THE TRAGEDY OF
SOPHONISBA.
Acted at the THEATRE-ROYAL IN
DRURY-LANE.
By His MAJESTY'S Servants.
By Mr.
THOMSON.
LONDON:
Printed for A. MILLAR, at
Buchanan
's Head, over-against St.
Clement
's Church in the
Strand.
M DCC XXX.
TO THE QUEEN.
MADAM,
T HE notice, Your MAJESTY has condescended to take of the following
Tragedy,
emboldens me to lay it, in the humblest manner, at Your MAJESTY'S Feet. And to whom can this illustrious
Carthaginian
so properly fly for protection, as to a QUEEN, who commands the hearts of a
People,
more powerful at sea than
Carthage?
more flourishing in
commerce
than those
first Merchants?
more secure against conquest? and, under a
Monarchy,
more free than a
Commonwealth
itself?
I dare not, nor indeed need I, here attempt a character, where both the great and the amiable Qualities shine forth in full perfection. All words are faint to speak what is universally felt, and acknowledged, by a happy people. Permit me therefore only to subscribe my self, with the truest zeal and veneration,
MADAM,
Your
MAJESTY'S
Most humble, Most dutiful, And most devoted Servant,
JAMES THOMSON.
PREFACE.
I T is not my intention, in this preface, to defend any faults that may be found in the following piece. I am afraid there are too many: But those who are best able to discover, will be most ready to pardon them. They alone know how difficult an undertaking the writing of a tragedy is: and this is a first attempt.
I beg leave only to mention the reason that determined me to make choice of this subject. What pleased me particularly, tho' perhaps it will not be least liable to objection with ordinary readers, was the great simplicity of the story. It is one, regular, and uniform, not charged with a multiplicity of incidents, and yet affording several revolutions of fortune; by which the passions may be excited, varied, and driven to their full tumult of emotion
This unity of design was always sought after, and admired by the antients: and the most eminent among the moderns, who understood their writings, have chosen to imitate them in this, from an intire conviction that the reason of it must hold good in all ages. And here allow me to translate a passage from the celebrated
Monsieur Racine,
which contains all that I have to say on this head.
We must not fancy that this rule has no other foundation but the caprice of those who made it. Nothing can touch us in tragedy, but what is probable. And what probability is there, that, in one Day, should happen a multitude of things, which could scarce happen in several Weeks? There are some wh
think that this simplicity is a mark of barrenness
invention. But they do not consider, that, on the contrary, invention consists in making something out of nothing: and that this huddle of incidents has always been the refuge of poets, who did not find in their genius either richness or force enough to engage their spectators, for five acts together, by a simple action, supported by the violence of passions, the beauty of sentiments, and the nobleness of expression.
—I would not be understood to mean that all these things are to be found in my performance: I only shew the reader what I aimed at, and how I would have pleased him, had it been in my power.
As to the character of
Sophonisba
; in drawing it, I have confined myself to the truth of history. It were an affront to the age, to suppose such a character out of nature; especially in a country which has produced so many great examples of public spirit and heroic virtues, even in the softer sex: and I had destroyed her character intirely, had I not marked it with that strong love to her country, disdain of servitude, and inborn aversion to the
Romans,
by which all historians have distinguished her. Nor ought her marrying
Masinissa,
while her former husband was still alive, to be reckoned a blemish in her character. For, by the laws both of
Rome
and
Carthage,
the captivity of the husband dissolved the marriage of course; as among us impotence, or adultery: not to mention the reasons of a moral and public nature, which I have put into her own mouth in the scene betwixt her and
Syphax.
This is all I have to say of the play itself. But I cannot conclude without owning my obligations to those concerned in the representation. They have indeed done me more than justice. Whatever was designed as amiable and engaging in
Masinissa
shines out in Mr.
Wilks
's action. Mrs.
Oldfield,
in the character of
Sophonisba,
has excelled what, even in the fondness of an author, I could either wish or imagine. The grace, dignity, and happy variety of her action have been universally applauded, and are truly admirable.
PROLOGUE.
By a FRIEND.
Spoken by Mr. WILLIAMS.
WHEN learning, after the long
Gothic
night,
Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd his light,
With arts arising
Sophonisba
rose:
The tragic muse, returning, wept her woes.
With her th'
Italian
scene first learnt to glow;
And the first tears for her were taught to flow.
Her charms the
Gallic
muses next inspir'd:
Corneille
himself saw, wonder'd, and was fir'd.
What foreign theatres with pride have shewn,
Britain,
by juster title, makes her own.
When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight;
And hers, wken freedom is the theme, to write.
For this, a
British Author
bids again
The heroine rise, to grace the
British
scene.
Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame:
She asks what bosom has not felt the same?
Asks of the
British Youth
—Is silence there?
She dares to ask it of the
British Fair.
To night, our home-spun author would be true,
At once, to nature, history, and you.
Well-pleas'd to give our neighbours due applause,
He owns their learning, but disdains their laws.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
'Tis to his
British
heart he trusts for fame.
If
France
excel him in one free-born thought,
The man, as well as poet, is in fault.
Nature!
informer of the poet's art,
Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each passion, every line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breast,
Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.
The Persons represented.
MASINISSA, King of
Massylia,
By Mr.
Wilks.
SYPHAX, King of
Masoesylia,
By Mr.
Mills.
NARVA, Friend to
Masinissa,
By Mr.
Roberts.
SCIPIO, the
Roman
General,
By Mr.
Williams.
LAELIUS, his Lieutenant,
By Mr.
Bridgewater.
SOPHONISBA,
By Mrs.
Oldfield.
PHOENISSA, her Friend,
By Mrs.
Roberts.
Messenger, Slave, Guards, and Attendants.
 
SCENE The Palace of
CIRTHA.
SOPHONISBA. A TRAGEDY.
ACT I. SCENE I.
SOPHONISBA, PHOENISSA.
T HIS hour,
Phoenissa,
this important hour,
Or fixes me a queen, or from a throne
Throws
Sophonisba
into
Roman
chains.
Detested thought! For now his utmost force
Collected, desperate, distress'd, and sore
From battles lost; with all the rage of war,
Ill-fated
Syphax
makes his last effort.
But say, thou partner of my hopes and fears,
Phoenissa,
say; while, from the lofty tower,
Our straining eyes the field of battle sought,
Ah, thought you not that our
Numidian
troops
Gave up the broken field, and scattering fled,
Wild o'er the hills, from the rapacious sons
Of still triumphant
Rome?
The dream of care!
And think not, madam,
Syphax
can resign,
But with his ebbing life, in this last field,
A crown, a kingdom, and a queen he loves
Beyond ambition's brightest wish; for whom,
Nor mov'd by threats, nor bound by plighted faith,
He scorn'd the
Roman
friendship (that fair name
For slavery) and from th' engagements broke
Of
Scipio,
fam'd for every winning art,
The towering genius of recover'd
Rome.
Oh name him not! These
Romans
stir my blood
To too much rage. I cannot bear the fortune
Of that proud people.—Said you not,
Phoenissa,
That
Syphax
lov'd me; which would fire his battle,
And urge him on to death or conquest? True,
He loves me with the madness of desire;
His every passion is a slave to love;
Nor heeds he danger where I bid him go,
Nor leagues, nor interest. Hence these endless wars,
These ravag'd countries, these successless fights,
Sustain'd for
Carthage
; whose defence alone
Engag'd my loveless marriage-vows with his.
But know you not, that in the
Roman
camp
I have a lover too; a gallant, brave,
And disappointed lover, full of wrath,
Returning to a kingdom whence the sword
Of
Syphax
drove him?
Masinissa?
He:
Young
Masinissa,
the
Massylian
king;
The first addresser of my youth; for whom
My bosom felt a fond beginning wish,
Extinguish'd soon; when once to
Scipio
's side
Won o'er, and dazled by th' enchanting glare
Of that fair seeming heroe, he became
A gay admiring slave, yet knew it not.
E'er since, my heart has held him in contempt;
And thrown out each idea of his worth,
That there began to grow: nay had it been
As all-possest, and soft, as her's who sits
In secret shades, or by the falling stream,
And wastes her being in unutter'd pangs,
I would have broke, or cur'd it of its fondness.
Heroic
Sophonisba!
No,
Phoenissa
;
It is not for the daughter of great
Asdrubal,
Descended from a long illustrious line
Of
Carthaginian
heroes, who have oft
Fill'd
Italy
with terror and dismay,
And shook the walls of
Rome,
to pine in love,
Like a deluded maid; to give her life,
And heart high-beating in her country's cause,
Meant not for common aims and houshold cares,
To give them up to vain presuming man;
Much less to one who stoops the neck to
Rome,
An enemy to
Carthage, Masinissa.
Think not I mean to check that glorious flame,
That just ambition which exalts your soul,
Fires on your cheek, and lightens in your eye.
Yet would he had been yours! this rising prince;
For, trust me, fame is fond of
Masinissa.
His various fortune, his resplendent deeds,
His courage, conduct, deep-experienc'd youth,
And vast unbroken spirit in distress,
Still rising stronger from the last defeat,
Are all the talk and terror too of
Afric.
Who has not heard the story of his woes?
How hard he came to his paternal reign;
Whence soon by
Syphax
' unrelenting hate,
And jealous
Carthage
driven, he with a few
Fled to the mountains. Then, I think, it was
Hem'd in a circle of impending rocks,
That all his followers fell, save fifty horse;
Who, thence escap'd thro' secret paths abrupt,
Gain'd the
Clupean
plain. There overtook,
And urg'd by fierce surrounding foes, he burst
With four alone, sore wounded, thro' their ranks,
And all amidst a mighty torrent plung'd.
Seiz'd by the whirling gulph, two sunk; and two,
With him obliquely hurried down the stream,
Wrought to the farther shore. Th'astonish'd troops
Stood check'd, and shivering on the gloomy brink,
And deem'd him lost in the devouring flood.
Mean time the dauntless, undespairing youth
Lay in a cave conceal'd; curing his wounds
With mountain-herbs, and on his horses fed:
Nor here, even at the lowest ebb of life,
Stoop'd his aspiring mind. What need I say,
How once again restor'd, and once again
Expell'd, among the
Garamantian
hills
He since has wander'd, till the
Roman
arm
Reviv'd his cause? And who shall reign alone,
Syphax
or he, this day decides.
Enough.
Thou need'st not blazon thus his fame,
Phoenissa.
Were he as glorious as the pride of woman
Could wish, in all her wantonness of thought;
The joy of humankind; wise, valiant, good;
With every praise, with every laurel crown'd;
The warriour's wonder, and the virgin's sigh:
Yet this would cloud him o'er, this blemish all;
His mean submission to the
Roman
yoke;
That, false to
Carthage, Afric,
and himself,
With proferr'd hand and knee, he hither led
These ravagers of earth.—But while we talk,
The work of fate goes on; even now perhaps
My dying country bleeds in every vein,
And the warm victor thunders at our gate.
SCENE II.
SOPHONISBA, PHOENISSA,
and to them a
MESSENGER
from the Battle.
Ha! Whence art thou? Speak, tho' thy bleeding wounds
Might well excuse thy tongue.
Madam escap'd,
With much ado, from yon wide death—
No more.
At once thy meaning flashes o'er my soul.
Oh all my vanish'd hopes! repairless chance
Of undiscerning war!—And is all lost?
An universal havock?
Madam, all.
For scarce a
Masoesylian,
save my self,
But is or seiz'd, or bites the bloody plain.
The King—
Ah! what of him?
His fiery steed,
By
Masinissa,
the
Massylian
prince,
Pierc'd, threw him headlong to his clustering foes;
And now he comes in chains.
'Tis wond'rous fit,
Absolute gods! All
Afric
is in chains!
The weeping world in chains!—Oh is there not
A time, a righteous time, reserv'd in fate,
When these oppressors of mankind shall feel
The miseries they give; and blindly fight
For their own fetters too?—The conquering troops,
How points their motion?
At my heels they came,
Loud-shouting, dreadful, in a cloud of dust,
By
Masinissa
headed.
Hark! arriv'd.
The murmuring crowd rolls frighted to the palace.
Thou bleed'st to death, poor faithful wretch, away,
And dress thy wounds, if life be worth thy care;
Tho'
Rome,
methinks, will lose a slave in thee.
Would
Sophonisba
were as near the verge
Of boundless, and immortal liberty!
SCENE III.
SOPHONISBA, PHOENISSA.
[After a Pause.]
And wherefore not? When liberty is lost,
Let slaves and cowards live; but in the brave
It were a treachery to themselves, enough
To merit chains. And is it fit for me,
Who in my veins, from
Asdrubal
deriv'd,
Hold
Carthaginian
enmity to
Rome
;
On whom I've lavish'd all my burning soul,
In everlasting hate; for whose destruction
I sold my joyless youth to
Syphax
' arms,
And turn'd him fierce upon them; fit for such
A native, restless, unrelenting foe,
To sit down softly-pensive, and await
Th'approaching victor's rage; reserv'd in chains
To grace his triumph, and become the scorn
Of every
Roman
dame—Gods! how my soul
Disdains the thought! and this shall set it free.
[Offers to stab her self.]
Hold,
Sophonisba,
hold! my friend! my queen!
For whom alone I live! hold your rash point,
Nor thro' your guardian bosom stab your country.
That is our last resort, and always sure.
The gracious gods are liberal of death;
To that last blessing lend a thousand ways.
Think not I'd have you live to drag a chain,
And walk the triumph of insulting
Rome.
No, by these tears of loyalty and love!
Ere I beheld so vile a sight, this hand
Should urge the faithful poynard to your heart,
And glory in the deed. But, while hope lives,
Let not the generous die. 'Tis late before
The brave despair.
Thou copy of my soul!
And now my friend indeed! Shew me but hope,
One glimpse of hope, and I'll renew my toils,
Call patience, labour, fortitude again,
The vext unjoyous day, and sleepless night;
Nor shrink at danger, any shape of death,
Shew me the smallest hope! Alas,
Phoenissa,
Too kindly confident! Hope lives not here,
Fled with her sister Liberty beyond
The
Garamantian
hills, to some steep wild,
Some undiscover'd country, where the foot
Of
Roman
cannot come.
Yes, there she liv'd
With
Massinissa,
wounded, and forlorn,
Amidst the serpents, hiss, and tygers, yell.—
Why nam'st thou him?
Madam, in this forgive
My forward zeal; from him proceeds our hope.
He lov'd you once; nor is your form impair'd,
Warm'd, and unfolded into stronger charms:
Ask his protection from the
Roman
power,
You must prevail; for
Sophonisba
sure
From
Masinissa
cannot ask in vain.
Now, by the prompting genius of my country!
I thank thee for the thought. True, there is pain
Even in descending thus to beg protection,
From that degenerate youth. But oh for thee,
My sinking country! and again to gaul
This hated
Rome,
what would I not endure?
It shall be done,
Phoenissa
; tho' disgust
Choak'd up my struggling meaning, shall be done.
[kneels.
But here I vow, propitious
Juno,
hear!
Could every pomp and every pleasure joyn'd,
Love, empire, glory, a whole kneeling world,
Unnerve my smallest purpose, and remit
That most inveterate enmity I bear
The
Roman
state; may
Carthage
smoak in ruins!
Rome
rise the mistress of mankind! and I,
There an abandon'd slave, drag out a length
Of life, in loathsome baseness, and contempt!
This way the trumpet sounds; let us retire.
SCENE IV.
MASINISSA, SYPHAX
in Chains,
NARVA,
Guards,
&c.
Is there no dungeon in this city? dark,
As is my troubled soul? That thus I'm brought
To my own palace, to those rooms of state,
Wont in another manner to receive me,
With other signs of royalty than these.
(looking on his chains.)
I will not wound thee, not insult thee,
Syphax,
With a recital of thy tyrant crimes.
A captive here I see thee, fallen below
My most revengeful wish; and all the rage,
The noble fury that inspir'd this morn
Is sunk to soft compassion. In the field,
The flaming front of war, there is the scene
Of brave revenge; and I have sought thee there,
Keen as the hunted lyon seeks his foe.
But when a broken enemy, disarm'd,
And helpless lies; a falling sword, an eye
With pity flowing, and an arm as weak
As infant softness, then becomes the brave.
Now sleeps the sword; the passions of the field
Subside to peace; and my relenting soul
Melts at thy fate.
This, this, is all I dread,
All I detest, this insolence refin'd,
This barbarous pity, this affected goodness.
Pitied by thee!—Is there a form of death,
Of torture, and of infamy like that?
It kills my very soul!—Ye partial gods!
I feel your worst; why should I fear you more?
Hear me, vain youth! take notice—I abhor
Thy mercy, loath it.—Poison to my thoughts!
Wouldst thou be merciful? One way alone
Thou canst oblige me.—Use me like a slave;
As I would thee, (delicious thought!) wert thou
Here crouching in my power.
Outragious man!
If that is mercy, I'll be cruel still.
Nor canst thou drive me, by thy bitterest rage,
To an unmanly deed; not all thy wrongs,
Nor this worse triumph in them.
Ha! ha! wrongs?
I cannot wrong thee. When we lanch the spear
Into the monster's heart, or crush the serpent;
Destroy what in antipathy we hold,
The common foe; can that be call'd a wrong?
Injurious that? Absurd! it cannot be.
I'm loth to hurt thee more.—The tyrant works
Too fierce already in thy rankled breast.
But since thou seem'st to rank me with thy self,
With great destroyers, with perfidious kings;
I must reply to thy licentious tongue,
Bid thee remember, whose accursed sword
Began this work of death; who broke the ties,
The holy ties, attested by the gods,
Which bind the nations in the bond of peace;
Who meanly took advantage of my youth,
Unskill'd in arms, unsettled on my throne,
And drove me to the desart, there to dwell
With kinder monsters; who my cities sack'd,
My country pillag'd, and my subjects murder'd;
Who still pursu'd me with inveterate hate,
When generous force prov'd vain, with ruffian arts,
The villain's dagger, base assassination.
And for no reason all. Brute violence
Alone thy plea.—What the least provocation,
Say, canst thou but pretend?
I needed none.
Nature
has in my being sown the seeds
Of enmity to thine.—Nay mark me this.
Couldst thou restore me to my former state,
Strike off these chains, give me the sword again,
The sceptre, and the wide-obedient war:
Yet must I still, implacable to thee,
Seek eagerly thy death, or die my self.
Life cannot hold us both!—Unequal gods!
Who love to disappoint mankind, and take
All Vengeance to your selves; why to the point
Of my long-flatter'd wishes did ye lift me,
Then sink me thus so low? Just as I drew
The glorious stroke that was to make me happy,
Why did you blast my strong extended arm?
Strike the dry sword unsated to the ground?
But that to mock us is your cruel sport?
What else is human life?
Thus always join'd
With an inhuman heart, and brutal manners,
Is irreligion to the ruling gods;
Whose schemes our peevish ignorance arraigns,
Our thoughtless pride.—Thy lost condition,
Syphax,
Is nothing to the tumult of thy breast.
There lies the sting of evil, there the drop
That poisons nature.—Ye mysterious powers!
Whose ways are ever-gracious, ever-just,
As ye think wisest, best, dispose of me;
But, whether thro' your gloomy depths I wander,
Or on your mountains walk; give me the calm
The steady, smiling soul; where wisdom sheds,
Eternal sunshine and eternal joy.
Then, if misfortune comes, she brings along
The bravest virtues. And so many great
Illustrious spirits have convers'd with woe,
(The pride of adverse fate!) as are enough
To consecrate distress, and make even death
Ambition.
Torture! Racks! The common trick
Of insolent success, unsuffering pride,
This prate of patience, and I know not what.
'Tis all a lie, impracticable rant;
And only tends to make me scorn thee more.
But why this talk? In mercy send me hence;
Yet—ere I go—Oh save me from distraction!
I know, hot youth, thou burnest for my queen;
But by the majesty of ruin'd kings,
And that commanding glory which surrounds her,
I charge thee touch her not!
No,
Syphax,
no.
Thou need'st not charge me. That were mean indeed,
A triumph that to thee. But could I stoop
Again to love her; Thou, what right hast thou,
A captive, to her bed? Nor life, nor queen,
Nor ought, a captive has. All laws in this,
Roman
and
Carthaginian,
all agree.
Here, here, begins the bitterness of death!
Here my chains grind me first!
Poor
Sophonisba!
She too becomes the prize of conquering
Rome
;
What most her heart abhors. Alas, how hard
Will slavery sit on her exalted soul!
How piteous hard! But, if I know her well,
She never will endure it, she will die.
For not a
Roman
burns with nobler ardor,
A higher sense of liberty than she;
And tho' she marry'd thee, her only stain,
False to my youth, and faithless to my vows;
Yet, I must own it, from a worthy cause,
From publick spirit did her fault proceed.
Blue plagues, and poison on thy meddling tongue!
Talk not of her; for every word of her
Is a keen dagger, griding thro' my heart.
Oh, for a lonely dungeon! where I rather
Would talk with my own groans, and great revenge,
Than in the mansions of the blest with thee.
Hell! Whither must I go?
Unhappy man!
And is thy breast determin'd against peace,
On comfort shut?
On all, but death, from thee.
Narva,
be
Syphax
thy peculiar care;
And use him well with tenderness and honour.
This evening
Lelius,
and to morrow
Scipio,
To
Cirtha
come. Then let the
Romans
take
Their prisoner.
There shines a gleam of hope
Across the gloom—From thee deliver'd!—Ease
Breathes in that thought—Lead on—My heart grows lighter!
SCENE V.
MASINISSA
alone.
What dreadful havoc in the human breast
The passions make, when unconfin'd, and mad,
They burst, unguided by the mental eye,
The light of reason; which in various ways
Points them to good, or turns them back from ill.
O save me from the tumult of the soul!
From the wild beasts within!—For circling sands,
When the swift whirlwind whelms them o'er the lands;
The roaring deeps that to the clouds arise,
While thwarting thick the mingled lightning flies;
The monster-brood to which this land gives birth,
The blazing city, and the gaping earth;
All deaths, all tortures, in one pang combin'd,
Are gentle to the tempest of the mind.
The End of the First Act.
ACT II. SCENE I.
MASINISSA, NARVA,
—'Tis true, my friend,
Thou good old man, by whom my youth was form'd,
The firm companion of my various life,
I own, 'tis true, that
Sophonisba
's image
Lives in my bosom still; and at each glance
I take in secret of the bright idea,
A strange disorder seizes on my soul,
Which burns with stronger glory. Need I say,
How once she had my vows? Till
Scipio
came,
Resistless man! like a descending God,
And snatch'd me from the
Carthaginian
side
To nobler
Rome
; beneath whose laurel'd brow,
And ample eye, the nations grow polite,
Humane and happy. Then thou may'st remember,
Such is this woman's high impetuous spirit,
That all-controuling love she bears her country,
Her
Carthage
; that at this she sacrific'd
To
Syphax,
unbelov'd, her blooming Years,
And won him off from
Rome.
My generous prince!
Applauding
Afric
of thy choice approves.
Fame claps her wings, and virtue smiles on thee,
Of peace thou softner, and thou soul of war!
But oh beware of that fair foe to glory,
Woman! and most of
Carthaginian
woman!
Who has not heard of fatal
Punic
guile?
Of their sly conquests? their insidious leagues?
Their
Asdrubals
? their
Hannibals
? with all
Their wily heroes? And, if such their men,
What must their women be?
You make me smile.
I thank thy honest zeal. But never dread
The firmness of my heart, my strong attachment,
Severe to
Rome,
to
Scipio,
and to Glory.
Indeed, I cannot, would not quite forget
The grace of
Sophonisba
; how she look'd,
And talk'd, and mov'd, a
Pallas,
or a
Juno!
Accomplish'd even in trifles, when she stoop'd
Ambition's flight, and with a soften'd eye
Gave her quick spirit into gayer life.
Then every word was liveliness, and wit;
We heard the Muses' song; and the dance swam
Thro' all the maze of harmony. I flatter not,
Believe me,
Narva
; yet my panting soul,
To
Scipio
taken in the fair pursuit
Of fame, and for my people's happiness,
Resign'd this
Sophonisba
; and tho' now
Constrain'd by soft necessity to see her,
And she a captive in my power, will still
Resign her.
Let me not doubt thy fortitude,
My
Masinissa,
thy exalted purpose
Not to be lost in love; but ah! we know not,
Oft, till experience sighs it to the soul,
The boundless witchcraft of ensnaring woman,
And our own slippery hearts. From
Scipio
learn
The temperance of heroes. I'll recount
Th' instructive story, what these eyes beheld;
Perhaps you've heard it; but 'tis pleasing still,
Tho' told a thousand times.
I burn to hear it.
Lost by my late misfortunes in the desart,
I liv'd a stranger to the voice of fame,
To
Scipio
's last exploits. Exalt me now.
Great actions raise the mind. But when a friend,
A
Scipio
does them; then with more than wonder,
Even with a sort of vanity we listen.
When to his glorious, first essay in war,
New
Carthage
fell; there all the flower of
Spain
Were kept in hostage; a full field presenting
For
Scipio
's generosity to shine.
And then it was, that when the heroe heard▪
How I to thee belong'd, he with large gifts,
And friendly words dismiss'd me.
I remember.
And in his favour that impress'd me first.
But to thy story.
What with admiration
Struck every heart, was this—A noble virgin,
Conspicuous far o'er all the captive dames,
Was mark'd the general's prize. She wept, and blush'd,
Young, fresh, and blooming like the morn. An eye,
As when the blue sky trembles thro' a cloud
Of purest white. A secret charm combin'd
Her features, and infus'd enchantment thro' them.
Her shape was harmony.—But eloquence
Beneath her beauty fails; which seem'd, on purpose,
Pour'd out by lavish nature, that mankind
Might see this action in its highest lustre.
Soft, as she pass'd along, with downcast eyes,
Where gentle sorrow swell'd, and now and then
Dropt o'er her modest cheek a trickling tear,
The
Roman
legions languish'd; and hard war
Felt more than pity. Even
Scipio
's self,
As on his high tribunal rais'd he sat,
Turn'd from the piercing sight, and chiding ask'd
His officers, if by this gift they meant
To cloud his glory in its very dawn.
Oh Gods! my fluttering heart! On, stop not,
Narva.
She question'd of her birth, in trembling accents,
With tears and blushes broken, told her tale.
But when he found her royally descended,
Of her old captive parents the sole joy;
And that a hapless
Celtiberian
prince,
Her lover and belov'd, forgot his chains,
His lost dominions, and for her alone
Wept out his tender soul; sudden the heart
Of this young, conquering, loving, godlike
Roman
Felt all the great divinity of virtue▪
His wishing youth stood check'd, his tempting power▪
By infinite humanity—
Well, well;
And then!
Disdaining guilty doubt, at once
He for her parents and her lover call'd.
The various scene imagine: How his troops
Look'd dubious on, and wonder'd what he meant;
While stretch'd below the trembling suppliants lay,
Rack'd by a thousand mingling passions, fear,
Hope, jealousy, disdain, submission, grief,
Anxiety, and love in every shape.
To these as different sentiments succeeded,
As mixt emotions, when the man divine
Thus the dread silence to the lover broke.
" We both are young, both charm'd. The Right of War
" Has put thy beauteous mistress in my power;
" With whom I could, in the most sacred ties,
" Live out a happy life: But know that
Romans
" Their hearts as well as enemies can conquer.
" Then take her to thy soul; and with her take
" Thy liberty and kingdom. In return
" I ask no more, but, when you view these eyes,
" These charms, with transport, be a friend to
Rome.
There spoke the soul of
Scipio
—But the Lovers?
Joy and extatic wonder held them mute;
While the lowd camp, and all the clustring crowd,
That hung around, rang with repeated shouts.
Fame took th' alarm, and thro' resounding
Spain
Blew fast the fair report; which, more than arms,
Admiring nations to the
Romans
gain'd,
My friend in glory! thy awaken'd prince
Springs at thy faithful tale. It fires my soul,
And nerves each thought anew; apt oft perhaps,
Too much, too much to slacken into love.
But now the soft oppression flies; and all
My mounting powers expand to deeds like thine,
Thou pattern and inspirer of my fame,
Scipio,
thou first of men, and best of friends!
What man of soul would live, my
Narva,
breathe
This idle-puffing element; and run,
Day after day, the still-returning round
Of life's mean offices, and sickly joys;
But in compassion to mankind? to be
A guardian God below? to dissipate
An ardent being in heroic aims?
Do something vastly great like what you told?
Something to raise him o'er the groveling herd,
And make him shine for ever?—Oh, my friend!
Bleed every vein about me; every nerve
With anguish tremble; every sinew ake;
Be toil familiar to my limbs; ambition
Mix all my thoughts in an incessant whirl;
The third time may I lose my kingdom; and again
Wander the false inhospitable Syrts;
Yet oh, ye liberal Gods! in rich award,
And amplest recompence—I ask no more—
Share me the wreath of fame from
Scipio
's brow!
But see, she comes! mark her majestic port.
SCENE II.
MASINISSA, SOPHONISBA, NARVA, PHOENISSA.
Behold, victorious prince! the scene revers'd;
And
Sophonisba
kneeling here; a captive,
O'er whom the Gods, thy Fortune, and thy Virtue,
Have given unquestion'd power of life and death.
If such a one may raise her suppliant voice,
Once music to thy ear; if she may touch
Thy knee, thy purple, and thy victor-hand;
Oh listen,
Masinissa!
Let thy soul
Intensely listen! While I fervent pray,
And strong adjure thee, by that regal state,
In which with equal pomp we lately shone!
By the
Numidian
name, our common boast!
And by those houshold gods! who may, I wish,
With better omens take thee to this palace,
Than
Syphax
hence they sent. As is thy pleasure,
In all beside determine of my fate.
This, this alone I beg. Never, oh never!
Into the cruel, proud, and hated power
Of
Romans
let me fall. Since angry heaven
Will have it so, that I must be a slave,
And that a galling chain must bind these hands;
It were some little softning in my doom,
To call a kindred son of the same clime,
A native of
Numidia,
my lord.
But if thou canst not save me from the
Romans,
If this sad favour be beyond thy power;
At least to give me death is what thou canst.
Here strike—my naked bosom courts thy sword;
And my last breath shall bless thee,
Masinissa.
Rise,
Sophonisha,
rise. To see thee thus
Is a revenge I scorn; and all the man
Within me, though much injur'd by thy pride,
And spirit too tempestuous for thy sex,
Yet blushes to behold thus at my feet,
Thus prostrate low, her, for whom kings have kneel'd,
The fairest, but the falsest of her sex.
Spare thy reproach.—'Tis cruel thus to lose
In ranckling discord, and ungenerous strife,
The few remaining moments that divide me
From the last evil, bondage—
Roman
bondage!
Yes, shut thy heart against me. Shut thy heart
Against compassion, every human thought,
Even recollected love: Yet know, rash Youth!
That when thou seest me swell their lofty triumph,
Thou seest thy self in me. This is my day;
To morrow may be thine. But here, assur'd,
Here will I lie on this vile earth, forlorn,
Of hope abandon'd, since despis'd by thee;
These locks all loose and sordid in the dust;
This sullied bosom growing to the ground,
Scorch'd up with anguish, and of every shape
Of misery full: till comes the soldier fierce
From recent blood; and, in thy very eye,
Lays raging his rude sanguinary grasp
On these weak limbs; and clinches them in chains.
Then if no friendly steel, no nectar'd draught
Of deadly poison, can enlarge my soul;
It will indignant burst from a slave's body;
And, join'd to mighty
Dido,
scorn ye all.
Oh
Sophonisba!
'tis not safe to hear thee;
And I mistook my Heart, to trust it thus.
Hence let me fly.
You shall not,
Masinissa!
Here will I hold you, tremble here for ever;
Here unremitting grow, till you consent.
And can'st thou think, oh! canst thou think to leave me?
Expos'd, defenceless, wretched, here alone?
A prey to
Romans
flush'd with blood and conquest?
The subject of their scorn or baser love?
Sure
Masinissa
cannot; and, tho' chang'd,
Tho' cold as that averted look he wears;
Sure love can ne'er in generous breasts be lost
To that degree, as not from shame and outrage
To save what once they lov'd.
Enchantment! Madness!
What would'st thou,
Sophonisba!
—Oh my heart!
My treacherous heart!
What would I,
Masinissa?
My mean Request sits blushing on my cheek.
To be thy slave, young prince, is what I beg;
Here
Sophonisba
kneels to be thy slave;
Yet kneels in vain. But thou'rt a slave thy self,
And canst not from the
Romans
save one woman;
Her, who was once the triumph of thy soul;
E'er they seduc'd it by their lying glory.
Immortal gods! and am I fallen so low?
Scorn'd by a lover? by a slave to
Rome?
Nought can be worth this baseness, life, nor empire!
I loath me for it.—On this kinder earth,
Then leave me, leave me, to despair and death!
What means this conflict with almighty nature?
With the whole warring heart?—Rise, quickly rise,
In all the conquering majesty of charms,
O
Sophonisba,
rise! while here I swear,
By the tremendous powers that rule mankind!
By heaven and earth, and hell! by love, and glory!
The
Romans
shall not hurt you—
Romans
cannot;
For
Rome
is generous as the gods themselves,
And honours, not insults, a generous foe.
Yet since you dread them, take this sacred pledge,
This hand of surety, by which kings are bound;
By which I hold you mine, and vow to treat you,
With all the rev'rence due to ruin'd state,
With all the softness of remember'd love,
All that can sooth thy fate, and make thee happy.
I thank thee,
Masinissa!
now the same;
The same warm youth, exalted, full of soul;
With whom in happier days I wont to pass
The sighing hour: while, dawning fair in love,
All song and sweetness, life set joyous out;
Ere the black tempest of ambition rose,
And drove us different ways.—Thus dress'd in war,
In nodding plumes, o'ercast with sullen thought,
With purpos'd vengeance dark, I knew thee not;
But now breaks out the beauteous fun anew,
The gay
Numidian
shines who warm'd me once,
Whose love was glory.—Vain ideas, hence!
—Long since my heart, to nobler passions known,
Has your acquaintance scorn'd.
Oh! while you talk,
Enchanting fair one! my deluded thought
Runs back to days of love; when fancy still
Found worlds of beauty, ever rising new
To the transported eye; when flattering hope
Form'd endless prospects of increasing bliss;
And still the credulous heart believ'd them all,
Even more than love could promise.—But the scene
Is full of danger for a tainted eye;
I must not, dare not, will not look that way.
O hide it, wisdom, glory, from my view!
Or in sweet ruin I shall link again.
Disaster clouds thy cheek; thy colour goes.
Retire, and from the troubles of the day
Repose thy weary soul; worn out with care,
And rough unhappy thought.
May
Masinissa
Ne'er want the goodness he has shewn to me.
SCENE III.
MASINISSA, NARVA.
The danger's o'er, I've heard the
Syren
's song,
Yet still to glory hold my steady course.
I mark'd thy kind concern, thy friendly fears,
And own them just; for she has beauty,
Narva,
So full, so perfect, with so great a soul
Inform'd, so pointed high with spirit,
As strikes like lightning from the hand of
Jove,
And raises love to glory.
Ah, my Prince!
Too true, it is too true; her fatal charms
Are powerful, and to
Masinissa
's heart
But know the way too well. And art thou sure,
That the soft poison, which within thy veins
Lay unextinguish'd, is not rouz'd a new?
Is not this moment working thro' thy soul?
Doft thou not love? Confess.
What said my friend,
Of poison? love? of loving
Sopkon sba?
Yes, I admire her, wonder at her beauty;
And he who does not is as dull as earth,
The cold unanimated form of man,
E'er lighted up with the celestial fire.
Wheree'r she goes still admiration gazes,
And listens while she talks. Even thou thy self,
Who saw'st her with the malice of a friend,
Even thou thy self admir'st her.—Dost thou not?
Say, speak sincerely.
She has Charms indeed;
But has she charms like virtue? Tho' majestic;
Does she command us, is her force like glory?
All glory's in her eye! Perfection thence
Looks from his throne; and on her ample brow
Sits majesty. Her features glow with life,
Warm with heroic soul. Her mien!—she walks,
As when a towering goddess treads this earth.
But when her language flows; when such a one
Descends to sooth, to sigh, to weep, to grasp
The tottering knee; oh!
Narva, Narva,
oh.!
Expression here is dumb.
Alas! my Lord,
Is this the talk of sober admiration?
Are these the sallies of a heart at ease?
Of
Scipio
's friend? And was it the calm sense
Of fair perfection, that, the while she kneel'd
For what you rashly promis'd, seiz'd your soul;
Stole out in secret transports from your eye;
That writh'd you groaning round, and shook your Frame.
I tell thee once again, too cautious man,
That when a woman begs, a matchless woman,
A woman once belov'd, a fallen queen,
A
Sophonisba!
when she twines her charms
Around our soul, and all her power of looks,
Of tears, of sighs, of softness, plays upon us;
He's more or less than man who can resist her.
For me, my stedfast soul approves, nay more,
Exults in the protection it has promis'd.
And nought, tho' plighted honour did not bind me,
Shall shake the happy purpose of my heart;
Nought, by th'avenging gods! who heard my vow,
And hear me now again.
And was it then
For this you conquer'd?
Yes, and triumph in it.
This was my fondest wish; the very point,
The plume of glory, the delicious prize
Of bleeding years. And I had been a brute,
A greater monster than
Numidia
breeds,
A horror to my self; if on the ground,
Cast vilely from me, I th'illustrious fair one
Had left to bondage, bitterness, and death.
Nor is there ought in war worth what I feel;
In pomp and hollow state, like this sweet sense
Of infelt bliss; which the reflection gives me,
Of saving thus such excellence and beauty
From her supreme abhorrence.
Masinissa,
My friend! my royal lord! alas! you slide,
You sink from virtue. On the giddy brink
Of fate you stand.—One step, and all is loft!
No more, no more! if this is being lost.
If this, mistaken! is forsaking virtue,
And rushing down the precipice of fate;
Then down I go, far far beyond the din
Of scrupulous dull precaution.—Leave me,
Narva.
I want to be alone, to find some Shade,
Some solitary gloom; there to shake off
This weight of life, this tumult of mankind,
This sick ambition on it self recoiling;
And there to listen to the gentle voice,
The sigh of peace, something, I know not what,
That whispers transport to my heart.—Farewel.
SCENE IV.
NARVA
alone.
Struck, and he knows it not.—So when the field,
Elate in heart, the warriour scorns to yield;
The streaming blood can scarce convince his eyes;
Nor will he feel the wound by which he dies.
The End of the Second Act.
ACT III. SCENE I.
MASINISSA
alone.
I N vain I wander thro' the shade for peace;
'Tis with the calm alone, the pure of heart,
That there the goddess talks—But in my breast
Some busy thought, some secret-eating pang,
Throbs inexpressible; and rowls from—What?
From charm to charm, on
Sophonisba
still
Earnest, intent, devoted all to her.
Oh it must out!—'Tis love, almighty love!
Returning on me with a stronger tide.
I'll doubt no more, but give it up to love.
Come to my breast, thou rosy-smiling god!
Come unconfin'd! bring all thy joys along,
All thy soft cares, and mix them copious here.
But why invoke I thee? Thy power is weak,
To
Sophonisba
's eye, thy quiver poor,
To the resistless lightning of her form;
And dull thy bare insinuating arts,
To the sweet mazes of her flowing tongue.
Quick, let me fly to her; and there forget
This tedious absence, war, ambition, noise,
Even friendship's self, the vanity of fame,
And all but love, for love is more than all!
SCENE II.
MASINISSA, NARVA.
Welcome again, my friend,—Come nearer,
Narva
;
Lend me thine arm, and I will tell thee all,
Unfold my secret heart, whose every pulse
With
Sophonisba
beats.—Nay hear me out—
Swift, as I mus'd, the conflagration spread;
At once too strong, too general, to be quench'd.
I love, and I approve it, doat upon her,
Even think these minutes lost I talk with thee.
Heavens! what emotions have possess'd my soul!
Snatch'd by a moment into years of passion.
Ah
Masinissa!
—
Argue not against me.
Talk down the circling winds that lift the desart;
And, touch'd by Heaven, when all the forests blaze,
Talk down the flame, but not my stronger love.
I have for love a thousand thousand reasons,
Dear to the heart, and potent o'er the soul.
My ready thoughts all rising, restless all,
Are a perpetual spring of tenderness;
Oh!
Sophonisba! Sophonisba!
oh!
Is this deceitful day then come to nought?
This day, that set thee on a double throne?
That gave thee
Syphax
chain'd, thy deadly foe?
With perfect conquest crown'd thee, perfect glory?
Is it so soon eclips'd? and does yon sun,
Yon setting sun, who this fair morning saw thee
Ride through the ranks of long extended war,
As radiant as himself; with every glance
Wheeling the pointed files; and, when the storm
Began, beheld thee tread the rising surge
Of battle high, and drive it on the foe;
Does he now, blushing, see thee sunk so weak?
Caught in a smile? the captive of a look?
I cannot name it without tears.
Away!
I'm sick of war, of the destroying trade,
Smooth'd o'er, and gilded with the name of glory.
Thou need'st not spread the martial field to me;
My happier eyes are turn'd another way,
Behold it not; or, if they do, behold it
Shrunk up, far off, a visionary scene;
As to the waking man appears the dream.
Or rather as realities appear,
The virtue, pomp, and dignities of life,
In sick disorder'd dreams,
Think not I scorn
The task of heroes, when oppression rages,
And lawless violence confounds the world.
Who would not bleed with transport for his country,
Tear every dear relation from his heart,
And greatly die to make a people happy;
Ought not to taste of happiness himself,
And is low-soul'd indeed—But sure, my friend,
There is a time for love, or life were vile!
A sickly circle of revolving days,
Led on by hope, with senseless hurry fill'd,
And clos'd by disappointment. Round and round,
Still hope for ever wheels the daily cheat;
Impudent hope! unjoyous madness all!
Till lóve comes stealing in, with his kind hours,
His healing lips, his cordial sweets, his cares.
Infusing joy, his joys ineffable!
That make the poor account of life compleat,
And justify the Gods.
Mistaken Prince,
I blame not love. But—
Slander not my passion.
I've suffer'd thee too far.—Take heed, old man.—
Love will not bear an accusation,
Narva.
I'll speak the truth, when truth and friendship call,
Nor fear thy frown unkind.—Thou hast no right
To
Sophonisba
; she belongs to
Rome.
Ha! she belongs to
Rome.
—'Tis true—My thoughts
Where have you wander'd, not to think of this?
Think e'er I promis'd? e'er I lov'd?—Confusion!
I know not what I say—I should have lov'd,
Tho'
Jove
in muttering thunder had forbid it.
But
Rome
will not refuse so small a boon,
Whose gifts are kingdoms;
Rome
must grant it sure,
One captive to my wish, one poor request,
So small to them, but oh so dear to me!
Here let my heart confide.
Delusive love!
Thro' what wild projects is the frantick mind
Beguil'd by thee?—And think'st thou that the
Romans,
The senators of
Rome,
these gods on earth,
Wise, steady to the right, severely just,
All incorrupt, and like eternal fate
Not to be mov'd, will listen to the sigh
Of idle love? They, when their country calls,
Who know no pain, no tenderness, no joy,
But bid their children bleed before their eyes;
That they'll regard the light fantastick pangs
Of a fond heart? and with thy kingdom give thee
Their most inveterate foe; from their firm side,
Like
Syphax,
to delude thee? and the point
Of their own bounty on themselves to turn?
Thou canst not hope it sure.—Impossible!
What shall I do?—Be now the friend exerted.
For love and honour press me; love and honour,
All that is dear and excellent in life,
All that or sooths the man or lifts the heroe,
Bind my soul deep.
Rash was your vow, my lord.
I know not what to counsel.—When you vow'd,
You vow'd what was not in your power to grant;
And therefore 'tis not binding.
Never! Never!
Oh never will I falsify that vow!
E'er then destruction seize me! Yes, ye
Romans,
If it be so, there, take your kingdoms back,
Your royal gewgaws, all for
Sophonisba!
Hold,—Let me think a while—It shall be so!
By all th'inspiring gods that prompt my thought!
This very night shall solemnize our vows;
And the next joyous sun, that visits
Afric,
See
Sophonisba
seated on my throne.—
Then if they spare her not,—not spare my queen,—
Perdition on their stubborn pride call'd virtue!
Be theirs the world, but
Sophonisha
mine!
And is it possible, ye Gods, that rule us!
Can
Masinissa
in his pride of youth,
In his meridian glory shining wide,
The light of
Afric,
and the friend of
Scipio
;
He take a woman to the nuptial bed,
Who scorn'd him for a tyrant, old, and peevish,
His rancorous foe? and gave her untouch'd bloom,
Her spring of charms to
Syphax?
Horrid friendship!
This, this, has thrown a serpent to my heart;
While it o'erflow'd with tenderness, with joy,
With all the sweetness of exulting love.
Now nought but gall is there, and burning poison!
Yes, it was so!—Curse on her vain ambition!
What had her medling sex to do with states?
The Business of men! For him! for
Syphax!
Forsook for him! my love for his gross passion!
The thought is hell!—Oh I had treasur'd up
A world of indignation, years of scorn;
But her sad suppliant witchcraft sooth'd it down.
Where is she now? That it may burst upon her;
Bear her unbounded from me, down the torrent,
Far, far away! And tho' my plighted faith,
Shall save her from the
Romans,
yet to tell her,
That I will never, never see her more!
Ha! there she comes.—Pernicious fair one!—Leave me.
SCENE III.
SOPHONISBA, MASINISSA.
Forgive this quick return.—The rage, confusion,
And mingled passions of this luckless day,
Made me forget another warm request
I had to beg of generous
Masinissa
;
For oh to whom, save to the generous, can
The miserable fly?—But much disturb'd
You look, and scowl upon me a denial.
Repentance frowns on your contracted brow.
Already, weary of my sinking fate,
You seem to droop; and for unhappy
Syphax
I shall implore in vain.
For
Syphax?
vengeance!
And canst thou mention him? Oh grant me breath!
I know, young prince, how deep he has prov ok'd thee;
How keen he sought thy youth; thro' what a fire
Of great distress, from which you come the brighter.
On dull indifferent objects, or perhaps
Dislik'd a little, 'tis but common bounty
To shower relief; but when our bitterest foe
Lies sunk, disarm'd, and desolate, then! then!
To feel the mercies of a pitying God,
To raise him from the dust, and that best way
To triumph o'er him, is heroic goodness.
Oh let unhappy
Syphax
touch thy heart,
Victorious
Masinissa!
Monstrous this!
Still dost thou blast me with that cursed name!
The very name thy conscious guilt should shun.
Oh had he heap'd all ills upon my head,
While it was young, and for the storm unfit;
Had he but driven me from my native throne,
From regal pomp and luxury, to dwell
Among the forest beasts; to bear the beam
Of red
Numidian
suns, and the rank dew
Of cold unshelter'd nights; to mix with wolves,
To hunt with hungry tygers for my prey,
And thirst with
Dipsas
on the burning sand;
I could have thank'd him for his angry lesson;
The fair occasion that his rage afforded
Of learning patience, fortitude, and hope,
Still rising stronger on incumbent fate,
And all that try'd humanity can dictate.
But there is one curs'd bitterness behind,
One injury, the man can never pardon;
That scorches up the tear in pity's eye,
And even sweet mercy's self converts to gall.
I cannot—will not name it—Heart of anguish!
Down! down!
Ah! whence this sudden storm? this madness,
That hurries all thy soul?
And dost thou ask?
Ask thy own faithless heart; snatch'd from my Vows,
From the warm wishes of my springing youth,
And given to that old hated monster,
Syphax.
Perfidious
Sophonisba!
Nay no more.
With too much truth I can return thy charge.
Why didst thou drive me to that cruel choice?
Why leave me, with my country, to destruction?
Why break thy love? thy faith? and join the
Romans?
By heavens! the
Romans
were my better genius,
Sav'd me from fate, and form'd my youth to glory;
But for the
Romans
I had been a savage,
A wretch like
Syphax,
a forgotten thing,
The tool of
Carthage.
Meddle not with
Carthage,
Impatient youth, for that I will not bear;
Tho' here I were a thousand fold thy slave.
Not one base word of
Carthage
—on thy soul!
How vain thy phrenzy! Go, command thy slaves,
Thy fools, thy
Syphaxes
; but I will speak,
Speak loud of
Carthage,
call it false, ungenerous,
—Yet shall I check me, since it is thy country?
While the
Romans
are the light, the glory—
Romans!
Perdition on the
Romans!
—and almost
On the too—
Romans
are the scourge
Of the red world, destroyers of mankind,
The ruffians, ravagers of earth; and all
Beneath the smooth dissimulating mask
Of justice, and compassion; as if slave
Was but another name for civiliz'd.
All vengeance on the
Romans!
—While fair
Carthage
Unblemish'd rises on the base of commerce;
And asks of heaven nought but the general winds,
And common tides, to carry plenty, joy,
Civility, and grandeur, round the world.
No more compare them! for the gods themselves
Declare for
Rome.
It was not always so.
The gods declar'd for
Hannibal
; when
Italy
Blaz'd all around him, all her streams ran blood,
All her incarnate vales were vile with death;
And when at
Trebia, Thrasymene,
and
Cannae,
The
Carthaginian
sword with
Roman
blood
Was drunk—Oh that he then, on that dread day,
While lifeless consternation blacken'd
Rome,
Had raz'd th' accursed city to the ground,
And sav'd the world!—When will it come again,
A day so glorious, and so big with vengeance,
On those my soul abhors?
Avert
heaven!
The
Romans
not enslave, but save the world
From
Carthaginian
rage.—
I'll bear no more!
Nor tenderness, nor life, nor liberty,
Nothing shall make me bear it.—Perish
Rome!
And all her menial friends!—Yes, rather, rather,
Detested as ye are, ye
Romans,
take me,
Oh pitying take me to your nobler chains!
And save me from this abject youth, your slave!
—How canst thou kill me thus?—
I meant it not.
I only meant to tell thee, haughty fair one!
How this alone might bind me to the
Romans
;
That, in a frail and sliding hour, they snatch'd me
From the perdition of thy love; which fell,
Like baleful lightning, where I most could wish,
And prov'd destruction to my mortal foe.
Oh pleasing! fortunate!
I thank them too.
By heavens! for once, I love them; since they turn'd
My better thoughts from thee, thou—But I will not
Give thee the name, thy mean servility
From my just scorn deserves.
Oh freely call me,
By every name thy fury can inspire;
Enrich me with contempt—I love no more—
It will not hurt me,
Sophonisba.
—Love,
Long since I gave it to the passing winds,
And would not be a lover for the world.
A lover is the very fool of nature;
Made sick by his own wantonness of thought,
His feaver'd fancy: while, to your own charms
Imputing all, you swell with boundless pride.
Shame on the wretch! who should be driven from men,
To live with
Asian
slaves, in one soft herd,
All wretched, all ridiculous together.
For me, this moment, here I mean to bid
Farewel, a glad farewel to love and thee.
With all my soul, farewel!—Yet, ere you go;
Know that my spirit burns as high as thine,
As high to glory, and as low to love.
Thy promises are void; and I absolve thee,
Here in the presence of the listning gods.—
Take thy repented vows—To proud
Cornelia
I'd rather be a slave, to
Scipio
's mother;
Than queen of all
Numidia,
by the favour
Of him, who dares insult the helpless thus.
(Pausing.)
Still dost thou stay? behold me then again,
Hopeless, and wild, a lost abandon'd slave.
And now thy brutal purpose must be gain'd.
Away, thou cruel, and ungenerous, go!
No, not for worlds would I resume my vow!
Dishonour blast me then! all kind of ills
Fill up my cup of bitterness, and shame!
When I resign thee to triumphant
Rome.
Oh lean not thus dejected on the ground!
The sight is misery.—what roots me here?
(Aside)
Alas! I have urg'd my foolish heart too far;
And love depress'd, recoils with greater force.
Oh
Sophonisha!
By thy pride she dies.
Inhuman prince!
Thine is the conquest, nature!
By heaven and earth! I cannot hold it more.
Wretch that I was! to crush th' unhappy thus;
The fairest too, the dearest of her sex!
For whom my soul could dye!—Turn, quickly turn,
O
Sophonisha!
my belov'd! my glory!
Turn and forgive the violence of love,
Of love that knows no bounds!
And can it be?
Can that soft passion prove so fierce of heart,
As on the tears of misery, the sighs
Of death, to
? to torture what it loves?
Yes it can be, thou goddess of my soul!
Whose each emotion is but varied love,
All over love, its powers, its passions, all:
Its anger, indignation, fury, love;
Its pride, disdain, even detestation, love;
And when it, wild, resolves to love no more,
Then is the triumph of excessive love.
Didst thou not mark me? mark the dubious rage,
That tore my heart with anguish while I talk'd?
Thou didst; and must forgive so kind a fault.
What would thy trembling lips?
That I must die.
For such another storm, so much contempt
Thrown out on
Carthage,
so much Praise on
Rome,
Were worse than death. Why should I longer tire
My weary fate? The most relentless
Roman
What could he more?
Oh
Sophonisba,
hear!
See me thy suppliant now. Talk not of death.
I have no life but thee.—Alas! Alas!
Hadst thou a little tenderness for me,
The smallest part of what I feel, thou wouldst—
What wouldst thou not forgive? But how indeed
How can I hope it? Yet I from this moment,
Will so devote my being to thy pleasure,
So live alone to gain thee; that thou must,
If there is human nature in thy breast,
Feel some relenting warmth.
Well, well, 'tis past.
To be inexorable suits not slaves.
Spare, spare that word; it stabs me to the soul;
My crown, my life, and liberty are thine.
Oh give my passion way! My heart is full,
Oppress'd by love; and I could number tears,
With all the dews that sprinkle o'er the morn;
While thus with thee conversing, thus with thee
Even happy to distress.—Enough, enough,
Have we been cheated by the trick of state,
For
Rome
and
Carthage
suffer'd much too long;
And led, by gaudy fantoms, wander'd far,
Far from our bliss. But now since met again,
Since here I hold thee, circle all perfection,
The prize of life! since fate too presses hard,
Since
Rome
and slavery drive thee to the brink;
Let this immediate night exchange our vows,
Secure my bliss, our future fortunes blend,
Set thee, the queen of beauty, on my throne,
And make it doubly mine.—A wretched gift
To what my love could give!
What? marry thee,
This night?
Thou dear one! yes, this very night,
Let injur'd
Hymen
have his rights restor'd,
And bind our broken vows.—Think, serious, think!
On what I plead.—A thousand reasons urge.—
Captivity dissolves thy former marriage;
And if 'tis with the meanest vulgar so,
Can
Sophonisba
to a slave, to
Syphax,
The most exalted of her sex, be bound?
Besides it is the best, perhaps sole way,
To save thee from the
Romans
; and must sure
Bar their pretensions: or if ruin comes,
To perish with thee is to perish happy.
Yet must I still insist.—
It shall be so.
I know thy purpose; it would plead for
Syphax.
He shall have all, thou dearest! shall have all,
Crowns, trifles, kingdoms, all again, but thee,
But thee, thou more than all!
(Aside)
Bear witness heaven!
This is alone for
Carthage.
(To him)
Gain'd by goodness,
I may be thine. Expect no love, no sighing.
Perhaps, hereafter, I may learn again
To hold thee dear. If on these terms thou canst,
Here take me, take me, to thy wishes.
Yes,
Yes,
Sophonisba!
as a wretch takes life
From off the bleeding rack.—All wild with joy,
Thus hold thee, press thee, to my bounding heart;
And bless the bounteous Gods.—Can heaven give more?
Oh happy! happy! happy!—Come, my fair,
This ready minute sees thy will perform'd;
From
Syphax
knocks his chains; and I my self,
Even in his favour, will request the
Romans.
Oh, thou hast smil'd my passions into peace!
So, while conflicting winds embroil'd the Seas,
In perfect bloom, warm with immortal blood,
Young
Venus
rear'd her o'er the raging flood;
She smil'd around, like thine her beauties glow'd;
When smooth, in gentle swells, the surges flow'd;
Sunk, by degrees, into a liquid plain;
And one bright calm sat trembling on the main.
The End of the Third Act.
ACT IV. SCENE I.
SOPHONISBA, PHOENISSA.
H AIL queen of
Masaesylia
once again!
And fair
Massylia
join'd! This rising day
Saw
Sophonisba,
from the height of life,
Thrown to the very brink of slavery:
State, honours, armies vanquish'd; nothing left
But her own great unconquerable mind.
And yet, ere evening comes, to larger power
Restor'd, I see my royal friend; and kneel
In grateful homage to the Gods, and her.
Ye Powers, what awful changes often mark
The fortunes of the great!
Phoenissa,
true;
'Tis awful all, the wonderous work of fate.
But ah! this sudden marriage damps my soul;
I like it not, that wild precipitance
Of youth, that ardor, that impetuous stream
In which his love return'd. At first, my friend,
He vainly rag'd with disappointed love;
And, as the hasty storm subsided, then
To softness varied, to returning fondness,
To sighs, to tears, to supplicating vows;
But all his vows were idle, till at last
He shook my heart by
Rome.
—To be his queen,
Could only save me from their horrid power.
And there is madness in that thought, enough
In that strong thought alone to make me run
From nature.
Was it not auspicious, madam?
Just as we hop'd? just as our wishes plan'd?
Nor let your spirit sink. Your serious hours,
When you behold the
Roman
ravage check'd,
From their enchantment
Masinissa
freed,
And
Carthage
mistress of the world again,
This marriage will approve: then will it rise
In all its glory, virtuous, wise and great,
While happy nations, then deliver'd, join
Their loud acclaim. And, had the white occasion
Neglected flown, where now had been your hopes?
Your liberty? your country? where your all?
Think well of this, think that, think every way,
And
Sophonisba
cannot but exult
In what is done.
So may my hopes succeed!
As love alone to
Carthage,
to the public,
Led me a marriage-victim to the temple,
And justifies my vows.—Ha!
Syphax
here!
What would his rage with me?—
Phoenissa,
stay.
But this one tryal more—Heroic truth,
Support me now!
SCENE II.
SYPHAX, SOPHONISBA, PHOENISSA.
You seem to fly me, madam,
To shun my gratulations.—Here I come,
To join the general joy; and I, sure I,
Who have to dotage, have to ruin lov'd you,
Must take a tender part in your success,
In your recover'd state.
'Tis very well.
I thank you, sir.
And gentle
Masinissa,
Say, will he prove a very coming fool?
All pliant, all devoted to your will?
A glorious wretch like
Syphax?
—Ha! not mov'd!
Speak, thou perfidious! canst thou bear it thus?
With such a steady countenance? canst thou
Here see the man thou hast so grosly wrong'd,
And yet not sink in shame? And yet not shake
In every guilty nerve?
What have I done,
That I should tremble? that I should not dare
To bear thy presence? Was my heart to blame,
I'd tremble for my self, and not for thee,
Proud man! Nor would I live to be asham'd.
My soul it self would die, could the least shame
On her unspotted fame be justly cast:
For of all evils, to the generous, shame
Is the last deadly-pang.—But you behold
My late engagement with a jealous, false,
And selfish eye.
Avenging
Juno,
hear!
And canst thou think to justify thy self?
I blush to hear thee, traitress!
O my soul!
Canst thou hear this, this base opprobrious language,
And yet be tamely calm?—Well, well, for once
It shall be so—in pity to thy madness—
Impatient spirit down!—Yes,
Syphax,
yes,
Yes I will greatly justify my self;
Even by the consort of the thundering
Jove,
Who binds the holy marriage-vow, be judg'd.
And every public heart, not meanly lost
In little low pursuits, to wretched self
Not all devoted, will absolve me too.
But in the tempest of the soul, when rage,
Loud indignation, unattending pride,
And jealousy confound it, how can then
The nobler passions, how can they be heard?
Yet let me tell thee—
Thou canst tell me nought.
Away! away! nought but illusion, falshood—
My heart will burst, in honour to my self,
If here I speak not; tho' they rage, I know,
Can never be convinc'd, yet shall it be
Confounded.—And must I renounce my freedom?
Forgoe the power of doing general good?
Must yield my self the slave, the barbarous triumph
Of insolent, enrag'd, inveterate
Rome?
And all for nothing but to grace thy fall?
Nay by my self to perish for thy pleasure?
For thee, the
Romans
may be mild to thee;
But I, a
Carthaginian,
I, whose blood
Holds unrelenting enmity to theirs;
Who have my self much hurt them, and who live
Alone to work them woe; what, what can I
Hope from their vengeance, but the very dregs
Of the worst fate, the bitterness of bondage?
Yet thou, thou kind man, wouldst in thy generous love,
Wouldst have me suffer that; be bound to thee,
For that dire end alone, beyond the stretch
Of nature, and of law.
Confusion! Law!
I know the laws permit thee, the gross laws
That rule the vulgar. I'm a captive, true;
And therefore may'st thou plead a shameful right
To leave me to my chains—But say, thou base one!
Ungrateful! say, for whom am I a captive?
For whom these many years with war, and death,
Defeats, and desolation have I liv'd?
For whom has battle after battle bled?
For whom my crown, my kingdom, and my all,
Been vilely cast away? For whom this day,
This very day, have I been stain'd with slaughter?
With yon last reeking field?—For one, ye gods!
Who leaves me for the victor, for the wretch
I hold in utter endless detestation.
Fire! fury! hell!—Oh I am richly paid!—
But thus it is to love a woman—Woman!
The source of all disaster, all perdition!
Man in himself is social, would be happy,
Too happy; but the gods, to keep him down,
Curs'd him with woman! fond, enchanting, smooth,
And harmless seeming woman; while at heart
All poison, serpents, tygers, furies, all
That is destructive, in one form combin'd,
And gilded o'er with beauty!
Hapless man!
I pity thee; this madness only stirs
My bosom to compassion, not to rage.
Think as you list of our unhappy sex,
Too much subjected to your tyrant force;
Yet know that all, we were not all, at least,
Form'd for your trifles, for your wanton hours.
Our passions too can sometimes soar above
The houshold task assign'd us, can expand
Beyond the narrow sphere of families,
And take in states into the panting heart,
As well as yours, ye partial to yourselves!
And this is my support, my joy, my glory,
The Conscience that my heart abhors all baseness,
And of all baseness most ingratitude.
This sure affronted honour may declare,
With an unblushing cheek.
False, false as Hell!
False as your sex! when it pretends to virtue.
You talk of honour, conscience, patriotism.
A female patriot!—Vanity!—Absurd!
Even doating dull credulity would laugh
To scorn your talk. Was ever Woman yet
Had any better purpose in her eye,
Than how to please her pride or wanton will?
In various shapes, and various manners, all,
All the same plagues, or open, or conceal'd,
The bane of life!
Must I then, must I,
Syphax,
Give thee a bitter proof of what I say?
I would not seem to heighten thy distress,
Not in the least insult thee; thou art fallen,
So fate severe has will'd it, fallen by me.
I therefore have been patient; from another,
Such language, such indignity, had fir'd
My soul to madness. But since driven so far,
I mu stremind thy blind injurious rage
Of our unhappy Marriage.—
Horror!—Oh!
Blot it eternal night!
Allow me,
Syphax!
Hear me but once! If what I here declare
Shines not with reason, and the clearest truth;
May I be base, despis'd, and dumb for ever!
I pray thee think, when unpropitious
Hymen
Our hands united, how I stood engag'd.
I need not mention what full well thou know'st.
But pray recal, was I not flatter'd? young?
With blooming life elate, with the warm years
Of vanity? sunk in a passion too,
Which few resign? Yet then I married thee,
Because to
Carthage
deem'd a stronger friend;
For that alone. On these conditions, say,
Didst thou not take me, court me to thy throne?
Have I deceiv'd thee since? Have I dissembled?
To gain one purpose,
pretended what
I never felt? Thou
say I have.
And if that
inspir'd
My marrying
cannot now
Be wrong. Nay since my native city wants
Assistance more, and sinking calls for aid,
Must be more right—
This reasoning is insult!
I'm sorry that thou dost oblige me to it.
Then in a word take my full-open'd soul.
All love, but that of
Carthage,
I despise.
I formerly to
Masinissa
thee
Preferr'd not, nor to thee now
Masinissa,
But
Carthage
to you both. And if preferring
Thousands to one, a whole collected people,
All nature's tenderness, whate'er is sacred,
The liberty the welfare of a state,
To one man's frantic happiness, be shame;
Here,
Syphax,
I invoke it on my head!
This set aside; I, careless of my self,
And, scorning prosperous state, had still been thine,
In all the depth of misery proudly thine!
But since the public good, the law supreme,
Forbids it; I will leave thee with a kingdom,
The same I found thee, or not reign my self.
Alas! I see thee hurt—Why cam'st thou here,
Thus to inflame thee more?
Why sorceress? why?
Thou complication of all deadly mischief!
Thou lying, soothing, specious, charming fury!
I'll tell thee why—To breathe my great revenge;
To throw this load of burning madness from me;
To stab thee!—
Ha!—
—And, springing from thy heart,
To quench me with thy blood!
(Phoenissa interposes)
Off, give me way!
Phoenissa
; tempt not thou his brutal rage.
Me, me, he dares not murder: if he dares,
Here let his fury strike; for I dare die.
What holds thy trembling point?
Guards!
Seize the king.
But look you treat him well, with all the state
His dignity demands.
Goodness from thee
Is the worst death,—The
Roman
trumpets!—Ha!
Now I bethink me,
Rome
will do me justice.
Yes, I shall see thee walk the slave of
Rome
;
Forget my wrongs, and glut me with the sight.
Be that my best revenge.
Inhuman! that,
If there is death in
Afric,
shall not be.
SCENE III.
LAELIUS, SYPHAX.
Syphax!
alas, how fallen! how chang'd! from what
I here beheld thee once in pomp, and splendor;
At that illustrious interview, when
Rome
And
Carthage
met beneath this very roof,
Their too great generals,
Asdrubal
and
Scipio,
To court thy friendship. Of the same repast
Both gracefully partook, and both reclin'd
On the same couch: for personal distaste
And hatred seldom burn between the brave.
Then the superiour virtues of the
Roman
Gain'd all thy heart. Even
Asdrubal
himself,
With admiration struck and just despair,
Own'd him as dreadful at the social feast
As in the battle. This thou may'st remember;
And how thy faith was given before the Gods,
And sworn and seal'd to
Scipio
; yet how false
Thou since has prov'd, I need not now recount:
But let thy sufferings for thy guilt attone,
The captive for the king. A
Roman
tongue
Scorns to pursue the triumph of the sword,
With mean upbraidings.
Laelius,
'tis too true.
Curse on the cause!
But where is
Masinissa?
The brave young victor, the
Numidian Roman!
Where is he? that my joy, my glad applause,
From envy pure, may hail his happy state.
Why that contemtuous smile?
Too credulous
Roman,
I smile to think how that this
Masinissa,
This
Rome
-devoted heroe, must still more
Attract thy praises by a late exploit.
In every thing successful.
What is this?
These public shouts? A strange unusual joy
O'er all the captive city blazes wide.
What wanton riot reigns to night in
Cirtha?
Within these conquer'd walls?
This,
Laelius,
is
A night of triumph o'er my conqueror,
O'er
Masinissa.
Masinissa!
How?
Why he to night is married to my queen.
Impossible!—
Yes, she, the fury! she,
Who put the nuptial torch into my hand,
That set my throne, my palace, and my kingdom,
All in a blaze—she now has seiz'd on him.
Will turn him soon from
Rome
—I know her power,
Her lips distil unconquerable poison.
O glorious thought!—will sink this hated youth,
Will crush him deep, beneath the mighty ruins
Of falling
Carthage.
Can it be? Amazement!
Nay learn it from himself.—He comes—Away!
Ye furies snatch me from his sight! For hell,
Its tortures all are gentle to the presence
Of a triumphant rival?
What is man?
SCENE IV.
MASINISSA, LAELIUS.
Thou more than partner of this glorious day!
Which has from
Carthage
torn her chief support,
And tottering left her, I rejoice to see thee—
To
Cirtha
welcome,
Laelius.
—Thy brave legions
Now taste the sweet repose by valour purchas'd;
This city pours refreshment on their toils.
I order'd
Narva
—
Thanks to
Masinissa.
All that is well. I here observ'd the king,
But loosely guarded. True, indeed, from him
There is not much to fear. The dangerous spirit,
Still not unworthy fear, our matchless prize,
Is his imperious queen, is
Sophonisba.
The pride, the rage of
Carthage
live in her.
How? where is she?
She,
Laelius?
In my care.
Think not of her. I'll answer for her conduct.
Yes, if in chains. Till then, believe me, prince,
It were as hopeful answering for the winds,
That their broad pinions will not rouze the desart;
Or that the darted Lightning will be harmless;
As promise peace from her.—But why so dark?
You shift your place, your countenance grows warm.
It is not usual this in
Masinissa.
Pray what offence can asking for the queen,
The
Roman
captive give?
Laelius,
no more.
You know my marriage.—
Syphax
has been busy—
It is unkind to dally with my passion.
Ah,
Masinissa!
was it then for this,
Thy hurry hither from the recent battle?
Is the first instance of the
Roman
bounty
Thus, thus abus'd? They give thee back thy kingdom;
And in return are of their captive robb'd;
Of all they valued,
Sophonisba.
—
Robb'd!
How,
Laelius?
Robb'd!
Yes,
Masinissa,
robb'd.
What is it else? But I, this very night,
Will here assert the majesty of
Rome
;
And, mark me, tear her from the nuptial bed.
Oh Gods! oh patience! As soon, fiery
Roman!
As soon thy rage might from her azure sphere
Tear yonder moon.—The man who seizes her,
Shall set his foot first on my bleeding heart.
Of that be sure.—And is it thus ye treat
Your firm allies? Thus kings in friendship with you?
Of human passions strip them?—Slaves indeed!
If thus deny'd the common privilege
Of nature, what the weakest creatures claim,
A right to what they love.
Out! out!—For shame!
This passion makes thee blind. Here is a war,
Which desolates the nations, has almost
Laid waste the world. How many widows, orphans,
And love-lorn virgins pine for it in
Rome!
Even her great senate droops; her nobles fail;
Her
Circus
shrinks; her every
lustre
thins,
Nature her self, by frequent prodigies,
Seems at this havock of her works to sicken:
And our
Ausonian
plains are now become
A horror to the sight: At each sad step,
Remembrance weeps. Yet her, the greatest prize
It hitherto has yielded; her, whose charms
Are only turn'd to whet its cruel point;
Thou to thy wedded breast hast taken her:
Hast purchas'd thee her beauties by a sea
Of thy protector's blood; and on a throne
Set her, this day recover'd by their arms.
Canst thou thy self, thou, think of it with patience?
Nor to a
Roman
mention King.—A
Roman
Would scorn to be a king.—The
Roman
people
Took liberty from out the very dust,
And for great ages urg'd it to the skies,
The dread of kings!
Be not so haughty,
Laelius.
It scarce becomes the gentle
Scipio
's friend;
Suits not thy wonted ease, the tender manners
I still have mark'd in thee. I honour
Rome
;
But honour too my self, my vows, my queen:
Nor will, nor can, I tamely hear thee threaten
To seize her like a slave.
I will be calm.
This thy rash deed, this unexpected shock,
Such a peculiar injury to me,
Thy friend and fellow-soldier, has perhaps
Snatch'd me too far. For hast thou not dishonour'd,
By this last action, a successful war?
Our common charge, entrusted us by
Scipio.
Ay, there it is.—Has not thy vain ambition,
(Oh where is friendship!) plan'd her for thy triumph?
To think on't, death! to think it is dishonour.
At such a sight, the warriour's eye might wet
His burning cheek; and all the
Roman
matrons,
Who line the laurel'd way, asham'd, and fad,
Turn from a captive brighter than themselves.
But
Scipio
will be milder.
I disdain
This thy surmise, and give it up to
Scipio.
Those passions are not comely.—Here to morrow
Comes the proconsul. Mean time,
Masinissa,
Ah harden not thy self in flattering hope!
Scipio
is mild, but steady.—Ha! the queen.
I think she hates a
Roman.
—and will leave thee.
SCENE V.
SOPHONISBA, MASINISSA.
Was not that
Roman Laelius,
as I enter'd,
Who parted gloomy hence?
Madam, the same.
Unhappy
Afric!
since these haughty
Romans
Have in this lordly manner trod thy courts.
I read his fresh reproaches in thy face;
The lesson'd pupil in thy fallen look,
In that forc'd smile which sickens on thy cheek.
Oh say not so, thou rapture of my soul!
For while I see thee, meditate thy charms,
I smile as cordial as the sun in may;
Deep from the heart, in every sense of joy
I fondly smile.
Nay, tell me,
Masinissa
;
How feels their tyranny, when 'tis brought home?
When, lawless grown, it touches what is dear?
Pomp for a while may dazle thoughtless man,
False glory blind him; but there is a time,
When ev'n the slave in heart will spurn his chains,
Nor know submission more.—What said his pride?
His disappointment for a moment only
Burst in vain passion▪ and—
You stood aba
'd;
You bore his threats, and tamely-silent heard him,
Heard the fierce
Roman
mark me for his triumph.
Oh bitter!
Banish that unkind suspicion.
The thought enflam'd my soul. I vow'd my life,
My last
Massylian
to the sword, ere he
Shou'd touch thy freedom with the least dishonour.
But that from
Scipio
—
Scipio!
That from him—
I tell thee,
Masinissa,
if from him
I gain my freedom, from my self conceal it.
I shall disdain such freedom.
Sophonisba!
Thou all my heart holds precious! doubt no more.
Nor
Rome,
nor
Scipio,
nor a world combin'd
Shall tear thee from me; till outstretch'd I lie,
A nameless wretch!
If thy protection fails,
Of this at least be sure, be very sure,
To give me timely death.
Cease thus to talk,
Of death of
Romans,
of unkind Ambition.
My softer thoughts those rugged themes refuse,
Can turn alone to love.—All, all, but thee,
All nature is a passing dream to me.
Fix'd in my view, thou dost for ever shine,
Thy form forth-beaming from the soul divine▪
A spirit thine, which mortals might adore;
Despising love, and thence creating more.
Thou the high passions, I the tender prove,
Thy heart was form'd for glory, mine for love.
The End of the Fourth Act.
ACT V. SCENE I.
MASINISSA, NARVA.
H Ail to the joyous day! With purple clouds,
The whole horizon glows. The breezy
Spring
Stands loosely-floating on the mountain-top,
And deals her sweets around. The sun too seems,
As conscious of my joy, with brighter eye
To look abroad the world; and all things smile
Like
Sophonisba.
Love and friendship sure
Have mark'd this day from out their choicest stores;
For beauty rais'd by dignity and virtue,
With all the graces all the loves embellish'd;
Oh
Sophonisba
's mine! and
Scipio
comes!
My lord, the trumpets speak his near approach.
I want his secret audience—Leave us,
Narva.
SCENE II.
SCIPIO, MASINISSA.
Scipio!
more welcome than my tongue can speak!
Oh greatly, dearly welcome!
Masinissa!
My heart beats back thy joy.—A happy friend,
With laurel green, with conquest crown'd, and glory;
Rais'd by his prudence, fortitude, and valour,
O'er all his foes; and on his native throne,
Amidst his rescu'd shouting subjects, set:
Say, can the gods in lavish bounty give
A sight more pleasing?
My great friend! and patron!
It was thy timely thy restoring arm,
That brought me from the fearful desart-life;
To live again in state, and purple splendor.
And now I wield the sceptre of my fathers,
See my dear people from the tyrant's scourge,
From
Syphax
freed; I hear their glad applauses;
And, to compleat my happiness, have gain'd
A friend worth all. O gratitude, esteem,
And love like mine, with what divine delight
Ye fill the heart!
Heroic youth! thy virtue
Has earn'd whate'er thy fortune can bestow.
It was thy patience,
Masinissa,
patience,
A champion clad in steel, that in the waste
Attended still thy step, and sav'd my friend
For better days. What cannot patience do?
A great design is seldom snatch'd at once;
'Tis patience heaves it on. From savage nature,
'Tis patience that has built up human life,
The nurse of arts! and
Rome
exalts her head
An everlasting monument of patience.
If I have that, or any virtue,
Scipio,
'Tis copy'd all from thee.
No
Masinissa,
'Tis all unborrow'd, the spontaneous growth
Of nature in thy breast.—Friendship for once
Must, tho' thou blushest, wear a liberal tongue;
Must tell thee, noble youth, that long experience,
In councils, battles, many a hard event,
Has found thee still so constant, so sincere,
So wise, so brave, so generous, so humane,
So well attemper'd, and so fitly turn'd
For what is either great or good in life,
As casts distinguish'd honour on thy country;
And cannot but endear thee to the
Romans.
For me, I think my labours all repaid,
My wars in
Afric. Masinissa
's friendship
Smiles at my soul. Be that my dearest triumph,
To have assisted thy forlorn estate,
And lent a happy hand in raising thee
To thy paternal throne, usurp'd by
Syphax.
The greatest service could be done my country,
Distracted
Afric,
and Mankind in general,
Was aiding sure thy cause. To put the power,
The public power, into the good man's hand,
Is giving plenty, life, and joy to millions.
But has my friend, since late we parted armies;
Since he with
Laelius
acted such a brave,
Auspicious part against the common foe;
Has he been blameless quite? has he consider'd,
How pleasure often on the youthful heart,
Beneath the rosy soft disguise of love;
(All sweetness, smiles, and seeming innocence)
Steals unperceiv'd, and lays the victor low?
I would not, cannot, put thee to the pain—
—It pains me deeper—of the least reproach.—
Let thy too faithful memory supply
The rest.
(Pausing)
Thy silence, that dejected look,
That honest colour flushing o'er thy cheek,
Impart thy better soul.
Oh my good lord!
Oh
Scipio!
Love has seiz'd me, tyrant love
Inthralls my soul. I am undone by love!
And art thou then to ruin reconcil'd?
Tam'd to destruction? Wilt thou be undone?
Resign the towering thought? the vast design,
With future glories big? the warriour's wreathe?
The glittering files? the trumpets sprightly clang?
The praise of senates? an applauding world?
The patriot's statue, and the heroes triumph?
All for a sigh? all for a soft embrace?
For a gay transient fancy,
Masinissa?
For shame, my friend! for honour's sake, for glory!
Sit not with folded arms, despairing, weak,
And careless all, till certain ruin comes:
Like a sick virgin sighing to the gale,
Unconquerable love!
How chang'd indeed!
The time has been, when, fir'd from
Scipio
's tongue,
My soul had mounted in a flame with his.—
Where is ambition flown? Hopeless attempt!
Can love like mine be quell'd? Can I forget
What still possesses, charms my thoughts for ever
Throw scornful from me what I hold most dear?
Not feel the force of excellence? To joy
Be dead? And undelighted with delight?
Soft, let me think a moment—no! no! no!—
I am unequal to thy virtue,
Scipio!
Fie,
Masinissa,
fie! By heavens! I blush
At thy dejection, this degenerate language.
What! perish for a woman! Ruin all,
All the fair deeds which an admiring world
Hopes from thy rising day; only to sooth
A stubborn fancy, a luxurious will?
How must it, think you, sound in future story?
Young
Masinissa
was a virtuous prince,
And
Afric
smil'd beneath his early ray;
But that a
Carthaginian
captive came,
By whom untimely in the common fate
Of love he fell. The wise will scorn the page.
And all thy praise be some fond maid exclaiming,
Where are those lovers now?—O rather, rather,
Had I ne'er seen the vital light of heaven,
Than like the vulgar live, and like them die!
Ambition sickens at the very thought.—
To puff, and bustle here from day to day,
Lost in the passions of inglorious life,
Joys which the careless brutes possess above us.
And when some years, each duller than another,
Are thus elaps'd, in nauseous pangs to die;
And pass away, like those forgotten things,
That soon become as they had never been.
And am I dead to this?
The gods, young man,
Who train up heroes in misfortune's school,
Have shook thee with adversity, with each
Illustrious evil, that can raise, expand,
And fortify the mind. Thy rooted worth
Has stood these wintry blasts, grown stronger by them.
Shall then in prosperous times, while all is mild,
All vernal, fair; and glory blows around thee;
Shall then the
dead Serene
of pleasure come,
And lay thy faded honours in the dust?
O gentle
Scipio!
spare me, spare my weakness.
Remember
Hannibal
—A signal proof,
A fresh example of destructive pleasure.
He was the dread of nations, once of
Rome!
When from
Bellona
's bosom, nurs'd in camps,
And hard with toil, he down the rugged
Alps
Rush'd in a torrent over
Italy
;
Unconquer'd, till the loose delights of
Capua
Sunk his victorious arm, his genius broke,
Perfum'd, and made a lover of the heroe.
And now he droops in
Bruttium,
fear'd no more,
Sinks on our borders like a scatter'd storm.
Remember him; and yet resume thy spirit,
Ere it is quite dissolv'd.
Shall
Scipio
stoop,
Thus to regard, to teach me wisdom thus;
And yet a stupid anguish at my heart
Repel whate'er he says?—But why, my lord,
Why should we kill the best of passions, love?
It aids the heroe, bids ambition rise,
Turns us to please, inspires immortal deeds,
Even softens brutes, and makes the good more good.
There is a holy tenderness indeed,
A nameless sympathy, a fountain-love;
Branch'd infinite from parents to their children,
From child to child, from kindred on to kindred,
In various streams, from citizen to citizen,
From friend to friend, from man to man in general;
That binds, supports, and sweetens human life.
But is thy passion such?—List,
Masinissa,
While I the hardest office of a friend
Discharge; and, with a necessary hand,
A hand tho' harsh at present really tender,
I paint this passion. And if then thou still
Art bent to sooth it, I must sighing leave thee,
To what the Gods think fit.
O never,
Scipio!
O never leave me to my self! Speak on.
I dread, and yet desire thy friendly hand.
I hope that
Masinissa
need not now
Be told, how much his happiness is mine;
With what a warm benevolence I'd spring
To raise, confirm it, to prevent his wishes.
O luxury to think!—But while he rages,
Burns in a fever, shall I let him quaff
Delicious poison for a cooling draught,
In foolish pity to his thirst? shall I
Let a swift flame consume him as he sleeps,
Because his dreams are gay? shall I indulge
A frenzy flash'd from an infectious eye?
A sudden impulse unapprov'd by reason?
Nay by thy cool deliberate thought condemn'd?
Resolv'd against?—A passion for a woman,
Who has abus'd thee basely? left thy youth,
Thy love as sweet as tender as the spring,
The blooming heroe for the hoary tyrant?
And now who makes thy sheltering arms alone
Her last retreat, to save her from the vengeance,
Which even her very perfidy to thee
Has brought upon her head?—Nor is this all.—
A woman who will ply her deepest arts,
(Ah too prevailing, as appears already)
Will never rest, till
Syphax
' fate is thine;
Till friendship weeping flies; we join no more
In glorious deeds, and thou fall off from
Rome?
I too could add, that there is something mean,
Inhuman in thy passion. Does not
Syphax,
While thou rejoicest, die? The generous heart
Should scorn a pleasure which gives others pain.
If this, my friend, all this consider'd deep,
Allarm thee not, not rouze thy resolution,
And call the heroe from his wanton slumber,
Then
Masinissa
's lost.
Oh, I am pierc'd!
In every thought am pierc'd! 'Tis all too true.—
I wish I could refuse it.—Whither, whither,
Thro' what inchanted wilds have I been wandering?
They seem'd
Elysium,
the delightful plains,
The happy groves of heroes and of lovers:
But the divinity that breathes in thee
Has broke the charm, and I am in a desart;
Far from the land of peace. It was but lately
That a pure joyous calm o'erspread my soul,
And reason tun'd my passions into bliss;
When love came hurrying in, and with rash hand,
Mix'd them delirious, till they now ferment
To misery.—There is no reasoning down
This deep, deep anguish! this continual pang!
A thousand things! whene'er my raptur'd thought
Runs back a little.—But I will not think.—
And yet I must—Oh Gods! that I could lose
What a fond few hours memory has grav'd
On adamant.
But one strong effort more,
And the fair field is thine—A conquest far
Excelling that o'er
Syphax.
What remains,
Since now thy madness to thy self appears,
But an immediate manly resolution,
To shake off this effeminate disease;
These soft ideas, which seduce thy soul,
Make it all idle, unaspiring, weak,
A scene of dreams; to puff them to the winds,
And be my former friend, thy self again?
I joy to find thee touch'd by generous motives;
And that I need not bid thee recollect,
Whose awful property thou hast usurp'd;
Need not assure thee, that the
Roman
people,
The senators of
Rome,
will never suffer
A dangerous woman, their devoted foe,
A woman, whose irrefragable spirit
Has in great part sustain'd this bloody war,
Whose charms corrupted
Syphax
from their side,
And fir'd embattled nations into rage;
Will never suffer her, when gain'd so dear,
To ruin thee too, taint thy faithful breast,
And kindle future war. No, fate it self
Is not more steady to the right than they.
And, where the public good but seems concern'd,
No motive their impenetrable hearts,
Nor fear nor tenderness, can touch: such is
The spirit, that has rais'd
Imperial Rome.
Ah killing truth!—But I have promis'd,
Scipio!
Have sworn to save her from the
Roman
power.
My plighted faith is pass'd, my hand is given.
And, by the conscious gods! who mark'd my vows▪
The whole united world shall never have her.
For I will die a thousand thousand deaths,
With all
Massylia
in one field expire;
Ere to the lowest wretch, much more to her
I love, to
Sophonisba,
to my queen,
I violate my word.
My heart approves
Thy resolution, thy determin'd honour.
For ever sacred be thy word, and oath.
Virtue by virtue will alone be clear'd,
And scorns the crooked methods of dishonour.
But, thus divided, how to keep thy faith
At once to
Rome
and
Sophonisba
; how
To save her from our chains, and yet thyself
From greater bondage; this thy secret thought
Can best inform thee.
Agony! Distraction!
These wilful tears!—O look not on me,
Scipio!
For I'm a child again.
Thy tears are no reproach.
Tears oft look graceful on the manly cheek.
The Cruel cannot weep. Even Friendship's eye
Gives thee the drop it would refuse itself.
I know 'tis hard, wounds every bleeding nerve
About thy heart, thus to tear off thy passion.
But for that very reason,
Masinissa,
'Tis hop'd from thee. The harder, thence results
The greater glory.—Why should we pretend
To conquer, rule mankind, be first in power,
In great assemblies, honour, place, and pleasure,
While slaves at heart? while by fantastick turns
Our frantic passions rage? The very thought
Should turn our pomp to shame, our sweet to bitter;
And, when the shouts of millions meet our ears,
Whisper reproach.—O ye celestial powers!
What is it, in a torrent of success,
To bear down nations, and o'erflow the world?
All your peculiar favour. Real glory
Springs from the silent conquest of ourselves;
And without that the conqueror is nought
Save the first slave.—Then rouze thee,
Masinissa!
Nor in one weakness all thy virtues lose;
And oh beware of long, of vain repentance!
Well! well! no more.—It is but dying too!
SCENE III.
SCIPIO
alone.
I wish I have not urg'd the truth to rigour!
There is a time when virtue grows severe,
Too much for nature, and even almost cruel.
SCENE IV.
SCIPIO, LAELIUS.
Poor
Masinissa, Laelius,
is undone;
Betwixt his passion and his reason tost
In miserable conflict.
Entering,
Scipio,
He shot athwart me, nor vouchsaf'd one look.
Hung on his clouded brow I mark'd despair,
And his eye glaring with some dire resolve.
Fast o'er his cheek too ran the hasty tear.
It were great pity that he should be lost!
By heavens! to lose him were a shock, as if
I lost thee,
Laelius,
lost my dearest brother,
Bound up in friendship from our infant years.
A thousand lovely qualities endear him,
Only too warm of heart.
What shall be done?
Here let it rest, till time abates his passion.
Nature is nature,
Laelius,
let the Wise
Say what they please. But now perhaps he dies.—
Haste! haste! and give him hope—I have not time
To tell thee what.—Thy prudence will direct—
Whatever is consistent with my honour,
My duty to the publick, and my friendship
To him himself, say, promise, shall be done.
I hope returning reason will prevent
Our farther care.
I fly with joy.
His life
Not only save, but
Sophonisba
's too:
For both I fear are in this passion mixt.
It shall be done.
SCENE V.
SCIPIO
alone.
If friendship pierces thus,
When love pours in his added violence,
What are the pangs which
Masinissa
feels!
SCENE VI.
SOPHONISBA, PHOENISSA.
Yes,
Masinissa
loves me—Heavens! how fond!
But yet I know not what hangs on my spirit,
A dismal boding; for this fatal
Scipio,
I dread his virtues, this prevailing
Roman,
Even now perhaps deludes the generous king,
Fires his ambition with mistaken glory,
Demands me from him; for full well he knows,
That, while I live, I must intend their ruin.
Madam, these fears—
And yet it cannot be.
Can
Scipio,
whom even hostile fame proclaims
Of perfect honour, and of polish'd manners,
Smooth, artful, winning, moderate, and wise,
Make such a wild demand? Or, if he could,
Can
Masinissa
grant it? give his queen,
Whom love and honour bind him to protect,
Yield her a captive to triumphant
Rome?
'Tis baseness to suspect it; 'tis inhuman.
What then remains?—Suppose they should resolve
By right of war to seize me for their prize.
Ay, there it kills!—What can his single arm,
Against the
Roman
power? that very power
By which he stands restor'd? Distracting thought!
Still o'er my head the rod of bondage hangs.
Shame on my weakness!—This poor catching hope,
This transient taste of joy, will only more
Imbitter death.
A moment will decide.
Madam, till then—
Would I had dy'd before!
And am I dreaming here? Here from the
Romans,
Beseeching I may live to swell their triumph?
When my free spirit should ere now have join'd
That great assembly, those devoted shades,
Who scorn'd to live till liberty was lost,
But ere their country fell, abhorr'd the light.
Whence this pale slave? he trembles with his message.
SCENE VII.
SOPHONISBA, PHOENISSA
; and to them a
SLAVE,
with a letter and poison from
MASINISSA.
This, Madam, from the King, and this.
Ha!—Stay—
(Reads the Letter.)
Rejoice,
Phoenissa!
Give me joy, my friend!
For here is liberty! My fears are air!
The hand of
Rome
can never touch me more!
Hail! perfect freedom, hail!
How? what? my queen!
Ah what is this?
(Pointing to the poison.)
The first of blessings, death.
Alas! alas! can I rejoice in that?
Shift not thy colour at the sound of death;
For death appears not in a dreary light,
Seem not a blank to me; a losing all
Those fond sensations, those enchanting dreams,
Which cheat a toiling world from day to day,
And form the whole of happiness they know.
It is to me perfection, glory, triumph.
Nay, fondly would I chuse it, tho' persuaded
It were a long dark night without a morning,
To bondage far prefer it! since it is
Deliverance from a world where
Romans
rule,
Where violence prevails—And timely too—
Before my country falls; before I feel
As many stripes, as many chains, and deaths,
As there are lives in
Carthage.
—Glorious charter!
By which I hold immortal life and freedom,
Come, let me read thee once again.—And then,
To thy great purpose.
(Reads the letter aloud.)
MASINISSA to his QUEEN.
The Gods know with what pleasure I would have kept my faith to
Sophonisba
in another manner. But since this fatal bowl can alone deliver thee from the
Romans
: call to mind thy father, thy country, that thou hast been the wife of two kings; and act up to the dictates of thy own heart. I will not long survive thee.
Oh, 'tis wondrous well!
Ye Gods of death! who rule the
Stygian
gloom,
Ye who have greatly dy'd! I come! I come!
I die contented, since I die a queen;
By
Rome
untouch'd, unsullied by their power;
So much their terror that I must not live.
And thou, go tell the king, if this is all
The nuptial present he can send his bride,
I thank him for it—But that death had worn
An easier face before I trusted him.
His poison, tell him too, he might have spar'd,
These times may want it for himself; and I
Live not of such a cordial unprovided.
Add, hither had he come, I could have taught
Him how to die.—I linger not, remember,
I stand not shivering on the brink of life;
And, but these votive drops, which grateful thus
(Taking them from the poison)
To
Jove
the high
Deliverer
I shed,
Assure him that I drank it, drank it all,
With an unalter'd smile—Away.
(Drinks.)
SCENE VIII.
SOPHONISBA, PHOENISSA.
My friend!
In tears, my friend! Dishonour not my death
With womanish complaints. Weep not for me,
Weep for thy self,
Phoenissa,
for thy country,
But not for me. There is a certain hour,
Which one would wish all undisturb'd and bright,
No care, no sorrow, no dejected passions,
And that is when we die; when hence we go,
Ne'er to be seen again; then let us spread
A bold exalted wing, and the last voice
We hear be that of wonder and applause.
Who with the patriot wishes not to die!
And is the sacred moment then so near?
The moment, when yon sun, those heavens, this earth
Hateful to me, polluted by the
Romans,
And all the busy slavish race of men,
Shall sink at once; and strait another state,
New scenes, new joys, new faculties, new wonders,
Rise on a sudden round: but this the gods
In clouds and horror wrap, or none would live!
How liberal is death!—Methinks, I seem
To touch the happy shore.—Behind me frowns
A stormy sea, with tossing mortals thick;
While, unconfin'd and green, before me lies
The land of bliss, and everlasting freedom:
Where walk the mighty dead; all of one mind,
One blooming smile, one language, and one country.
Oh to be there!—my breast begins to burn;
My tainted heart grows sick.—Ah me!
Phoenissa,
How many virgins, infants, tender wretches,
Must feel these pangs, ere
Carthage
is no more!
Soft—lead me to my couch—My shivering Limbs,
Do this last office, and then rest for ever.
I pray thee weep not, pierce me not with groans.
The king too here.—Nay then my death is full!
SCENE IX.
SOPHONISBA, PHOENISSA, MASINISSA, LAELIUS, NARVA.
Has
Sophonisha
drank this cursed bowl?
Oh horror! horror! what a sight is here!
Had I not drank,
Masinissa,
then,
I had deserv'd it.
Exquisite distress!
Oh bitter, bitter fate! And this last hope
Compleats my woe.
When will these ears be deaf,
To misery's complaint? These eyes be blind,
To mischief wrought by
Rome?
Too soon! too soon!—
Ah why so hasty? But a little while,
Hadst thou delay'd this horrid draught; I then
Had been as happy, as I now am wretched!
What means this talk of hope? of coward waiting?
What have I done? Oh heavens! I cannot think
Without distraction, hell, and burning anguish,
On my rash deed!—But, while I talk, she dies!
And how? what? where am I then?—Say, canst thou
Forgive me,
Sophonisba?
Yes, and more,
More than forgive thee, thank thee,
Masinissa.
Hadst thou been weak, and dally'd with my freedom,
Till by proud
Rome
enslav'd; that injury
I never had forgiven.
I came with life!
Laelius
and I from
Scipio
hasted hither;
But Death was here before us—this vile poison!
With life!—There was some merit in the poison;
But this destroys it all.—And couldst thou think
Me mean enough to take it?—Oh!
Phoenissa,
This mortal toil is almost at an end.—
Receive my parting soul.
Alas, my queen!
Dies! dies! and scorns me!—Mercy!
Sophonisba!
Grant one forgiving look, while yet thou canst;
Or death it self, the grave cannot relieve me:
But with the furies join'd, my frantic ghost
Will how
for ever.—Quivering! and pale!
Have I done this?
Come nearer,
Masinissa.
—
Out! stubborn nature!—
Misery! these pangs
To me transfer'd were ease.—A moment only!
An agonizing moment! while I have
An age of things to say!
We, but for
Rome,
Might have been happy.—Rouze thee now, my soul!
The cold deliverer comes.—Be mild to
Syphax!
—
In my surviving friend behold me still!—
Farewell!—'Tis done.—O never, never,
Carthage,
Shall I behold thee more!
(Dies.)
Dead! dead! oh dead!
Is there no death for me?
(Snatches
Laelius
's sword to stab himself.)
Hold,
Masinissa!
And wouldst thou make a coward of me,
Laelius?
Have me survive that murder'd excellence?
Did she not stir? Ha! Who has shock'd my brain!
It whirls, it blazes.—Was it thou, old man?
Alas! alas!—good
Masinissa,
softly!
Let me conduct thee to thy couch.
The grave
Were welcome.—But ye cannot make me live!
Oppress'd with life!—Off!—crowd not thus around me!
For I will hear, see, think no more!—Thou sun,
Keep up thy hated beams! And all I want
Of thee, kind earth, is an immediate grave!
Ay, there she lyes!—Why to that pallid sweetness
Can not I, Nature! lay my lips, and die!
(Throws himself beside her.)
See there the ruins of the noble mind,
When from calm reason passion tears the sway.
What pity she should perish!—Cruel war,
'Tis not the least misfortune in thy train,
That oft by thee the brave destroy the brave.
She had a
Roman
soul; for every one
Who loves, like her, his country is a
Roman.
Whether on
Afric
's sandy plains he glows,
Or lives untam'd among
Riphoean
snows;
If parent-liberty the breast inflame,
The gloomy
Libyan
then deserves that name:
And, warm with freedom, under frozen skies,
In farthest
Britain Romans
yet may rise.
The End of the Fifth Act.
EPILOGUE.
By a FRIEND.
Spoken by Mrs.
CIBBER.
NOW, I'm afraid, the modest taste in vogue
Demands a strong, high-season'd epilogue.
Else might some silly soul take pity's part,
And odious virtue sink into the heart.
Our squeamish author scruples this proceeding;
He says it hurts sound morals, and good breeding:
Nor
Sophonisba
would he here produce,
A glaring model, of no private use.
Ladies, he bid me say, behold your
Cato.
What tho' no
Stoic
she, nor read in
Plato?
Yet sure she offer'd, for her country's sake,
A sacrifice, which
Cato
could not make—
—Already, now, these wicked men are sneering,
Some wresting what one says, and others leering.
I vow they have not strength for—public spirit.
That, ladies, must be your superior merit.
Mercy forbid! we should lay down our lives;
Like these old,
Punic,
barbarous, heathen wives.
Spare
christian
blood.—But sure the devil's in her,
Who for her country would not lose a pinner.
—Lard! how could such a creature shew her face?
How?—Just as you do there—thro'
Brussels
Lace.
The
Roman
fair, the public in distress,
Gave up the dearest ornaments of dress.
How much more cheaply might you gain applause?
—One yard of
Ribban,
and two ells of
Gause.
And
Gause
each deep-read critic must adore;
Your
Roman
ladies dress'd in
Gause
all o'er.
Should you, fair patriots, come to dress so thin;
How clear might all your—sentiments be seen.
To foreign looms no longer owe your charms;
Nor make their trade more fatal than their arms.
Each
British
dame, who courts her country's praise,
By quitting these
outlandish
modes, might raise
(Not from yon powder'd band, so thin, and spruce)
Ten able-bodied men, for—public use.
But now a serious word about the play.—
Auspicious smile on this his first essay,
Ye generous
Britons!
your own sons inspire;
Let your applauses fan their native fire.
Then other
Shakespears
yet may rouze the stage,
And other
Otways
melt another age.
FINIS.
A
NUPTIAL SONG,
intended to have been inserted in the
Fourth Act.
COME, gentle
Venus!
and asswage
A warring world, a bleeding age.
For nature lives beneath thy ray,
The wintry tempests haste away,
A lucid calm invests the sea,
Thy native deep is full of thee;
And flowering earth, where'er you fly,
Is all o'er spring, all sun the sky.
A genial spirit warms the breeze;
Unseen, among the blooming trees,
The feather'd lovers tune their throat,
The desart growls a soften'd note,
Glad o'er the meads the cattle bound,
And love and harmony go round.
But chief, into the human heart
You strike the dear delicious dart;
You teach us pleasing pangs to know,
To languish in luxurious woe,
To feel the generous passions rise,
Grow good by gazing, mild by sighs;
Each happy moment to improve,
And fill the perfect year with love.
Come, thou delight of heaven and earth!
To whom all creatures owe their birth;
Oh come, red-smiling! tender, come!
And yet prevent our final doom.
For long the furious god of war
Has crush'd us with his iron car,
Has rag'd along our ruin'd plains,
Has curs'd them with his cruel stains,
Has clos'd our youth in endless sleep,
And made the widow'd virgin weep.
Now let him feel thy wonted charms;
Oh take him to thy twining arms!
And, while thy bosom heaves on his,
While deep he prints the humid kiss,
Ah then! his stormy heart controul,
And sigh thy self into his soul.
Thy son too,
Cupid,
we implore,
To leave the green
Idalian
shore;
Be he, sweet god! our only foe;
Long let him draw the twanging bow,
Transfix us with his golden darts,
Pour all his quiver on our hearts,
With gentler anguish make us sigh,
And teach us sweeter deaths to die.
ERRATA.
PAGE
3. Line 3.
read
fair-seeming
instead of
fair seeming.
Page
32. Line 17.
read
Ere
for
E'er.
Page
38. Line 9.
read
to
for
on.
Page
45. Line 10.
read
thy
for
they.
Page
46. Line 13.
read
harmless-seeming
for
harmless seeming.
Just published the following BOOKS, printed for
A. MILLAR.
1. COllections relating to the History of
Mary
Queen of
Scotland
; containing a great Number of original Papers never before printed: Also a few scarce Pieces reprinted, taken from the best Copies, by the learned and judicious
James Anderson,
Esq
late Post-Master-General, and Antiquary of
Scotland:
With an explanatory Index of the obsolete Words; and Prefaces shewing the Importance of these Collections, in 4 Vols. on a fine imperial Paper, and a most beautiful Letter, 4
to.
2. Spring, a Poem, the Second Edition, by Mr.
Thomson.
3. An Essay on the Education of a young
British
Nobleman after he leaves the Schools; to which is added, some Observations on the Office of an Ambassador.
4. A System of Heraldry, Speculative and Practical: With the true Art of
Blazon,
according to the most approved Heralds in
Europe.
Illustrated with suitable Examples of armorial Figures at Atchievements of the most considerable Surnames and Families in
Scotland,
&c. Together with Historical and Genealogical Memorials relating thereto. By
Alex. Nisbett,
Esq
Folio.
Soon will be publish'd
6. The History of the Church under the Old Testament from the Creation of the World; with a particular Account of the State of the
Jews
before and after the
Babylonish
Captivity, and down to the present Time: Wherein the Affairs and Learning of
Heathen
-Nations before the Birth of
Christ,
are also illustrated; to which is adjoyned a Discourse to promote the Conversion of the
Jews
to
Christianity,
by
Robert Millar,
M. A.