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Enter ORANO, L.

ORA. Treachery has revealed our asylum in the rocks. Even now the foe assails the peaceful band retired for protection there.

AL. (c.) Lose not a moment! Swords, be quick! Your wives and children cry to you. Bear our lov'd hero's body in the van; 'twill raise the fury of our men to madness.— Now, fell Pizarro! the death of one of us is near!-Away! be the word of assault, Revenge and Rolla.

[Exeunt Alonzo and Ataliba, 1. [Soldiers take up the body, and bear it off L., folloved by Cora and Child, and Army-Charge, L.

SCENE IV.-A Recess among the Rocks.

Enter PIZARRO, Almagro, Valverde, and Spanish Soldiers,

R. U. E.

Pız. (c.) Well!—if surrounded, we must perish in the centre of them. Where do Rolla and Alonzo hide their heads,

Enter ALONZO, ORANO, and Peruvians, L.

AL. (L.) Alonzo answers thee, and Alonzo's sword shall speak for Rolla.

Piz. Thou know'st the advantage of thy numbers. Thou dar'st not singly face Pizarro.

AL. (L. c.) Peruvians, stir not a man! Be this contest only ours.

Piz. (R. c.) Spaniards!-observe ye the same.

They fight.-Alonzo is disarmed, and is beat down. Piz. Now, traitor, to thy heart.

[Elvira enters in black.—Pizarro, appalled, staggers back. -Alonzo recovers his sword, renews the fight, and slays him.

ATALIBA enters, L., and embraces Alonzo.

ATA. My brave Alonzo!

ALM. Alonzo, we submit. Spare us! we will embark, and leave the coast.

VAL. Elvira will confess I sav'd her life; she has sav'd

thine.

AL. Fear not. You are safe.

[Spaniards ground their arms. ELV. Valverde speaks the truth; nor could he think to meet me here. An awful impulse, which my soul could not resist, impelled me hither.

AL. Noble Elvira! my preserver! How can I speak what I, Ataliba, and his rescued country, owe to thee! If amid this grateful nation thou wouldst remain

ELV. (c.) Alonzo, no! the destination of my future life is fix'd. Humbled in penitence I will endeavour to atone the guilty errors, which, however mask'd by shallow cheerfulness, have long consum'd my secret heart. When, by my sufferings purified and penitence sincere, my soul shall dare address the Throne of Mercy in behalf of others, for thee, Alonzo, for thy Cora, and thy child—for thee, thou virtuous monarch, and the innocent race thou reign'st over, shall Elvira's prayers address the God of Nature.—Valverde, thou hast preserved my life. Cherish humanity, avoid the foul examples thou hast view'd. Spaniards, returning to your native home, assure your rulers they mistake the road to glory or to power. Tell them that the pursuits of avarice, conquest, and ambition, never yet made a people happy, or a nation great.

[Takes a last look of Pizarro's body, and exit, R. Body borne off, R. S. E.-Flourish of Trumpets.

AL. Ataliba, think not I wish to check the voice of triumph, when I entreat we first may pay the tribute due to our loved Rolla's memory. [Exeunt, R.

DISPOSITION OF THE CHARACTERS AT THE FALL OF THE

CURTAIN.

[A solemn March. Enter L. U. E. a procession of Peruvian Soldiers, bearing Rolla's Body on a bier, —Choir form up the R. and L. of the stage.-Bier placed in the c., the feet toward the audience.-High Priest stands at the head.-Cora, with her Child, weeping R. of the bier, and bending over it.—Ataliba and Alonzo on the L., also bending over it.-Guards stand across background.-Solemn chorus.-Virgins and Priests kneel round the bier.

DIRGE.-Priests and Priestesses.

Let tears of gratitude and woe
For the brave Rolla ever flow!

[Curtain slowly descends.

THE END.

Prologue.

WRITTEN BY R. SHERIDAN.

Chill'd by rude gales, while yet reluctant May
Withholds the beauties of the vernal day,

As somefond maid whom matron frowns reprove,
Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love :
The season's pleasures, too, delay their hour,
And winter revels with protracted power :
Then blame not, Critics, if, thus late, we bring
A Winter Drama-but reproach-the Spring.
Whot prudent Cit dares yet the season trust,
Bask in his whiskey, and enjoy the dust?
Hors'd in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer spark
Achieves the Sunday triumph of the Park;
Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late,
Scour the New Road, and dash thro' Grosvenor Gate :
Anxious yet timorous, too!-his steed to show,
The hack Bucephalus of Rotten Row.
Careless he seems, yet, vigilantly sly,
Wooes the gay glance of ladies passing by,
While his off-heel, insidiously aside,
Provokes the caper which he seems to chide.
Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains;
The vulgar verdure of her walk remains!
Where night-rob'd misses amble two by two,
Nodding to booted beaux-" How'do, how'do?"
With generous questions, that no answer wait.
"How vastly full! A'n't you come vastly late?
"I'n't it quite charming? When do you leave town?
"A'n't you quite tired? Pray can't we sit down!
Those suburd pleasures of a London May,
Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay;

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Epilogue

WRITTEN BY THE HON. WILLIAM LAMB.

Ere yet suspense has still'd its throbbing fear,
Or Melancholy wip'd the grateful tear,
While e'en the miseries of a sinkind state,
A monarch's danger, and a nation's fate,
Command not now your eyes with grief to flow,
Lost in a trembling mother's nearer woe:
What moral lay shall poetry rehearse,
Or how shall elocution pour the verse
So sweetly, that its music shall repay
The lov'd illusion which it drives away?
Mine is the task, to rigid customs due,
To me ungrateful, as 'tis harsh to you,
To mar the work the tragic scene has wrought,
To rouse the mind that broods in pensive thought,
To scare reflection, which, in absent dreams,
Still lingers, musing on the recent themes;
Attention, ere with contemplation tir'd,

To turn from all that pleas'd, from all that fir'd;
To weaken lessons strongly now impress'd,
And chill the interest glowing in the breast→
Mine is the task; and be it mine to spare

The souls that pant, the griefs they see, to share;
Let me with no unhallowed jest deride

The sigh that sweet compassion owns with pride-
The sigh of comfort, to affliction dear,
That kindness heaves, that virtue loves to hear
E'en gay THALIA will not now refuse
This gentle homage to her sister-muse.

O ye, who listen to the plaintive strain,
With strange enjoyment, and with rapturous pain,
Who erst have felt the stranger's lone despair
And Haller's settled, sad, remorseless care,

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