University of Virginia Library

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.