University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—A Council Chamber.
The Prince, Archbishop of Lisbon, Archbishop of Braga, Emanuel, Alonzo, Alvarez, and other Officers of State.
Prince.
My faithful counsellors, this awful day
Demands a high attention—every hour
Swells with importance, hastens to our fate.
Fled is the Dove of Peace, she finds in Europe
No resting place—then blindly should we trust
A tyrant's clemency, who through the earth
Sounds out the trump of discord and grim war,
And feasts upon the miseries of mankind?

Alvarez.
Let not a dread disturb your royal mind:
I see, and hail a glorious beam of light,
Which pierces through the darkness of the cloud,
And gives a promise of a brighter day
To great Braganza's House, which needs not seek
Precarious safety in a foreign clime.

Prince.
Whence spring thy sanguine hopes, and where our safety?
The Tyrant's arm now reaches to our gates—
Are we to wait, and trust his clemency,
And prove the mercy which the helpless lamb
Meets from the famish'd wolf, when in his power?

Alvarez.
Napoleon offers friendship to our realm;
Holds out to Portugal a guardian hand.
To him all Europe bows—he only asks
For friendship in return, and vigorous aid,
To gain that peace, for which my Sovereign sighs.

Prince.
'Tis he alone who lifts his arm against us:
Yet he, with all his daring, views with fear
The giant power of Britain—sacred spot!—
The fam'd asylum from despotic power;
Where banish'd Kings and Princes find a home;
Where reigns a sovereign in his people's hearts:
That happy Isle, where Freedom only dwells,
To rescue from a tyrant's rage the world.
Wishes he peace with England? to what end?
To snatch the sword of Justice from her hand—
To slay and plunder with impunity.

Emanuel.
To trust his word, were surely worse than folly;
Whose mad ambition has more heights to climb;
To pinion Princes to his chariot wheels,
And, like the drunken Macedonian boy,
Sighs for more worlds to slake his thirst of sway.

Alvarez.
Nay, grant all this, my Prince; yet, such his power
Impetuous, ocean-like o'erwhelming earth,
And sweeping with a whirlwind of destruction
That vain it were, nay madness, to oppose
When gentle methods might avert his wrath,
And you, my Prince, may yet possess the throne.

Alonzo.
And still shall hold it, though Alvarez doubts;
Still shall possess it, though Napoleon frown.
Heavens! must we see the offspring of Braganza
In mean submission at the Tyrant's foot?
The Western World is anxious to embrace us;
Where bounteous nature every blessing yields;
Secure from rapine—where the Usurper's rod
Shall stretch no proud dominion; but where peace
And happiness reside. It wounds me much
To hear thee trumpet forth the Despot's praise;
Decking thy idol out in gaudy plumage,
Thou hold'st him forth, our country's guardian angel.

Archbishop of Lisbon.
Look at his versatility and judge!
Examine well his principles, and view,
Cameleon like, for ever on the change.
To day his arms embrace the greasy mob,
He roars out freedom and fraternity:
To morrow, in the hour of exultation,
Contemns his brothers of equality;
Assumes the purple; mounts th' imperial throne;
And sways beneath the diadem he spurn'd.
Is this the base, is this the steady rock,
On which Reliance dares to fix its foot?
Slave of events, a feather whirl'd about,
The sport of every whiffling wind that blows.

Alvarez.
[To Alonzo.
I can forgive a soldier's honest warmth,
Whose ardent bosom pants alone for glory;
Who loves his country, but not calmly views
The various turns of fickle Fortune's wheel.
Warm for my country's welfare beats my heart,
As warm as thine; but, mind me, less impetuous.
I would not hurl her headlong to destruction;
But by a gentle yielding, save a part.
Ev'n let us grant Napoleon is ambitious;
Cannot Ambition then exist with Virtue?
Or, does it follow that th' aspiring plant
Must kill each flower that blooms beneath its shade?
I guess he wants not Virtue with his greatness;
Suspect not his sincerity untried.

Archbishop of Lisbon.
The trial made, too late repentance comes;
The throne o'erturn'd, and Portugal enslav'd;
Our Prince in chains, our altars in the dust;
Religion scoff'd, and banish'd from the land;
What consolation will it then afford,
To say, we trusted to a hollow friend?
Did we not know him this, before we trusted?
Have we not seen him mock his God, and King?
To-day, a zealot in Religion's cause;
To-morrow, trampling on the holy cross;
One hour a Christian; one an Infidel!
What can be augur'd from his impious rule?
Confusion, strife, destruction of all order,
That makes the world, a howling wilderness.
What is the fame not built on Virtue's base?
Tell me, what is the splendor of a deed,
That flows not from true glory? not the sun's
That gives to nature, vigour, warmth, and life;
No!—but the skipping meteor's of a pool,
Misleading the benighted travellers;
A vapour from the sink of putrefaction.

Alvarez.
Yet, is it wise to fly suspected evils,
And headlong rush on those which are too certain?
Weighs well my Prince the dangers of a voyage,
Distance, and changeful winds, and restless ocean?
His noble spirit dares encounter perils;
And, like the mountain oak, defy the storm:
But can the softer sex, unshaken brave
The warring elements? his lovely Princess,
Our Queen rever'd—the beauteous infant train,
The tender blossoms of parental love,
Will sink beneath the conflict, or at best
May, fading, droop beneath a scorching sun.
But should hard fate compel us to withdraw,
And quit those scenes so dear to every heart;
Yet let us linger to the latest moment,
And spare the pang of parting from our country.

Prince.
Know that the latest moment is arriv'd!
The limed twigs are laid with subtle art;
Let us avoid them whilst our wings are free.
My Lords, the females of our royal House
Disdain the common weakness of the sex—
At dangers smile—the spirit of Braganza
Lives in their hearts, and dares whate'er is right;
Those infant blossoms which excite thy dread
Can only flourish where the soil is free.
[To Alv.
Though for my babes I feel a father's kindness;
I feel a patriot ardour in my soul,
That bids me rather weep upon their tombs,
Where Freedom breathes, than see them live in pomp,
The mean appendage of tyrannic pride.

Alonzo.
Our duty wants not eloquence to teach us—
Plain is the road; one choice is only ours,
Which claims attention, and demands dispatch.
Let us embrace the means which Heaven bestows.

Prince.
I would our means were ample to convey
Our faithful people to a happier shore,
And leave the Despot to a desert soil.
Let us behold our loyal subjects blest,
And loss of luxury yields no regret;
To them, I owe my sceptre, nay, my all!
In their prosperity I boast my riches;
They form the pedestal on which I stand;
And when it crumbles from me, all is lost.
If with the Princes of the earth I rank,
'Tis from my people I derive my grandeur:
Their Majesty alone gives birth to mine.

Archbishop of Braga.
Say, shall we crouch beneath the galling yoke;
Lament our bondage, like the captive sons
Of fall'n Judea, near Euphrates, swell'd
With tears, when Zion was the mournful theme?—
Your wisdom rightly judges; let us fly,
O Prince! and seek your western realms of peace;
There patient wait the gracious will of Heaven.
Ere long, I trust, our earth that mourns its fate,
May burst again in song. Methinks I see
The hand of Heaven stretch'd forth for our delivery,
To rid the world of the destroying spirit.
Prophetic, I behold his hour of fate;
I feel earth shake beneath the mighty fall
Of this Colossus that bestrides the world.
He, who rush'd forth, his breath a burning blast,
That scorch'd the fruits, and blossoms of the land;
He, whose unsated sword, with impious sweep,
Spread devastation; he, whose fiend-like voice
Howl'd 'midst the horrors of a ruin'd world,
And hurl'd defiance at th' Omnipotent,
Lies powerless; a mean piece of humble clay;
The scorn of every foot that deigns to tread it.
A remnant of thy people shall be sav'd;
More glorious to return; the iron bonds
Shall burst in sunder—desolation cease—
Our joyless city raise her drooping head,
And hymns of gladness fill her streets again.

Alonzo.
Long has the groaning earth been drench'd with tears!
The voice of suffering Nature cries aloud;
Chides sleeping Justice for her tame delay;
And bids her with the sword of vengeance arm,
To cleave the Monster in his mad career.
Where is the field that looks not grim with death;
Or herb, that blushes not with bloody tears?
This Nero wishes not for honest fame:
He scorns the virtues that would check Ambition;
And all his altars rise to Desolation.

Emanuel.
Curse on the black Ambition which aspires
To rivet man in bondage; thief-like steal
The great palladium of our liberty;
Insulting, tread upon the neck of nations,
And bid the humbl'd vassals of his power
Live by his smile, or perish by his frown.

Archbishop of Lisbon.
Hope whispers, Heaven not long permits his crimes!
Rais'd from obscurity the gaudy bubble,
Inflated by the breath of fools and flatterers,
Mounts for a minute's space, and melts in air.
The voice that sings a requiem to his soul
Will faulter in performance of its office;
The lonely wretch, who digs the hole to hide him,
Shrink from his spade and blush to yield him burial.

Emanuel.
Waste not the precious moments in debate:
Our ships impatient wait, and spread the sail,
To catch th' auspicious breeze, which Heaven has breath'd;
As if to court us from the precipice,
The dangerous precipice that frowns beneath us.
Let fearful courtiers talk of boisterous seas;
Halcyons, that sport beneath a summer's sun;
Who, with a childish dread, pronounce all climes
Beset with dangers, which they ne'er explor'd.
The free-born spirit, fatal only deems,
That luckless region which engenders slavery.

[Shout without.
Prince.
What means that shout?

[Enter a Messenger.
Messenger.
My Liege, Lord Montford comes,
Ambassador from England—round him throng
The raptur'd populace, whose voice proclaims him
The true, th' unshaken friend of Portugal.

Prince.
Admit him—he arrives in happy hour.

[Enter Montford.
Montford.
O Prince! for ever, be the care of Heaven,
And may it pour its blessings on your head.
Once more, my royal master offers peace:
Extends to Portugal his friendly arm.

Prince.
Thanks to the sovereign who supports our cause;
Who casts a lustre on the realm he rules:
Long have his virtues won our confidence.
Much we lament the hard necessity
That broke the bonds of union for awhile;
Yet, though we seem'd thy foe, our hearts, unchang'd,
Beheld thine Isle, the anchor of our hopes.

Montford.
Nor will that anchor fail—no summer friends,
That only court beneath a smiling sky;
But, when the tempest blows, we dare the surge,
And fearless meet the fury of the storm.
Dangers surround your state—the insidious foe,
Ev'n at your gates, now clanks the threat'ning chain
See Ocean open to secure retreat;
And, lo! the naval power of Britain waits
To bear ye to her bosom, from oppression,
The fair asylum of th' unfortunate,
Or yield safe conduct to your Indian realms.

Prince.
The generous zeal of England warms our hearts;
And, could we now forsake our distant realms,
That calm retreat would meet our utmost wish.
All is prepar'd; and, ere the close of day,
We bid our native shores a long farewel.

[Noise without.
Enter Bellegarde in a rage.
Bellegarde.
Insidious Prince! I comprehend thee well:
Thy navy's loosen'd sails betray thy purpose.

Prince.
What insolence! what means this daring speech?
We sought not meanly to conceal our purpose:
The sceptre yet is ours—we still can punish,
If prudence curb not thy licentious tongue:
We own no foreign Potentate's control.

Bellegarde.
Prince, thou wilt curse the hour, the thoughtless hour,
When Portugal with Britain join'd in league.
That proud, that boastful, that imperious Isle,
Whose arrogance would lord it o'er the world,
And subjugate the nations to her will.
What are those Islanders that raise their crests
Self-fancied elder brothers of the skies?

Montford.
Those haughty, and imperious Islanders,
That force the frothy venom from thy tongue,
(If pride be theirs) should glory in their pride,
Which breaks the galling fetters forg'd by France
To bind the arms of Freedom; to enslave
The sad, devoted victims of her hate,
Who vainly struggle for the rights of nature.

Bellegarde.
[To the Prince.
Your bias, Sir, towards your British friends,
As you have deign'd to call them, is well known;
And too well known, your rancour to Napoleon,
Whose deeds of greatness and propitious star
Create him Europe's Master, Europe's Lord.

Montford.
Bellegarde, thou wilt except one little Isle,
That to the power of France, disdains to yield;
And dreads no threaten'd vengeance of thy master.

Bellegarde.
That little Isle must fall; the arm of might,
Which brought the Roman Eagle to the ground;
Can strip the plumage from a humbler bird.
France feels herself superior to defeat!

Montford.
Vain boaster—hast thou then so soon forgot
The plains of Egypt; where your glorying hosts,
Pronounc'd Invincibles, in terror fled;
The field resigning to a braver foe,
Out-number'd too by thousands in the conflict?
Were was the genius of all-conquering France,
When suffering her Invincibles to fall,
And add another triumph to our arms
On Maida's plain? Has Memory lost its power,
That thus thy speech of boastful arrogance,
Transforms defeat to splendid victory?
Are Britain's naval sons so soon forgot,
Whose deeds posterity will scarce believe,
But deem the page of history mere romance?

Bellegarde.
Know, Briton, know the genius of thine Isle,
Shall lower at last her haughty crest to France,
To injur'd France—her fate is on its way.

Montford.
England has long defied thy country's rage,
And foil'd its fierce attempts of subjugation.
Send forth your armies, that with threat'ning eye
Survey'd our kingdoms as an easy conquest.
What are your menaces?—a public jest.
Where your flotillas, fill'd with boastful bands?
Behold the universal smile of Scorn,
Who marks them sunk or rotting on the beach.
The Majesty of Britain mocks thy menace,
And conscious of her dignity and power
Looks down contemptuous. Know those gallant men,
The brave, who fought at Agincourt and Cressy,
Still fight the battles of our present wars:
Still flames their patriot spirit in their sons.

Bellegarde.
Montford, thy nation's jealousy smells rank
Against the glory of the sons of Gaul.
In arms, in science, and the arts of life;
What are ye but the petty slaves of trade?

Montford.
Those petty slaves of trade are sons of Liberty.
Each Briton is a soldier—when his arm
Is claim'd to vindicate his country's wrongs,
Nor age nor youth refuse the post of danger.
They shrink not from the charge when Freedom calls;
Nor shrink they from the vengeance of Napoleon:
That vengeance will recoil upon yourselves;
Mad, like the roaring surge that strikes the brow
Of some high promontory, vents its rage,
And broken, falls repell'd in fruitless foam.
Your pardon, Prince, but yonder vaunting Gaul
Provokes my spirit to contemn his boasts.

Bellegarde.
Let me intreat the Regent's confidence;
My royal Master promises protection.

Alonzo.
What, trust, my Liege, the clemency of France,
And place your safety in Napoleon's hands!
The cherub Mercy dwells not in his heart;
Witness the field of Jaffa, where the band,
A captive band, were slaughter'd in cold blood—
Where Murder's self turn'd pale upon the deed.
Witness the sad companions of his toils,
His wounded brethren, who, in hospitals
Besought the balm, receiv'd the pois'nous draught.

Alvarez.
Trust me, my Prince, the tongue of Calumny
Would cast a shade upon Napoleon's virtues.

Alonzo.
Alvarez, cease, or I shall call thee traitor.
Praise of this man is incense to a fiend!
Thy speeches are apologies for vice;
Thy ready eloquence would varnish crimes,
And give the strength of steel to rottenness.
Suspicion with a cautious eye must watch thee.

Alvarez.
Thy words of air, Alonzo, wound me not,
Whilst safe I hold my Prince's confidence.

Bellegarde.
Napoleon scatters blessings on his way!

Montford.
If famine, tyranny, and wounds, and death;
The cries of orphans, and the widow's moans,
That sadden every wind that blows, be blessings,
Napoleon blesses with a bounteous hand.

Bellegarde.
Thou wear'st a sword—

Montford.
A sword of British temper,
Disdaining rest; when honour calls it forth.

Bellegarde.
Vain flourish!—

Montford.
Can a flourish then offend,
Which forms the essence of a Frenchman's soul?

Bellegarde.
The time may come, thou may'st repent this outrage;
A Frenchman bears not insult with impunity.

[Laying his hand on his sword.
Montford.
Let the time come, and I will welcome it.

Prince.
Sirs, this is not the place for altercation;
Affairs of moment now demand our thoughts:
Fix'd is our great resolve; and nought remains,
Nought, but our instant mandate for departure.

Bellegarde.
Then tremble at the vengeance of our arms.

[Exit.
Enter a Messenger hastily, presenting a letter to the Prince, who, after the perusal, delivers it to Alonzo.
Prince.
Alvarez, we have weigh'd thy counsels well;
But search thy heart, and tell us, is thy faith
Built on experience of Napoleon's virtues?
And holdest thou thy Sovereign's safety dear;
When thou would'st bid us trust his clemency?
Alvarez dumb! Where is that patriot flame
Which lately flush'd thy cheek? Why now so pale?
What can produce such sudden change of colour?
Perhaps thou knowest the hand that stain'd this paper.
Thy features stamp thy guilt—more proof is needless.
Alvarez, is it thus?—canst thou betray;
Thou, who from infancy hast read my heart;
And to thy Prince, were e'en a second self?
We ask not now disclosure from thy tongue;
Thy alter'd eye proclaims the damning tale.
Art thou the column of my confidence,
On which my friendship rested—nay, my throne!
My life too—nay, the life of Portugal!
Astonishment so seizes on my sense,
I almost think thy treason is a dream.
Guards! take him hence. My Lords, our time is precious.