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Tojoin with us, and sacrifice to justice. [E.cit. By cares on earth, and by my pray’rs to hear'n, Alt
. There is a heavy weight upon my senses; Were little for my fondness io bestow; A dismal, sullen stillness, that succeeds Why didst thou turn to folly then, and curse me? The storm of rage and grief, like silent death, Cal. Because my soul was rudely drawn After the tumult and the noise of life. Would it were death, as sure'tis wondrous like it, A poor, imperfect copy of my father; For I am sick of living; my soul's pallid, It was because I lov'd, and was a woman. She kindles not with anger or revenge;.
Sci. Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst Love was th' informing, active fire within :
been a cherubim; Now that is quench'd, the mass forgets to move, But of that joy, as of a gem long lost, And longs to mingle with its kindred earth: Beyond redemption gone, think we no more.
[Exit. Hast thou e'er dar'd to meditate on death ? ACT V.
Cal. I have, as on the end of shame and Scene I.-A Room hung with black; on one Side LOTHARIO's Body on
Sci. Ha! answer me! Say, hast thou coolly
a Bier; on the other a Table, with a Scull and other Tis not the stoic's lessons got; by rote,
tbought? Bones, a Book and a Lamp on it.
The pomp of words, and pedant dissertations, Calista is discovered on a Couch, .in black; That can sustain thee in that hour of terror;
her Hair hanging loose and disordered. Books have taught cowards to talk nobly of it, After soft Music she rises and comes But when the trial comes they stand aghast; forward.
Hast thou consider'd what may happen after it? Cal. 'Tis well! these solemn sounds, this How thy account may stand, and what to pomp of borror,
answer? Are fit to feed the frenzy in my soul. Cal. I've turn'd my eyes inward upon myself, Here's room for meditation ev'n to madness, Where foul offence and shame have laid all Till the mind burst with thinking. This dull flame
waste; Sleeps in the socket. Sure the book was left Therefore my soul abhors she wretched dwelling, To tell me something;—for instruction then- And longs to find some better place of rest. He teaches holy sorrow and contrition, Sci. 'T'is justly thought, and worthy of that And penitence.-Is it become an art then?
spirit A trick that lazy, dull, luxurious gownmen That dwelt in ancient Latian breasts, when Rome Can teach us to do over? I'll no more on't: Was mistress of the world. I would go on,
[Throwing away the Book. And tell thee all my purpose; but it sticks I have more real anguish in my heart, Here at my heart, and cannot find a way. Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew. Cal. Then spare the telling, if it be a pain, What charnel has been rifled for these bones? And write the meaning with your poniard here. Fie! this is pageantry;—they look uncoutbly. Sci Oh! truly guess'd-seest thou this trembBut what of that, if he or she that own'd 'em
ling hand? Safe from disquiet sit, and smile to see
[Holding up a Dagger. The farce their miserable relics play? Thrice justice urgd—and thrice the slack'ning But here's a sight is terrible indeed!
sinews Is this that baughty, gallant, gay Lothario, Forgot their office, and confess'd the father. That dear, perfidious-Ah!-how pale he looks! At length the stubborn virtue has prevaild; And those dead eyes!
It must, it must be so-Oh! take it then, Ascend, ye ghosis, fantastic forms of night,
[Giving the Dagger. In all your diff'rent dreadful shapes ascend, And know the rest untaught. And match the present horror, if you can.
Cal. I understand you.
It is but thus, and both are satisfied.
[She offers to kill herself; Sciolto Sci. This dead of night, this silent hour of
catches hold of her arm. darkness,
Sci. A moment, give me yet a moment's space. Nature for rest ordain'd, and soft repose; The stern, the rigid judge has been obey'd; And yet distraction and tumultuous jars, Now nature, and the father, claim their turns. Keep all our frighted citizens awake: I've held the balance with an iron band, Amidst the gen'ral wreck, see where she stands, And put off ev'ry tender human thought,
[Pointing to Calista. To doom my child to death; but spare my eyes Like Helen, in the night when Troy was sack’d, The most unnat'ral sight, lest their strings crack, Spectatress of the mischief which she made. My old brain split, and I grow mad with horror.
Cal. It is Sciolto! Be thyself, my soul, Cal. Ha! is it possible? and is there yet
Sci. Oh! when I think what pleasure I took In the forlorn Calista.
in thee, Sci. Thou wert once
Whatjoys thou gav'st me in thy prattling infancy, My daughter.
Thy sprightly wit, and early blooming beauty; Cal. Happy were it I had dy'd,
How have I stood and fed my eyes upon thee, And never lost that name.
Then, lifting up my bands and wond'ring Sci. That's something yet;
bless'd thee; Thou wert the very darling of my age: By my strong grief, my heart ev'n melts withI thought the day too short to gaze upon thee, That all the blessings I could gather for thee,'I could curse nature, and that tyrant, honour,
in me ;
For making me thy father and thy judge; That, were I not abandon'd to destruction, Thou art my daughter still.
With thee I might have liv'd for ages bless'd, Cal. For that kind word,
And died in peace within thy faithful arms. Thus let me fall, thus humbly to the earth,
Enter Horario. Weep on your feet, and bless you for this goodness.
Hor. Now mourn indeed, ye miserable pair! Ob! tis too much for this offending wretch, For now the measure of your woes is full. This parricide, that murders with her crimes, The great, the good Sciolto dies this moment. Shortens her father's age, and cuts him off, Cal. My father! Ere little more than half his years be number'd. Alt. That's a deadly stroke indeed. Sci. Would it were otherwise - but thou Hor. Not long ago, he privately went forth, must die.
Attended but by few, and those unbidden. Cal. That I must die, it is my only comfort; I heard which way he took, and straight purDeath is the privilege of human nature,
.su'd him ; And life without it were not worth our taking: But found him compass'd by Lothario's faction, Come then,
Almost alone, amidst a crowd of foes. Thou meagre shade; here let me breathe my last, Too late we brought him aid, and drove them Charm'd with my father's pity and forgiveness,
back; More than if angels tun'd their golden viols, Ere that, his frantic valour had provok'd And sung a requiem to my parting soul. The death he seem'd to wish for from their swords. Sci. I'm summon'd hence; ere this my friends Cal. And dost thou bear me yet, thou paexpect me.
tient earth? There is I know not what of sad presage, Dost thou not labour with thy murd'rous weight? That tells me I shall never see thee more; And you, ye glitt'ring, heav'nly host of stars, If it be so, this is our last farewell,
Hide your fair heads in clouds, or I shall blast you; And these the parting pangs, which nature feels, For I am all contagion, death, and ruin, When anguish rends the heartstrings - Oh, And nature sickens at me. Rest, thou world, my daughter!
[Exit. This parricide shall be thy plague no more; Cal. Now think, thou cursd Calista, now Thus, thus I set thee free. Stabs herself. behold
Hor. Oh, fatal rashness!
Enter Sciolto, pale and bloody, supported Tbat loudly cry for vengeance on
by Servants. Yet hear'n, who knows our weak imperfect Cal. Oh, my heart ! natures,
Well may'st thou fail; for see, the spring that fed How blind with passions, and bow prone to evil, Thy vital stream is wasted, and runs low. Makes not too strict inquiry for offences, My father! will you now, at last, forgive me, But is alon'd by penitence and pray’r: If, after all my crimes, and all your suff'rings, Cheap recompense! here 'twould not be receiv'd; I call you once again by that dear name? Nothing but blood can make the expiation, Will you forget my shame, and those wide And cleanse the soul from inbred deep pollution.
wounds? And see, another injur'd wretch appears, Lift up your hand and bless me, ere I go To call for justice from my tardy hand. Down to my dark' abode!
Sci. Alas, my daughter!
Thou hast rashly ventur'd in a stormy sea, Alt. Hail to you, horrors! hail, thou house Where life, fame, virtue, all were wreck'd of death!
and lost. And thou, the lovely mistress of these shades, But sure thou hast borne thy part in all the Whose beauty gilds the more than midnight
And smarted with the pain. Then rest in peace : And makes it grateful as the dawn of day: Let silence and oblivion hide thy name, Oh, take me in, a fellow mourner, with ihee, And save thee from the malice of posterity;
groan, and tear for tear; And may'st thou find with heav'n the same And when the fountain of thy eyes are dry,
forgiveness, Mine shall supply the stream, and weep for both. As with thy father here.—Die, and be happy. Cal. I know thee well, thou art the injur'd. Cal. Celestial sounds! Peace dawns upon
Altamont! Thou com'st to urge me with the wrongs I've And ev'ry pain grows less-Oh, gentle Altamont! done thee;
Think not too hardly of me when I'm gone; But know I stand upon the brink of life, But pity me-Had I but early known And in a moment mean to set me free Thy wondrous worth, thou excellent young man, From shame and thy upbraiding.
We had been happier both—Now 'tis too late; Alt. Falsely, falsely
And yet my eyes take pleasure to behold thee; Dost thou accuse me! O, forbid me not Thou art their last dear object-Mercy, heav'n! To mourn thy loss,
[Dies. To wish some better fåte had ruld our loves, Sci. Oh, turn thee from that fatal object, And that Calista had been mine, and true.
Altamont! Cal. Oh, Altamont! 'tis hard for souls like mine, Come near, and let me bless thee ere I die. Naughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss. To thee and brave Horatio I bequeath But, oh, behold! my proud, disdainful heart My fortunes-Lay me by thy noble father, Bends to thy gentler virtue. Yes, I own,
And love my memory as thou hast his; Such is thy truth, thy tenderness, and love, For thou hast been my son-Oh, gracious heav'n!
I'll number groan
Thou that hast endless blessings still in store And bends him, like a drooping flow'r, to earth. For virtue and for filial piety,
By such examples are we taught to prove Let grief, disgrace, and want be far away; The sorrows that attend unlawful love. But multiply thy mercies on his head. Death, or some worse misfortune, soon divide Let honour, greatness, goodness, still be with him, The injur'd bridegroom from his guilty bride. And peace in all his ways
[Dies. If you would have the nuptial union last, Hor. The storm of grief bears hard upon Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast. his youth,
HU G H E S. This amiable man, and elegant author, was the son of a cilizen of London, and was born at Marlborough, in Willshire, on the 29th of Jan, 1677, but received the rudiments of his education in private schools at London. Even in the very earliest parts of life his genius seemed to show itself equally inclined to each of the three sister arts, music, poetry, and design, in all which he made a very considerable progress. To his excellence in these qualifications, his coetemporary and friend, Sir Richard Steele, bears the following extraordinary testimonial : “He may (says that author) be the emulation of more persons of diilerent talents than any one I have ever known. His head, lauds, or heart, were always employed in something worthy imitation. His pencil, his bow, or his pen, cach of which he used in a masterly manner, were always directed to raise and calertain his own mind, or that of others, to a more cheerful prosecution of what is noble and virtuous.” Such is the evidence borne to his talents by a writer of the first rank; yet he seems, for the most part, to have pursued these and other polite studies lille further than by the way of agreeable amusements, under frequent confinemepl, occasioned by indisposition and a valetudinarian state of health. Mr. Hogbes had, for some time, an oployment in the office of ordnance, and was secretary to two or three commissions under the great seal for the purchase of lands, in order to the better securing the docks and harbours at Portsmouth, Chalham, and Harwich. In the year 1717, the Lord Chancellor Con per, to whom our author had not long been known, thought proper, without any previous solicitation, to nominate him his secretary for the commissions of the peace, and to distinguish him with singular marks of his favour and affection; and, upon his Lordship’s laying down the great seal, be was, at the particular recommendation of this his patron, and with the ready concurrence of his successor the Earl of Macclesfield,' continued in the same employment, which he held till the time of his decease, the 17th, of Feb. 1719, being the very night on which his celebrated tragedy of The Siege of Damascus made its first appearance on the stage; when, after' a life mostly spent in pain and sickness, he was carried oll' by a consumption having but barely completed his 490 year, and at a period in which he had just arrived at an agreeable competence, and was advancing, with rapid steps, towards the pinnacle of fame and fortune. He was privately buried in the vault under the chancel of St Andrew's church, in Holborn.
THE SIEGE OF DAMASCUS.
ACTED at Drury Lane 1719. It is generally allowed, that the characters in this tragedy are finely varied and distinguished ; that the sentiments are just and well adapted to the characters; that it abounds with beautiful descriptions, apt allusions to the manners and opinions of the times wherein the scene is laid, and with noble morals; that the diczion is pure, unaffected and sublime, without any meteors of style or ambitious ornaments; and that the plot is conducted in a simple and clear manner, When it was oilered to the managers of Drury Lane House, in the year 1718, they refused to act it, unless the author made an alteration in the character of Phocyas, who, in the original, had been prevailed upon to profess himself a Mabomclan: pretending that he could not be a hero, if he changed his religion, and that the audience would not bear the sight of him after it, in how lively a manner snever his remorse and repentance might be described. The author (being then in a very languishing condition) finding, if he did not comply, his relations would probably loose the benefit of the play, consented, though with reluctance, to new-model the character of Phocyas. The story on which this play is founded, is amply delailed in Mr. Gibbon's History, vol. V. p. 510, where we find the real name of Phocyas to have been Jonas. Thai anthor says, “Inslead of a base renegado, Phoeyas series the Arabs as an honourable ally; instead of prompting their pursuit, he flies in the succour of his countrymen, and, after killing Caled and Daran, is himself morially wounded, and expires in the presence of Eudocia, who professes her resolution to take the veil al Constantinople.
SERJABIL. Scene. — The City of Damascus, in Syria, and the Saracen Camp before it; and, in
the last Act, a Valley adjacent.
CHRISTIANS. EU MENES. HERBIS. PHOCYAS. ARTAMON.
As brave men should. Pity your wives and
children! Scene I.-- The City.
Yes, I do pity them, heav'n knows I do, Enter Eumenes, followed by a Crowd of E'en more than you; nor will I yield them up, People.
Though at your own request, a prey to ruffians.-Eum, I'll hear no more. Be gone! Herbis, what news? Or stop your clam'rous mouths, that still are open To bawl sedition and consume our corn.
Enter HERBIS. If you will follow me, send home your women, Her. News!-we're betray'd, deserted; And follow to the walls; there carn your safety. The works are but half mann'd; the Saracens
Perceive it, and pour on such crowds, they blunt To leave us desperate. Aids may soon arrive; Our weapons, and have drain'd our stores of Mean time, in spite of their late bold attack, death.
The city still is ours; their force repellid, What will
And therefore weaker: proud of this success, Eum. I've sent a fresh recruit.,
Our soldiers too have gain'd redoubled courage, The valiant Phocyas leads them on - whose And long to meet them on the open plain. deeds,
What hinders then but we repay this outrage, In early youth, assert bis noble race; And sally on their camp? A more than common ardour seems to warm Eum. No, let us first His breast, as if he lov'd and courted danger. Believe th' occasion fair, by this advantage, Her. I fear 'twill be too late,
To purchase their retreat on easy terms: Eum. I fear it too :
Thai failing, we the better stand acquitted And though I brav'd it to the trembling, crowd, To our own citizens. However, brave Phocyas, l've caught th' infection, and I dread th'event. Cherish this ardour in the soldiery, Would had treated :--but 'lis now too late. And in our absence form what force thou canst;
[Aside. Then if these bụngry bloodhounds of the war Come, Herbis.
[Exeunt. Should still be deaf to peace, at our return
Our widen'd gates shall pour a sudden flood A great Shout. Re-enter HERBIS.
Of vengeance on them, and chastise their scorn. Her. So-the tide turns; Phocyas has driv'n
[E.reunt. it back, The gate once more is ours.
Scene II.- A Plain before the City. A Prós
pect of Tents at a distance. Flourish. Re-enter EUMENES, with PhocyAS, Enter Caled, ABUDAH, and DARAN. ARTAMON, etc.
Daran. To treat, my chiefs !-What! are Eum. Brave Phocyas, thanks! mine and the
we merchants then, people's thanks.
That only come to traffic with those Syrians, Yet, that we may not lose this breathing space, and poorly cheapen conquest on conditions ? Hang out the flag of trice. You, Artamon, No: we were sent to fight the caliph's battles, Haste with a trumpet to th' Arabian chiefs, Till every iron neck bend to obedience. And let them know, that, hostages exchang'd, Another storm makes this proud city ours; I'd meet them now upon the eastern plain. What need we treat?-I am for war and plunder.
[Exit Artamon. Caled. Why, so am I; and but to save the Pho. What means Eumenes ?
lives Eum. Phocyas, I would try,
Of mussulmans, not Christians, I would treat. By friendly treaty, if on terms of peace I hate these Christian dogs; and 'tis our task, They'll yet withdraw their pow'rs.
As thou observ'st, to fight; our law enjoins it: Pho. "On terms of peace !
Heaven, too, is promis'd only to the valiant. What peace can you expect from bands of Oft has our prophet said, the bappy plains robbers ?
Above lie stretch'd beneath the blaze of swords. What terms from slaves but slavery?
- You know Abu. Yet Daran's loath to trust that heaven These wretches fight not at the call of honour, That sets the princes of the world in arms. This earth, it seems, has gifts that please hini Base-born, and starv'd, amidst their stony deserts, Long have they view'd from far, with wishing Caled. Check not his zeal, Abudah. eyes,
Abu. No; I praise it. Our fruitful vales, and all the verdant wealth Yet I could wish that zeal had better motives. That crowns fair Lebanon's aspiring brows. Has victóry no fruits but blood and plunder? Here have the locusts pitch'd, nor will they leave That we were sent to fight, 'tis true; but These tasted sweets, these blooming fields of
wherefore ? plenty,
For conquest, not destruction. That obtain'd, For barren sands and native poverty,' The more we spare, the caliph has more subjects, Till driv'n away by force.
And heaven is better servid.-But see, they come! Eum. What can we do?
[Trumpets. Our people in despair; our soldiers harrass'd With daily toil and constant nightly watch;
Enter EUMENES, HERBIS, and ARTAMON. Our hopes of succour from the emperor Caled. Well, Christians, we are met -- and l'ncertain; Eutyches not yet return'd,
war awhile, That went to ask them; one brave army beaten; At your request, bas stilld his angry voice, Th' Arabians num'rous, cruel, flush'd with To hear what you
Eum. We come to know, Her. Besides, you know what frenzy fires After so many troops you've lost in vain, their minds,
If you'll draw off in peace, and save the rest? of their new faith, and drives them on to Her. Or rather to know first — for yet we danger.
know notEum. True:- they pretend the gates of Why on your heads you call our pointed Paradise
arrows, Stand ever open to receive the souls In our own just defence? What means this visit? Of all that die in fighting for their cause. And why see we so many thousand tents
Pho. Then would I send their souls to Paradise, Rise in the air, and whiten all our fields ? And give their bodies to our Syrian eagles. Caled. Is that a question now? you had Our ebb of fortune is not yet so low,
When first we march'd against you, to surrender. Caled. Blasphemer, know, your fields and Two moons have wasted since, and now the third
towns are ours; As in its wane. Mis true, drawn off awhile
, Our prophet has bestowalibem on the faithful,
powers Sent by your emperor to raise our siege. Eum. Oh! now indeed you boast à noble tille! Vainly you thought us gone; we gain'd a con- What could your prophet grant? a hireling slave! quest.
Not e'en the mules and camels which he drove, You see we are return'd; our hearts, our cause, Were his to give; and yet the bold impostor Our swords the same,
Has canton'd out the kingdoms of the earth, Her. But why those swords were drawn, In frantic fits of visionary power, And what's the cause, inform us?
To sooth his pride, and ibe his fellow madmen! Eum. Speak your wrongs,
Caled. Was is for this you sent to ask a parley, If wrongs you have receiv’d, and by what means t" affront our faith, and to traduce our prophei? They may be now repair'd.
Well might we answer you with quick revenge Abu. Then, Christians, hear,
For such indignities—Yet hear, once more, And heaven inspire you to embrace its truth! Hear this, our last demand; and, this accepted, Not wrongs l'avenge, but to establish right, We yet withdraw our war. Be Christians still ; Our swords were drawn: for such is heaven's But swear to live with us in firm alliance, command
To yield us aid, and pay us annual tribute. Immutable. By us great Mahomet,
Eum. No: should 'we grant you aid, we And his successor, holy Abubeker,
must be rebels; Invite you to the faith.
And tribute is the slavish badge of conquest. Eum. Now, in the name of heaven, what Yet since, on just and honourable terms, faith is this,
We ask but for our own-Ten silken vests, That stalks gigantic forth thus arm’d with terrors, Weighty with pearls and gems, we'll send your As if it meant to ruin, not to save;
caliph; That leads embattled legions to the field, Two, Caled, shall be thine; two thine, Abudah. And marks its progress out with blood and To each inferior captain we decree slaughter?
A turban spun from our Damascus flax, Her. Bold, frontless men! that impudently dare White as the snows of heaven; to every soldier To blend religion with the worst of crimes! A scymitar. This, and of solid gold And sacrilegiously usurp that name,
Ten ingots, be the price to buy your absence. To cover fraud, and justify oppression! Caled. This, and much more, even all your Eum. Where are your priests! What doc
shining wealth, tors of your law
Will soon be ours. Behold our march Have you e'er sent t'instruct us in its precepts, O'er half your land, like flame through fields To solve our doubts, and satisfy our reason,
of harvest; And kindly lead us through the wilds of error, And, last, view Aiznadin, thal vale of blood! "To these new tracts of truth?—This would be There seek the souls of forty thousand Greeks, friendship,
That, fresh from life, yet hover o'er their bodies. And well might claim our thanks.
Then think, and then resolve. Caled. Friendship like this
Her. Presumptuous men! With scorn had been receiv’d: your numer- What though you yet can boast successful guilt, ous vices,
Is conquest only yours? Or dare you hope Your clashing sects, your mutual rage and strife, That you shall still pour on the swelling tide, Have driven religion, and her angel guards, Like some proud river that has left its banks, Like outcasts from among you. In her stead, Nor ever w repulse ? Usurping superstition bears the sway, Eum. Have you forgot! And reigns in mimic state, midst idol shows, Not twice seven years are past, since e'en your And pageantry of power. Who does not mark
prophet, Your lives, rebellious to your own great prophet, Bold as he was, and boasting and divine, Who mildly taught you?-Therefore Mahome Was by the tribe of Corish forc'd to fly, Has brough the sword, to govern you by force. Poorly to fly, to save his wretched life, Eum. O, solemn truths! though from an From Mecca to Medina? impious tongue!
Aside. Abu. No-forgot! That we're unworthy of our holy faith, We well remember how Medina screen'd To heaven, with grief and conscious shame, That holy head, preserv'd for better days, we own.
And ripening years of glory. But what are you that thus arraign our vices, Daran. Why, my chiefs, And consecrate your own?
Will you waste time, in offering terms despis'd, Are you not sons of rapine, foes to peace, To these idolaters ? —Words are but air, Base robbers, murderers?
Blows would plead better. Caled. Christians, no.
Caled. Daran, thou say'st true. Eum. Then say,
Christians, here end our truce. Behold, once Why have you ravag'd all our peaceful borders? Plunder'd our towns? and by what claim, e'en The sword of heaven is drawn! nor shall be You tread this ground?
sheath'a, Her. What claim, but that of hunger? But in the bowels of Damascus. The claim of ravenous wolves, that leave their Eum. That, dens
Or speedy vengeance and destruction, due To prowl at midnight round some sleeping village, To the proud menacers, as heaven sees fit! Or watch the 'shepherd's folded flock for prey!