University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—An Apartment in Bellegarde's House.
Bellegarde, Girronde, Larron, and other Conspirators.
Bellegarde.
Well met my friends; the fate of Portugal
Is seal'd, if Fortune yet remains our own.
The Regent, lull'd in dull security,
Sleeps on a throne that totters to its fall.
Deceiv'd, entrapp'd, he thinks our army halts;
My orders urge them on with speedier step.
How vain and impotent the Regent's threats!
The arm of France has paraliz'd his powers:
Cunning, he shuffles, tricks, and runs his rounds
In vain—our high-bred hounds are on his back.

Girronde.
How laughable to see him veering round
With every blast; the weathercock of Fate;
Unsteady, knowing not his friends from foes;
A straw, a feather fluttering in the storm!

Bellegarde.
Beneath weak Folly's banner let him list;
And trust his all to British sophistry.
For what is Britain but a brawling rill,
That winds its feeble, shallow, muddy course,
In opposition to the world of waves;
Soon seiz'd, and swallow'd midst the mighty roar.

Girronde.
Yet not here rest the labours of Napoleon:
Our Gallic Hercules shall work new wonders!
The Ottoman shall bow beneath his yoke,
And lay the shining crescent at his feet:
The haughty East do homage to his throne;
The Western World submit to be his slave:
The princes of the earth but meanly crawl;
Napoleon mounts the chariot of the Sun.
What dares prescribe the limits of his power,
Presumptuous,—but the limits of the world?

Bellegarde.
But let us be economists of time:
Exertion now should ride upon the spur—
Each minute holds a kingdom on its wing.
Our business is to counteract event.
Spread then our emissaries through the city—
Confusion be the order of the day!
Harangue the mob, and rouse to insurrection;
That if our armies move too tardily,
They may be prompted to restrain the navy;
Surround the Palace, nor permit the Prince
To seek for safety in a sudden flight.
Dwell on the peerless virtues of our Emperor;
Nor spare th' unfailing argument of gold,
Which ye shall lack not—thunder in their ears,
The Prince has drain'd their country to the lees,
And bears their treasures to a foreign shore.
Napoleon's soul is fix'd upon this day:
To disappoint his wishes, what ensues?
Lo! Life and Death are vassals of his voice!

Larron.
Already have we urg'd those arguments;
Yet gain few converts, though enforc'd with gold.
They love their Prince, and say that he retires
To break his chains; prepare them an asylum,
To which a loyal people may resort,
And join his standard, from the Tyrant's grasp.

Bellegarde.
Curse on their virtues! what, will nothing move them?
Ha! do their feverish palates hanker still,
Towards Braganza, that forbidden fruit;
That poison tempting, yet replete with death?
Then must we turn Physician to the State,
And let it blood—I warrant we can cool it.
But slight rebuffs must not destroy our purpose.
Still must you strive to stir their sluggish souls:
Nay, promise, if propitious to our wish,
The plunder of the treasure-loaded navy.
Try, will not avarice outweigh allegiance?

Larron.
We spare no labour for the grand design;
Yet all our efforts cannot boast success.

Bellegarde.
Enough—but see that those our power has gain'd,
Be duly station'd at their posts, and arm'd
With secret weapons. Let them be instructed;
And teach them not to shrink from desperate deeds.
We must not now turn cowards at a phantom.
The Prince, if he resist, must not be spar'd.
I would convey instructions to Alvarez
Ere meets the Council.

Girronde.
Then dispatch is needful.

Bellegarde.
Haste you with this, and give it to his hand.

[Delivering a letter.
[Exit Girronde.
Enter a Messenger.
Messenger.
My Lord, our armies now approach the gates;
Each heart of animation full—despising rest—
Despising sustenance—despising rocks,
Hills, forests, mountains that with cloud capp'd heads
Oppose their progress to the fane of glory.

Bellegarde.
Let trusty guides attend upon their entrance,
And lead them onward to their various posts.
Meanwhile let others busy sow sedition
Amongst the Regent's troops, and bid them turn
Upon their ships the cannon of St. Julian.
Each to his station—grave it on your hearts,
That when a Gallic hand commands the helm,
The vessel braves the tumults of the deep,
And mocks the howling genius of the storm.

[Exeunt.