University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Siffredi.
Yes—the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tancred.
Siffredi!

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

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

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

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

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

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