University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE a Piazza. After several Shouts of To Arms, To Arms, &c. Enter Sophronius and Leon meeting.
Leon.
Sophronius welcome! are our Messengers return'd from yonder Camp?

Soph.
Ev'n now, my Friend.

Leon.
I ask not the Success.

Soph.
Those Shouts may tell you:
Our Overtures of Peace were all receiv'd
With Scorn, and Pride peculiar to these Spoilers;
They know no Stile but that of Conquerours,
And in the Fullness of their Hearts declare,
The Faithful never take, but give Conditions.

Leon.
Perhaps not yet—I pr'ythee, good Sophronius,
What Terms do these victorious Vagrants offer?

Soph.
First, they invite us to embrace their Faith,
And draw our Swords beneath the Prophets Banner,
No more their Foes, but Brethren of the War.
If wedded to our Errours, we reject
This friendly Proposition, (such they call it)
The next Alternative is briefly this,
That we confess the Prowess of their Arms,
By paying yearly Tribute to the Caliph.

Leon.
And it was this provok'd that glorious Uproar?

Soph.
The universal Voice is now for War:
Soon as th'impatient Rabble caught the News,
A Thousand Hearts were kindled in an Instant,
And in the Wildness of new Zeal, to Arms,
To Arms they cry'd, with such a clam'rous Shout
As tore th'Expanse of Heav'n, and sure must strike
Ev'n yon Barbarian Troops with sudden dread,
Though long inur'd to Terrours.

Leon.
Thou hast warm'd me.
These martial Transports promise well, Sophronius;
Perhaps the wrath divine that long has scourg'd
Our Follies, Vices, and corrupted Faith,
With iron Rod of War, at length relents,
Nor farther will permit this vile Imposture
To make its Way with Death, and Desolation;
And like a Deluge whelm the Eastern World.

Soph.
Alas, my Friend, we seem unfit for Mercy:
The seeds of Jealousy are sown among us,
And should they spread, and ripen to a Crop,
Yon greedy Mussulmen will reap the Harvest—
Our Passions, Leon, fight for Mahomet—
Union alone can save a sinking Land,
And Concord is the strongest Nerve of War.

Leon.
Some distant Hints of this have reach'd mine Ear;
'Tis said, the baleful Breath of Whisperers
Has undermin'd the Worth of Theodore,
And shook his Credit with your Father Manuel:
Are these Suggestions true?

Soph.
Too true—My Father,
Whose Piety, and ev'n paternal Care,
Still anxious for the Welfare of his People,
Raises him high in all Affections,
Has yet the Leav'n of Old-Age within him:
(With Rev'rence let me speak in his Dispraise)
Leon, that Sigh declares too well thou seest
His eager Warmth, his Frowardness of Temper
Impatient of Controul, and fixt as Death
In all Resolves—to this, Credulity
Too oft unlocks his Ear, and gives Access
To a well-garnish'd Tale.

Leon.
Proceed.

Soph.
Thou know'st,
Some Moons have shed their Beams since Theodore
Lodg'd in our Town his hardy Band of Syrians,
A voluntary Aid:—The Saracens
Were then upon their March; and Manuel gave
The Honours of our chief Command to him.
Train'd from his active Youth a Son of War,
He is no nice Observer of the Forms,
The ceremonious Def'rence, and the Duties
Preeminence expects from all beneath her.
The desp'rate Fight that Yesterday he push'd,
Unauthoris'd by Manuel, some dark Foe
Has swell'd into a dang'rous Crime of State.

Leon.
It looks not well—the gallant Theodore,
No Doubt, has noble Worth—sure, that Presumption
Was but th'Effect of Valour's Confidence—
Yet, I have lately noted, our Aleppians
Like not the headstrong Fierceness of his Nature,
That wants more Tincture of Humanity:
Necessity, they say, unsheath'd the Sword,
But hot-brain'd Theodore enjoys their Dangers,
And revels savage in a Field of Blood.

Soph.
True—but a Breach might be pernicious now:—
And yet Sophronius has another Fear—
Leon, how frail at best is mortal Man,
This Compound of Divinity and Passion?
For oh! believe me, midst this gen'ral Horrour,
While War with hideous Strides stalks round our Walls,
Legions of Evils gathering in his Train,
My Weakness robs my Country of my Thoughts,
And half my Breast admits a private Care.

Leon.
Alas! I know that Care—You woo Ormelia,
The Daughter of the valiant Theodore—
His other Joy, and what he loves next War.

Soph.
Ay, Friend, for should this Cloud of Discontent
Once gather to a Storm, will it not blast
Our growing Spring of Love? Love did I say?
'Tis true my secret Suit seem'd not ungrateful;
But know that glorious Maid adores her Father;
Nor marvel, she's the Daughter of his Soul;
His Spirit, Fierceness, and his Pride of Virtue,
All glow within her Breast, refin'd and cast
Into a softer Mould—Hence spring my Fears.

Leon.
There is Resemblance in our Lots, Sophronius;
Thou know'st thy gentle Sister, fair Eusebia,
Smiles on my honest Passion—Yet thy Father
Vows he will never sanctify her Choice—
'Tis true, my ruin'd Fortunes—

Soph.
Pr'ythee Peace;
Thy Birth is noble, and thy Virtue godlike;
These give thee ample Title to Eusebia:
O could I call thee Brother—soothing Wish—
And yet thou'rt more already—Thou'rt my Friend.
[Embrace.
Wait we the Will supreme!—but see—my Sister.

Enter Eusebia.
Eus.
Brother, the Chiefs are summon'd all to Council.
I heard Enquiry made for you, and Leon.

Soph.
I shall attend them—Leon, you will follow.
[Exit Sophronius.

Leon.
Let me first pay more pleasing Duty here.
Why sighs my Fair? Our Hearts are sure our own:
Those Manuel cannot part—Oh! why that Tear?
I know it falls for Leon—cruel Fortune!
Why was I born to spoil Eusebia's Peace?

Eus.
I fear we have indulg'd our Loves too far—
As Children venture in a Calm to Sea,
Regardless of the Cloud slow-sweeping cross
The Vault of Heav'n, and big with future Ruin.

Leon.
Yet let us not despair—Heav'n oft afflicts
For Trial, not Destruction—Time may come,
When my Heart's Truth, my Service in the War,
And all the virtuous Labours of a Life
Devoted to my Country, and to thee,
Will melt thy Father's Soul; then shall he bless
My Toils, and overpay me with thy Beauties.

Eus.
Could he but view thee with Eusebia's Eyes—
Yet something whispers me, we'ave done amiss;
Why was our Love first made a Mystery?
Why cover'd from the Day, and from my Father?
Who gave me right to fix my Heart on thee?
'Twas Folly, if not worse—and Manuel's Anger
Perhaps is providential—for till now
His Fondness still prevented my Desires.

Leon.
That Fondness was but Humour—while he pleas'd
Thy tender Age, he but indulg'd himself;
Thou never hadst a Boon to ask till now—

Eus.
Hah! Leon, have a Care; I love thy Virtue;—
That rais'd, and that must justify my Passion;
Urge not a Thought to shake my filial Duty—
I always held the Name of Father sacred.

Leon.
This Rigour, which I know not how to blame,
May crush the Hope that yet supports my Being:
I tremble while I speak—perhaps, thy Father
Means to compel thy Virgin Heart—if so—
Where will thy Duty be, or where thy Love?

Eus.
Those Fears are vain—I cannot love another;
Virtue itself forbids it, and my Heart
Flutters, and tells me 'tis impossible.
My Vows are thine, (oh! spare a Maiden's Blushes)
My ev'ry Joy, my ev'ry Care is thine—

Leon.
O! how shall I requite this wond'rous Goodness?

Eus.
Once more I will essay my Father's Temper—
If he relents—'tis all the Happiness
I wish on Earth—if not—support me Heav'n.

Leon.
He must, he must—or Pity's fled from Man:
Who could behold unmov'd such weeping Beauty?
Thou fairer than the Morning's cloudless Dawn,
Thou sweeter than the vernal Bloom that decks—

Eus.
Away—I am a Woman, and a Christian;
Cease then these Strains of ordinary Lovers,
That wound our Reason, while they sooth our Pride.
Nor suits thy Fondness with these Times of Danger;
Courtship and Dalliance are mere Treason now;
Thy Country calls thee—

Leon.
I obey the Call.
Yet Beauty is the just Reward of Valour.

Eus.
But should not be its Hindrance—

Leon.
Matchless Wisdom!
There is no longer Merit in those Eyes!
But soft, who comes this Way? Let me conduct thee.

Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter Romanus.
Rom.
If I see right, Aleppo thou art mine—
If mine, I yield thee to the Saracens—
While Modes of foolish Faith divide the World,
And swarms of hungry Bigots cling to each,
I turn Opinion to Convenience—
For this I've sometime sworn to Mahomet;
And his Religion pays its Vot'ries well.
Mervan I've laden full with pois'nous Matter,
Which, when infus'd into old Manuel's Ear,
Will swell his peevish Humour, till it burst
Its Venom on the fiery Theodore;
My Friend, my Patron, and—my destin'd Tool.
Rage, Taunts, Reproaches, Discord, Broils ensue;
And Ruin sure is made of such Materials.
Off then Dependance!—Thou art burthensome;
A Soul like mine disdains to live on Alms.
'Tis well—And shall I pine with fond Desire?
I love Ormelia still—as Nature prompts—
Sophronius loves her too;—she slights my Vows
For the pert Lispings of that down-cheek'd Boy;
Should this—but hold—the Secretary's here.

Enter Mervan.
Mer.
What deep in Thought, Lieutenant? clear thy Brow;
Perhaps the wish'd-for Hour of Vengeance comes,
To clip the tow'ring Wing of Theodore.

Rom.
Give me thy Hand, my Mervan, my best Friend,
My Soul's true Counterpart—I knew the Bus'ness
Would thrive beneath thy Wisdom—Pr'ythee tell me,
How did the shallow Manuel take thy Tale?

Mer.
You'd laugh to see the old Man chafe, Romanus;
Sound but the Name of Theodore, he frets
Like a gall'd Jade; he blames his sightless Folly,
That ne'er discern'd how much th'officious Zeal
Of Yesterday, which cost us so much Blood,
Is puft with Pride, and scorns to own a Master.

Rom.
Well said—My Soul foresees much good from this.

Mer.
Soon as I found that Prejudice take Root,
I scatter'd Hints, as was agreed between us,
That Theodore in Letters to our Emp'rour,
Had oft complain'd of Manuel's Government,
And thrown much Blame upon his wayward Age.

Rom.
I hope you touch'd that Point but tenderly;
It surely was a Task for all thy Skill.

Mer.
Do I not practise Cunning under thee?
I spoke it not, my Friend, as fit Foundation
To raise a certain Proof upon, but what
Prudent Suspicion guess'd; and therefore wish'd him
Henceforth in Judgment to compare this Notice
With Theodore's Demeanour.

Rom.
Thanks, good Mervan:
Why what a ready Instrument is Manuel
For Knavery to work withal?

Merv.
Why Knavery?
We mean no Ill to him, or to our Country—
But, Sir, my Wrongs cry loudly for Revenge—
I've been abus'd by Theodore—Because
I deal not in his boist'rous Trade of War,
He deems me but a Beast that will be tame,
And patient of his Burthen—Curses on him—
Sure I can feel a Smart as well as he,
And Vengeance has more Shapes than one, Romanus.

Rom.
Which he shall prove: Shortly I hope to see
This fierce, this blust'ring, this all-conqu'ring Hero,
That has refus'd us both his bauble Daughter,
With vile Contempt, with Insolence refus'd her,
Hurl'd from his airy Pinacle of Pride,
Turn'd from his Post, disgrac'd, mark'd for a Traitor,
And hooted, like a Nusance, through Aleppo.

Mer.
Let me but see that Day, my Soul's at Ease.

Rom.
So is not mine—Thou know'st not Half my Purpose,
[Aside.
Then when the pinching Shame shall gripe him close,
And more than Madness festers at his Heart,
If thou should'st humbly ask him for his Daughter,
Let him contract his angry Brow, and tell thee,
He scorns Alliance with a paltry Scribe.

Mer.
It was his very Answer to my Suit.

Rom.
I found a like Repulse—at least 'tis fit
You think so [Aside]
—Yet, believe me, my Resentments
Burn not so strongly for myself, as thee:
Mine is a common Destiny—It seems,
We petty Men of War are Slaves by Office.

Mer.
But not by Nature.

Rom.
Thou art right, my Mervan;
And therefore to our Work. Is it not better,
Thus wisely to employ our active Pow'rs,
And set the secret Springs of Mischief going,
Than to bedew our Beards with childish Tears,
And whimper in a Corner for a Toy?

Mer.
Romanus, I must ever thank thy Goodness,
That saw me drooping with unmanly Sorrow,
Taught me Revenge, and wean'd me from my Follies.

Rom.
Thy Firmness charms me—Pr'ythee, honest Mervan,
When does the Council sit?

Mer.
I guess 'ere now.

Rom.
Then let us hence—this Morning may afford
Some kind Event, to bless our utmost Wishes.

[Ex.

SCENE III.

The back Scene opens and discovers the Council sitting. Manuel, Theodore, Sophronius, Izrail, Leon, and other Officers in Council.
Man.
Indeed, the Progress of their Arms is wond'rous;
How has their hungry War devour'd our Land,
And, like the dreadful Rage of Pestilence,
Left a sad Track of Ruin in its Course?
Whole Provinces are bent beneath the Yoke,
And Syria's better Half is Ababeker's.

Soph.
Yet may we hope, my Chiefs, to save the other;
Our Men are high in Blood, and hot for Action;
Thanks to the Foe for this: Nay all Aleppo
Breathes one heroic Ardour; bending Age
Girds on his palsied Side the weighty Sword,
Brides chace their youthful Husbands from their Arms,
And Mothers trim their darling Sons to Battle.
O! for a Tempest's Blast to drive this Flame,
Till it consume yon Vermin Tribes, like Stubble!

The.
Well hast thou spoke, Sophronius: Wherefore then
Sit we thus idle and inactive here,
While Boys and Women chide our tardy Councils?
Who dreams again of Peace, I hold him Coward:
We'll plead once more our Cause in yonder Field,
And wear our Reasons on our Weapon's Points.
Up then, and let us issue to the Plain.

Man.
Why all this Blaze of Words? Are we not met
To lay the Plan of War, and well consult
How we may best annoy the haughty Foe?
Mean while I hold it meet to tell thee, Theodore,
It ill becomes the Man, that Yesterday
Lavish'd away so many Christian Lives
In his o'er-fev'rish Zeal, to dictate now
To Men of cooler Heads, and sounder Judgments.

The.
Hah! what did Manuel say?—By all—

Iz.
Nay hold;
For this may go too far.

Man.
Izrail, take Heed;
His Spleen may choke him else.

The.
Now in the Name
Of Honour, and of Arms, what means this Treatment?
Am I reproach'd because I would have led
Thy dastard Troops the nearest Way to Fame,
And taught them how to snatch a noble Conquest?
Glory's the Soldier's Mistress; to be woo'd,
Where Death has planted all his Terrours round her,
Or never to be won—Had thy Aleppians
Kept firm their Ranks, yon Camp had smoak'd to Heav'n—
But, Sir, they poorly shrunk before the Foe,
And let in Numbers like a Flood upon them—
I hate these puny, half-bred Sons of Mars,
That cooly stalk to fight on even Terms,
But bid them grapple with unequal Fortune,
They stand aloof, and snarl like Curs at Distance.

Man.
Mervan, thy Fears were just—I'll try him further.
[Aside.
Say'st thou, our Troops gave Way? I will presume
To think, they might dislike so blind a Leader:
So, Sir, retrench the License of thy Tongue;
Success had never justify'd an Action
That wanted the due Sanction of our Will.

Soph.
In what, my Leon, will this Discord end?

[Aside to Leon.
The.
And have I liv'd to this? To bandy Words,
To fight a bloodless Quarrel?—Patience, Heav'n!
Thy Will! Had I a Thought to waste on thee,
While I was busied on a bold Design,
Big as my Soul could grasp?—Was that a Time,
For Forms precise, or Speech quaint-worded thus,
Most worthy Sir, with your good Worship's Leave,
I'll cut yon Villain's Throat? A Soldier's Valour
O'erleaps the narrow Bounds of courtly Rules,
Fit for your supple, ceremonious Slave,
That dares not look askant but by Commission.

Man.
I'll not endure this Language—From this Day,
I warn thee, know me for Commander here.

Iz.
Yet be advis'd, good Theodore.

The.
Stand off—
Shall I be lesson'd by a Dotard thus,
Pride-bloated with the Pageantry of Pow'r?
Be thou Commander here, but not of me;
I have no Master but the good Heracleus.
Is not my Service free? What brought me hither?
Not thy Command, but glorious Thirst of Honour,
And Zeal high-beating in my Country's Cause.
I came thy Friend, not Vassal; and as such
Was first receiv'd by this ungrateful City:
Hast thou forgot, old Manuel, with what Shouts
Of gen'ral Joy, what thund'ring Peals of Transport,
Thy vile Aleppians welcom'd my Arrival,
And hail'd me like the Genius of the Land?

Man.
No more—I hold not Conf'rence with a Traitor—
Know henceforth I renounce thy vaunted Friendship,
And from this Moment ceases thy Command.
We want no Stranger, Sir, to fight our Battles:
My Son, the Charge of our Aleppian Troops
We do commit to thee; for thou hast won
The Soldiers Heart: They'll follow thee to conquest,
And full Success shall prove my Choice was just.

Soph.
Worse than my Fears [Aside]
. O! would my honour'd Father
Weigh but th'Importance of this Mighty Trust
With my green Years, and yet untaught—

Man.
Away;
Am I not Ruler here, at least of thee?
Let not Sophronius cross his Father's Purpose.

The.
'Tis wond'rous well—O ye immortal Spirits
Of my brave Ancestors, whose laurell'd Deeds
Have swell'd the golden Trumpet of loud Fame,
And rank'd you with the Cæsars of the World,
Was it for this I taught my Soul to pant
For high Renown, and burn with all your Fires,
To be supplanted by a silken Stripling,
A Boy, that trembles if his Finger bleeds?
O! Blot accurst upon the Name of Soldier.

Soph.
Sir, I well know your Merit, and admire it;
I own thee first in Arms, and shall be proud
To emulate thy Valour in the Fight.
Yet let not warlike Theodore esteem
My Virtue of so small, so mean a Size,
But I shall nobly labour to maintain
The Character I sought not for, and sweat,
Boy as I am, to reap my Share of Glory.

Man.
Spoke like the Son I love.

The.
It is enough:
Joy to the Gen'ral; to Aleppo Joy:
The giddy Crew will well approve this Change:
Perhaps the Saracens may thank you too:
That as it may; I leave you to your Fortune;
To-morrow's early Dawn shall light me home:
And mark me, Manuel, by my Wrongs, I swear,
Should this proud City (which methinks I see
Ready to take her fatal Turn of Ruin)
Hereafter court my Aid with Tears of Blood,
I'd give her up to her deserv'd Destruction.
And know, the Word of Theodore is Fate.
[Exit Theodore.

Man.
In what a Heat departs this noisy Chief?
I hope none present disapprove my Deed.

Iz.
You could no less—His Pride demanded it.

Man.

[Exeunt.