University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Theald, and a Gentleman belonging to him.
Theald.
To me a Dervise? Thro' the furious Camp,
Yet raging at the Perfidy of Selim,
How did he safely pass?

Gentleman.

[Kneeling.
Theald.
Go, bid this Dervise enter.

SCENE II.

Theald:
he opens and looks on the Dispatches.
Awful Heaven!
Great Ruler of the various Heart of Man!
Since thou hast rais'd me to conduct thy Church,
Without the base Cabal too often practis'd,
Beyond my Wish, my Thought, give me the Lights,
The Virtues which that sacred Trust requires:
A loving, lov'd, unterrifying Power,
Such as becomes a Father; humble Wisdom;
Plain primitive Sincerity; kind Zeal,
For Truth and Virtue rather than Opinions;
And, above all, the charitable Soul
Of healing Peace and Christian Moderation.—
The Dervise comes.

SCENE III.

Theald, Selim disguis'd as a Dervise.
Theald.
With me, what would'st thou, Dervise?

Selim.
The Princess Eleonora lives she still?

Theald.
She lives, and that is all.

Selim.
Allah be prais'd!
Then lives the Honour of the brightning Name
Of Saracen and Mussulman.

Theald.
How, Dervise?
What can wipe out the Horror of this Deed?

Selim.

Theald.
Ha! Dervise, art thou sure of what thou say'st?

Selim.
Yes. He himself consign'd it to my Care.
The powerful Juice of Plants, for which he scal'd
The tufted Cliff, and o'er the Torrent hung;
The Balm of Mountain-Herbs, where the gross Soil
But little mixes, temper'd Sun and Dew.
And not to those of his own Faith, alone,
He this, from narrow Charity, bequeath'd;
No, as it was the Gift of bounteous Nature,
He bade it freely go to all her Sons.
Come, lead me to the Princess: Tho' she lay
Even in the last Extremity, tho' call'd
By the fierce Angel who compels the Dead,
Yet bold Experience gives me Room to hope.
Oft have I seen its vital Touch diffuse
New Vigour thro' the poison'd Streams of Life,
When almost settled into dead Stagnation;
Swift as a Southern Gale unbinds the Flood.
Say, wilt thou trust me with the Trial, Christian.

Theald.
Thou know'st, we have great Reason for Distrust;
But Fear in those who can no longer hope
Were idle and absurd.

Selim.
Bright Heaven! what Fear?
Is there a Slave of such inhuman Baseness
Nurs'd on the sick'ning Bosom of this Earth,
To add fresh Outrage to a dying Princess?
For Virtue dying? Look into my Eye:
Does one weak Ray there shun thy keenest Gaze?
Say, dost thou there behold so foul a Bottom?

Theald.
No; seeming Truth and generous Candour shine
In what thou say'st. Come, follow me, good Dervise.

Selim.
A Moment yet.—Should Heaven accord Success,
I have, besides the Life of Eleonora,
My injur'd Sultan's wounded Name to save;
Whose Soul abhors the Crime imputed to him.
Then let me be the first who to the Prince
Imparts the happy News; that Selim's Honour,
Enforc'd by Edward's Joy, may strike more deep,
With strong Conviction—But of this hereafter—

SCENE IV.

Theald, Selim disguised, Daraxa.
Daraxa.
At last, thro' various Pangs, the dying Princess
Sees the delivering Moment, and demands
Thy Presence, Reverend Christian.

Theald.
Dervise, come.
Forbid it Heaven this Aid should be too late!

SCENE V.

Daraxa.
Ha!—let me think—I surely know this Dervise—
O my astonish'd Fancy!—can it be?—
But in his Looks, methought, I mark'd the Sultan;
And, as he shot athwart me, from his Eye
Flash'd the proud Lightning of affronted Virtue.
He must be innocent; his being here
Is radiant Proof he must—O weak Daraxa!
What Man of Virtue more would deign to lodge
His Image in thy Breast? Ah! what avails
The light unfounded Love, the treacherous Friendship,
That, with inhuman Cowardice, gives up
A worthy Man to Infamy and Slander?
They talk'd of Aid—what Aid?
[A Cry heard within.
Alas! 'tis past!
For Death was in that Cry—and now her Soul,
Exulting, quits the Coil of this dim World.
Severe Misfortune!—If there was a Cure,
That it should come too late!

SCENE VI.

Daraxa, an Officer.
Officer.
Madam, the Prince,
Rous'd by that deathful Cry, from the cold Earth,
Where in his Tent he lay, to Grief abandon'd,
And told by an Attendant of the Princess,
That she this fatal Moment breath'd her last,
Now rushes hither to indulge his Sorrows.

Daraxa.
Unhappy Prince! I venerate his Tears,
And will retire—But whither? Rage, Confusion,
Despair and Desolation frown around me!—
I must find out this Dervise, must discover
If he indeed be Selim—Edward comes.

SCENE VII.

Edward.
She is no more! the Soul of every Grace,
Of every Virtue! Tenderness itself!
The matchless Eleonora is no more!—
Where am I?—Heavens!—Ah! what a hideous Desart
Is now this World, this blasted World, around me?
O Sun I hate thee, I abhor thy Light,
That shews not Eleonora! Earth, thy Joy,
Thy Sweetness all is fled, all all that made
Thy Ways to me delightful, Eleonora!
O Eleonora! perish'd Eleonora!
Pour not so fast thy Beauties on my Heart:
Ah! whither shall I fly from thy Perfections?—
Would I could think no more!—What shall I do?
Where go? what say?—That Tent! Ah me! that Tent!
I dare not enter there. There Death displays
His utmost Terrors—Pale and lifeless, there,
She lies, whose Looks were Love, whose Beauty smil'd
The sweet Effulgence of endearing Virtue—
And here I last beheld Her—Ay, and how,
And how beheld her!—The remorseless Image
Will hunt me to the Grave—I see Her Suffering,
With female Softness yet to Pain superior,
Fearful and bold at once, with the strong Hand
Of mighty Love constraining feeble Nature,
To steal me from Affliction—In the Camp,
Can I appear? A Chief among his Soldiers?
A Chief, who stoops to hold dishonour'd Life,
Life purchas'd by the Death of one for whom
The Brave in every Age have joy'd to die?—
And England—O I cannot bear the Thought
Of e'er returning to that Country more!
That Country, Witness of our happy Days,
Where at each Step remember'd Bliss will sting
My Soul to Anguish. I already hear
Malice exclaim, nay, blushing Valour sigh:
Where is thy Princess? where the Wish of Thousands?
The Charm, the Transport of the publick Eye?
Base Prince! And art thou not asham'd to bring
No Trophy home but Eleonora's Corse?—
The Grave too is shut up, that last Retreat
Of wretched Mortals—Yes, my Word is pass'd
To Eleonora pass'd. Our Orphan-Children
Bind me to Life—O dear, O dangerous Passions!
The Valiant, by himself, what can he suffer?
Or what does he regard his single Woes?
But when, alas, he multiplies himself
To dearer Selves, to the lov'd tender Fair,
To those whose Bliss whose Beings hang upon him,
To helpless Children! then, O then! he feels
The Point of Misery festring in his Heart,
And weakly weeps his Fortune like a Coward.
Such, such am I! undone!—

SCENE VIII.

Edward, Gloster.
Edward.
My Lord of Gloster,
I thought my Orders were to be alone.

Gloster.
Forgive my fond Intrusion—But I cannot
Be so regardless of thy Welfare, Edward,
As to obey these Orders.

Edward.
But they shall,
Shall be obey'd—I will enjoy my Sorrows,
All that is left me now.

Gloster.
The more thy Grief,
Just in its Cause but frantic in Degree,
Seeks aggravating Solitude, the more
It suits my Love and Duty to attend thee,
To try to sooth—

Edward.
Away! thou never shalt.
Not all that idle Wisdom can suggest,
All the vain Talk of proud unfeeling Reason,
Shall rob me of one Tear.

Gloster.
Of Nature's Tears
I would not rob Thee: they invigorate Virtue,
Soften, at once, and fortify the Heart;
But when they rise to speak this desperate Language,
They then grow Tears of Weakness; yes—

Edward.
I care not.
Weakness, whate'er they be, I will indulge them,
Will, in Despite of Thee and all Mankind,
Devote my joyless Days for ever to them.

Gloster.
Reason and Virtue then are empty Names?

Edward.
Hence! leave me to my Fate—You have undone me;
You have made Shipwreck of my Peace, among you,
My Happiness and Honour; and I now
Roam the detested World, a careless Wretch!

Gloster.
Thy Honour yet is safe, how long I know not,
For full it drives upon the Rocks of Passion.
O all ye pitying Powers that rule Mankind!
Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him
With this fair-weather Virtue, that exults,
Glad, o'er the Summer Main? The Tempest comes,
The bold Winds speak aloud; when from the Helm
This Virtue shrinks, and in a Corner lies
Lamenting.—Heavens! if privileg'd from Trial,
How cheap a Thing were Virtue!

Edward.
Do—insult me—
Rail, spare me not—rail, Gloster, all the World—
But know, mean time, thou canst not make me feel thee—
I have no more Connection with Mankind.

Gloster.
Insult thee, Edward? Do these Tears insult thee?
These old Man's Tears!—Friendship, my Prince, can weep,
As well as Love—But while I weep thy Fortune,
Let me not weep thy Virtue sunk beneath it—
Thou hast no more Connection with Mankind?
Put off thy craving Senses, the deep Wants
And infinite Dependencies of Nature;
Put off that strongest Passion of the Soul,
Soul of the Soul, Love to Society;
Put off all Gratitude for what is past,
All generous Hope of what is yet to come;
Put off each Sense of Honour and of Duty:
Then use this Language—Let me tell thee, Edward,
Thou hast Connections with Mankind, and great ones,
Thou know'st not of; Connections! that might rouse
The smallest Spark of Honour in thy Breast,
To wide-awaken'd Life and fair Ambition.

Edward.
What dost thou mean?

Gloster.
What mean?—this Day, in England,
How many ask of Palestine their King,
Edward their King?—Read these—

Edward,
opening the Dispatches.

Gloster.
Now is the Time, now lift thy Soul to Virtue!
Behold a Crisis, sent by Heaven, to save thee.
Whate'er, my Prince, can touch, or can command;
Can quicken or exalt the Heart of Man,
Now speaks to thine—Thy Children claim their Father,
Nay, more than Father, claim their double Parent;
For such thy Promise was to Eleonora:
Thy Subjects claim their King, thy Troops their Chief:
The Manes of thy Ancestors consign
Their long-descended Glory to thy Hands;
And thy dejected Country calls upon thee
To save Her, raise Her, to restore her Honour,
To spread her sure Dominion o'er the Deep,
And bid her yet arise the Scourge of France.
Angels themselves might envy thee the Joy,
That waits thy Will, of doing general Good:
Of spreading Virtue, chearing lonely Worth;
Of dashing down the Proud; of guarding Arts,
The sacred Rights of Industry and Freedom;
Of making a whole generous People happy.
O Edward! Edward! the most piercing Transports
Of the best Love can never equal These!
And need I add—Thy Eleonora's Death
Calls out for Vengeance—

Edward.
Ha!

Gloster.
If thou, indeed,
Dost honour thus her Memory, then show it,
Not by soft Tears and Womanish Complaints,
But show it like a Man!—

Edward.
I will!

Gloster.
Yon Towers!—

Edward.
'Tis true!

Gloster.
Yon guilty Towers!—

Edward.
Insult us still!

Gloster.
The Murderer of thy Princess riots there!—

Edward.
But shall not long!—Thou art my better Genius,
Thou brave old Man! thou hast recall'd my Virtue—
I was benumb'd with Sorrow—what—or where—
I know not—never to have thought of this.
Bright Virtue, welcome! Vigour of the Mind!
The Flame from Heaven that lights up higher Being!
Thrice welcome! with thy noble Servant Anger,
And just Revenge—Hence, let us to the Camp,
And there transfuse our Soul into the Troops.
This Sultan's Blood will ease my fever'd Breast.
Yes, I will take such Vengeance on this City,
That all Mankind shall turn their Eyes to Jaffa;
And, as they see her Turrets sunk in Dust,
Shall learn to dread the Terrors of the Just.