies.
—[A solemn pause.
When his great soul ascends the broad expanse,
Let angels guard him through the widen'd dome.

[Exit.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Maria,
with her young Son clad in mourning—a Standard borne before him, on which is represented his Father's Death—accompanied by Zamora and a Procession of Friends—she addresses the Citizens, Soldiers, &c. &c. &c.

[Exit.
[The people shout, and fly to arms.

SCENE II.

A Battle without—the City taken by Conde Haro—Donna Maria fled to the Citadel—the little Son of Don Juan asleep on a Sofa—Maria weeping over him.
Maria.
Enter CONDE HARO.

De Haro.
O hear me once, and then pronounce my doom.

Maria.
Thy every word accumulates thy guilt,
And barbs the pointed dagger in my breast.

De Haro.
Fain would I sooth and mitigate thy grief.

[Advancing.
Maria.
O death relieve, and shroud from mortal eye—
Give my indignant soul a larger field—
It burns—it beats—it bursts—oh! give it way,
Ere it in atoms tears thy trembling frame—
This shatter'd casement opes— [Lays her hand on her breast.

Traitor, stand off—
Or, like a furious spectre, bath'd in blood,
Arm'd with the fangs of horror and despair,
It hastens on, and drags thee down to hell.

[Runs wildly across the stage.
De Haro.
Though nature works this storm of passion up,
Reason must calm, and justice hear my plea.

[Follows, and detains her.
Maria.
By force detain'd a prisoner—a slave—
Oh! heavens and earth, and gods and men relieve—
Revenge this outrage on my feeble sex!

De Haro.
Not disrespect—'tis veneration holds;—
The Conde Haro's not the guilty thing,
Thy sufferings, fate, and fortune represent.
I fought Don Juan as my duty urg'd,
Yet my heart bled when brave Padilla fell;—
Now once permit—I'll lay a bosom ope,
And bare a breast that heaven itself may read.
The purest passion had subdu'd my heart,
Before ill fortune made me Juan's foe;
O! heav'n forgive—I lov'd his virtuous wife,
And secret bore the heart corroding pangs.
I lov'd in silence—smother'd all my flame—
While honour—justice—every sacred tie,
Had made its utterance the blackest crime.

Maria.
And dost thou think to mitigate thy guilt,
Thus to torment the brave Don Juan's wife?—
To add to wretchedness—to fill up woe—
Force her to hear thy black adulterous tongue?—
Alas! the dismal croak—the voice of love
From hell's dark gloom, would less dismay than thine.

De Haro.
I wept the pangs that thy great soul must feel
When thy Padilla was my prisoner made.
Just heaven can witness what my soul endur'd
When martial law announc'd his forfeit, life—
A debt his sovereign and the state might claim.
My ear reluctant, heard the sentence pass'd,
And instant death decreed to worth like his.

Maria.
Forbear thy false dissimulating strains;
Thy tongue pronounc'd the vile inglorious doom,
That wrap'd in death the hero and the saint?
And now complet'st the measure of thy guilt,
Thus by compulsion, to detain his wife,
To hear a moment thy detested love.

De Haro.
What furious passions play in that fair breast!—

Maria.
Old time shall tell, and every age record,
Don Juan's worth, contrasted with thy guilt,
When curious eyes shall seek the mouldering tomb;
Where freedom wastes in tears beside the turf,
And points the stranger to the sacred spot,
Where death enrols her last distinguish'd son,
Urg'd to his fate by probity and zeal,
To save his country from a servile yoke.

De Haro.
I, the first witness of his merit stand—
A generous wish to save and bless mankind,
Urg'd him to glory in a devious path;
No man can tread, but on perdition's brink,
While standing armies swell the monarch's train,
And kingdoms bend, and empires own the claim,
Of mighty Charles, to keep the world in awe.

Maria.
Away, thou coward!—cringing, dastard slave!
Go fawn on kings, and boast thy prowess there;
Tell that the brave, who ne'er could meanly bend,
By cowardice were hurry'd to the block:
'Twas coward fear that hasten'd Juan's death:
As fortune play'd him once a losing game,
Thou durst not let him live another day.
Lest his good genius might have lent the means
To extricate his country and himself,
Thou'st added murder to thy list of crimes.

De Haro.
Reproach like this from any tongue but thine,
Should on itself recoil, and blast the lip
That wounds my honour—ne'er before impeach'd.

Maria.
Resent it as thou ought—I'm not afraid
Of Conde Haro's sword—strike here, assassin!
[Lays her hand on her breast
And complete thy work—dar'st thou not strike,
Who hast beheld Don Juan on a scaffold,
Breathless and pale, and as a felon die?—
Give me a sword, I'll measure it with thine,
For by the powers above, to thee I swear,
Maria lives but to avenge his death.

De Haro.
What lioness has nurs'd thy tender years?
Or can'st thou feel for every pain but mine?

Maria.
Then let me haste, and fly thy sight forever.

De Haro.
Pardon me, madam, while I urge my suit;
I have some merit—so thy Juan thought—
When grateful tears ran down his manly cheek.
I have one plea that may restore my fame.
A short adieu permitted by Velasco,
I left my tent, and hasten'd to Don Juan,
To sooth the sorrows of his noble soul,
And make the tenders of a generous friend.
'Twas his last wish—the latest boon of life,
To see thee once, before the fatal stroke,
Sever'd forever from the world's best gift:—
I, in a soldier's habit, sent him on,
As with a message from De Haro's hand,
Myself a prisoner till he should return;
As well I knew, not wealth, or crowns, or life,
Nor thy superiour charms, would tempt abuse
Of confidence thus plac'd in honour's breast.

Maria.
Immortal powers!—am I a debtor made
For the last blissful moment of my life,
To him my soul, of all mankind, abhors?

De Haro.
The debt was cancell'd when he call'd me, friend,
And bade me, with a tender, gentle hand,
Wipe off Maria's tears, and save her son,
And guard them both from peril and disgrace:
Not honour's self, or gratitude, or love,
Can plead a claim his merit don't erase.
The godlike pleasure of conferring good
On hearts so worthy, leaves me in arrears:—
I stand indebted to thy noble lord.

Maria.
To what extremes is human nature wrought!—
Can dignity and real greatness dwell,
Thus mix'd and blended, in a servile soul?—
Or hast thou seen thy error, and renounc'd
The bloody standard of the tyrant Charles?—
To make atonement to the injur'd dead,
Come, wield thy sword in a more glorious cause,
And lend thine arm to make thy country free.

De Haro.
Tempt not my loyalty, nor wound my fame.—

Maria.
If there is aught of truth or love in thee—
Hast thou a wish to see Maria more—
These are the terms from which she'll ne'er recede.
But see thy vengeful sire bends this way;—
Where shall I find an asylum for woe?

De Haro.
Live as a queen in Don Emanuel's court.
A trusty friend escorts thy son and thee
To Portugal's more hospitable shore,
Beyond the reach of Don Velasco's rage,
Till time restore thy peace, and make thee mine.

[Maria and her son hurried off the stage by De Haro's friends and guards.
[Exit.

SCENE III.

DON VELASCO and CONDE HARO.
Velasco.
Wretch that thou art!—thou hast debas'd the house,
The noble name—the blood of Don Velasco.

De Haro.
None but thyself, should, with impunity,
Upbraid a man, whose honour ne'er was stain'd
By one base act—whose soul disdains a thought
But what ennobles both thy son and thee.

Velasco.
My son—no, I renounce the claim,
And rase thy memory from thy blasted line;
A mean soul, prostrate at a woman's foot—
A traitoress, both to her God and king,
Was ne'er ally'd to the Velascan blood.

De Haro.
If virtue stands at variance with worth,
Or if true greatness can abuse the wretched,
Then may my father's much revered lip,
With cruel insult, wound the fairest same.
Thou knowest not the lustre that adorns
Maria's soul, and lifts her o'er her sex—
The virtues that combine to make her great:
Her angel form commands profound respect;
Her beauty, grace, her constancy and truth—
Her noble mind and energy of thought,
Would dignify the most illustrious name.

Velasco.
Thy love tales whine in her disdainful ear.
This idle, rapturous pageantry of words,
This play of fancy, fann'd by lustful gales,
These loose, mad ravings of a hot brain'd youth,
Have made me sick of life. Oh! how debas'd
Is honour—duty—gratitude and fame!—
How are thy laurels stain'd, and meanly laid
Beneath the pedestal of wanton love;
A transient beam, shot from a sorc'ress' eye,
Whom mercy yet has spar'd to rave and weep
Her husband's fall—her disappointed pride.
But by the eternal thunderer above,
She shall not triumph thus—
Mine aged arm, inur'd to war and blood,
Is not so worn by time, nor yet so weak,
But it can send her murmuring soul to hell;
Nay, harder still, has strength to grasp the hist,
And plunge this vet'ran sword in thy base breast,
To let out that false blood that taints thy soul
And poisons all my peace.

[Draws.
De Haro.
What means my sire?—

Velasco.
To make thee worthy of thy noble name.—

De Haro.
If death alone entitles to the claim,
I fear it not in any form but this.

[Retires backward, and bows respectfully as going off.
Velasco.
Fly not my vengeance—dastard—villain—slave!—

De Haro.
Hah!—dastard—villain—slave—Oh! heavens!
Can the great God command I should submit
To such reproach—ev'n from a father's lip?—

[Suddenly lays his hand on his sword.
Velasco.
Come, try its point against my wounded breast,
Or hoary head, grown grey in honour's path—
That bends and bows and blushes for his son.

De Haro.
Not the rich sands of Chili or Peru,
Nor all the wealth Potosi has in store,
Shall bribe me from my duty and respect,
My filial love and reverence for thee.

[Bends on his knee.
Velasco.
I do not wish to make thee more a coward.—

De Haro.
A coward—traitor—villain and a slave!—
My honour stain'd by epithets so vile.—
None but thyself within this ample round,
Should dare unite a base, opprobrious term
With Conde Haro's name—but thou'rt my sire—
Then take a life I wish not to preserve.

[Throws his sword from him, and bares his breast.
Velasco.
Take up thy dagger—plunge it in my breast,
Or give thy foolish passion to the winds.

De Haro.
No—neither.—

Velasco.
Bring back the fugitive to justice' arm—
Renounce thy love.—

De Haro.
Never.—

Velasco.
Never!—

De Haro.
Not if Maria hears my faithful vows—
'Tis honour, wealth and empire to my soul.

Velasco.
Fly from my vengeful hand—thou'rt not my son—
I've been deceiv'd—alas! too long deceiv'd.
Thou art some low—some vile imposter—palm'd
Upon my house—and nature feels no pang,
To send thy soul to wander with the dead.

[Makes a furious pass at De Haro, but is so enraged be trembles and drops his sword.
De Haro.
When nature shall cut off thy thread of life,
I'll meet thee there, by thy Zelinda's side—
That angel form that gave a son to thee.

Velasco.
[Enter Don Francis—a bloody sword extended in his hand.

Francis.
—Thou see'st thy duteous son—
The wedded husband of thy lov'd Louisa—
Thou see'st his sword wet with the blood of Pedro,
Who would have robb'd me of my lovely bride;
His coward ghost now murmurs in the shades
And groans repentance for his faithless deeds.

Velasco.
Thy rebel insolence my hand shall crush
When thou hast told by what infernal fiend,
Or hellish arts, thy life's protracted thus,
To plunge my house in infamy and guilt.

Francis.
Thy generous son has sav'd me from the grave;
That noble friend, when, on the verge of death,
Set ope the prison gates, and bade me fly
To mighty Charles, and boldly sue for grace.
Know'st thou thy lov'd Zelinda's bridal ring?—
[Presents it to Velasco.
This precious pledge made thy Louisa mine,
And, often seen upon Velasco's hand,
Procur'd and seal'd a pardon from the emperor.

Velasco.
That guardian angel of my happier days.
Sure hovers here, and guides my sanguine steps;
Protects her children from their father's rage,
And smooths my passions down the vale of life.
Go, Francis, see if yet Louisa lives,
And heaven forgive my cruelty to her!—
Each passion dies but love to my Louisa,
And strong affection to the best of sons.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

LOUISA,
sola, on her knees, looking up to Heaven in agony, with her Father's Sword in her band, pointed to her breast.
Let this bright canopy spread o'er my head,
And all the wonders of the vast concave—
Each radiant flame that shoots its friendly beam
O'er nature's empire, and proclaims a god,
Lend me their aid to solemnize my soul;
To hush the tumult of life's various cares,
That rage without, or reign within my breast.
'Tis heav'n bids me leave this mazy world,
To its own guilt, ambition, pride and blood.
Hah!—does my purpose flag—
[Trembles, and drops the sword.
I feel my courage firm—yet fear my God—
Will he forgive a suffering wretch,
Weary of life—yet not afraid to die—
Who quits her post, ere nature makes demand—
Unbidden rushes to his awful throne—
A ghastly—grim—a discontented soul,
Bath'd in the blood of suicide!
My trembling frame shrinks at the dread idea—
Yet what—ah! what can sad Louisa do?
[Recovers the sword.
I cannot live—to see Don Francis die—
Yet worse to live, and be Don Pedro's wife—
I must not live—my father bids me die.—

[Stabs herself.—Don Francis and De Haro enter at the moment.
Francis.
Oh! my Louisa—my love—my bride!—
My wife—my soul's whole treasure—stay—
Thy dreadful purpose hold!—

Louisa.
Ah! my dear lord—permitted thus to live
But to receive and aid on its escape—
My soul just rushing from my bleeding breast.

[Fainting.
Francis.
Thou must not die—Oh! lovely maid, revive—
Thy father's blessing beckons thee to life.

Louisa.

[Dies.
Francis.
I'll catch in ether that last balmy breath,
And meet her gentle spirit in the skies.—

[Falls on his sword.
De Haro.

Francis.
Life lost all worth in her expiring sigh—
Adieu, my friend, for time has lost its charms.
The free born mind mounts upwards with the gods,
And soars and spurns a base, ignoble world.

[Dies.
De Haro.

[Exeunt Omnes.