To join with us, and sacrifice to justice. [Exit. By cares on earth, and by my pray'rs to heav'n,
Alt. There is a heavy weight upon my senses; Were little for my fondness to 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.
from yours,
Would it were death, as sure 'tis wondrous like it,
For I am sick of living; my soul's pall'd,
She kindles not with anger or revenge;
Love was th' informing, active fire within:
Now that is quench'd, the mass forgets to move,
And longs to mingle with its kindred earth:
[Exit.
ACT V.

SCENE I.-A Room hung with black; on one Side LOTHARIO'S Body on a Bier; on the other a Table, with a Scull and other Bones, a Book and a Lamp on it. CALISTA is discovered on a Couch, in black; her Hair hanging loose and disordered. After soft Music she rises and comes forward.

A poor, imperfect copy of my father;
It was because I lov'd, and was a woman.
Sci. Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst
been a cherubim;

But of that joy, as of a gem long lost,
Beyond redemption gone, think we no more.
Hast thou e'er dar'd to meditate on death?
Cal. I have, as on the end of shame and

sorrow.

Sci. Ha! answer me! Say, hast thou coolly
Tis not the stoic's lessons got by rote,
thought?
The pomp of words, and pedant dissertations,
That can sustain thee in that hour of terror;
Books have taught cowards to talk nobly of it,
But when the trial comes they stand aghast;
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 horror,

answer?

Cal. I've turn'd my eyes inward upon myself, Where foul offence and shame have laid all waste;

Sci. 'Tis justly thought, and worthy of that

spirit

That dwelt in ancient Latian breasts, when Rome
Was mistress of the world. I would go on,
And tell thee all my purpose; but it sticks
Here at my heart, and cannot find a way.

Are fit to feed the frenzy in my soul.
Here's room for meditation ev'n to madness,
Till the mind burst with thinking. This dull flame
Sleeps in the socket. Sure the book was left Therefore my soul abhors the wretched dwelling,
To tell me something;-for instruction then-And longs to find some better place of rest.
He teaches holy sorrow and contrition,
And penitence.-Is it become an art then?
A trick that lazy, dull, luxurious gownmen
Can teach us to do over? I'll no more on't:
[Throwing away the Book.
I have more real anguish in my heart,
Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew.
What charnel has been rifled for these bones?
Fie! this is pageantry;-they look uncouthly.
But what of that, if he or she that own'd 'em
Safe from disquiet sit, and smile to see
The farce their miserable relics play?
But here's a sight is terrible indeed!
Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario,
That dear, perfidious-Ah!-how pale he looks!
And those dead eyes!

Ascend, ye ghosts, fantastic forms of night,
In all your diff'rent dreadful shapes ascend,
And match the present horror, if you can.

Enter SCIOLTO.

Sci. This dead of night, this silent hour of
darkness,

Nature for rest ordain'd, and soft repose;
And yet distraction and tumultuous jars,
Keep all our frighted citizens awake:
Amidst the gen'ral wreck, see where she stands,
[Pointing to Calista.
Like Helen, in the night when Troy was sack'd,
Spectatress of the mischief which she made.
Cal. It is Sciolto! Be thyself, my soul,
Be strong to bear his fatal indignation,
That he might see thou art not lost so far,
But somewhat still of his great spirit lives
In the forlorn Calista.

I thought the day too short to gaze upon thee,

Cal. Then spare the telling, if it be a pain, And write the meaning with your poniard here. Sci. Oh! truly guess'd-seest thou this trembling hand?

[Holding up a Dagger. Thrice justice urg'd—and thrice the slackning

sinews

Forgot their office, and confess'd the father.
At length the stubborn virtue has prevail'd;
It must, it must be so- -Oh! take it then,
[Giving the Dagger.

And know the rest untaught.
Cal. I understand you.
It is but thus, and both are satisfied.
[She offers to kill herself; Sciolto
catches hold of her arm.
Sci. A moment, give me yet a moment's space.
The stern, the rigid judge has been obey'd;
Now nature, and the father, claim their turns.
I've held the balance with an iron hand,
And put off ev'ry tender human thought,
To doom my child to death; but spare my eyes
The most unnat❜ral sight, lest their strings crack,
My old brain split, and I grow mad with horror.

Cal. Ha! is it possible? and is there yet
Some little, dear remain of love and tenderness
For poor, undone Calista, in your heart?

Sci. Oh! when I think what pleasure I took

in thee,

What joys thou gav'st me in thy prattling infancy,
Thy sprightly wit, and early blooming beauty;
How have I stood and fed my eyes upon thee,
Then, lifting up my hands and wond'ring
bless'd thee;

By my strong grief, my heart ev'n melts with

in me;

That all the blessings I could gather for thee, I could curse nature, and that tyrant, honour,

For making me thy father and thy judge;
Thou art my daughter still.

Cal. For that kind word,

Thus let me fall, thus humbly to the earth,
Weep on your feet, and bless you for this
goodness.

Oh! 'tis too much for this offending wretch,
This parricide, that murders with her crimes,
Shortens her father's age, and cuts him off,
Ere little more than half his years be number'd.
Sci. Would it were otherwise-but thou
must die.-

Cal. That I must die, it is my only comfort;
Death is the privilege of human nature,
And life without it were not worth our taking:
Come then,

Thou meagre shade; here let me breathe my last,
Charm'd with my father's pity and forgiveness,
More than if angels tun'd their golden viols,
And sung a requiem to my parting soul.
Sci. I'm summon'd hence; ere this my friends
expect me.

There is I know not what of sad presage,
That tells me I shall never see thee more;
If it be so, this is our last farewell,
And these the parting pangs, which nature feels,
When anguish rends the heartstrings- Oh,
my daughter!
[Exit.

That, were I not abandon'd to destruction,
With thee I might have liv'd for ages bless'd,
And died in peace within thy faithful arms.

Enter HORATIO.

Hor. Now mourn indeed, ye miserable pair! For now the measure of your woes is full. The great, the good Sciolto dies this moment. Cal. My father!

Alt. That's a deadly stroke indeed.

Hor. Not long ago, he privately went forth,
Attended but by few, and those unbidden.
I heard which way he took, and straight pur-
su'd him;

But found him compass'd by Lothario's faction,
Almost alone, amidst a crowd of foes.
Too late we brought him aid, and drove them
back;

Ere that, his frantic valour had provok'd
The death he seem'd to wish for from their swords.
Cal. And dost thou bear me yet, thou pa-

tient earth?

Dost thou not labour with thy murd'rous weight? And you, ye glitt'ring, heav'nly host of stars, Hide your fair heads in clouds, or I shall blast you; For I am all contagion, death, and ruin, And nature sickens at me. Rest, thou world, This parricide shall be thy plague no more; Cal. Now think, thou curs'd Calista, now Thus, thus I set thee free. [Stabs herself. behold

The desolation, horror, blood, and ruin,
Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around,
That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head;
Yet heav'n, who knows our weak imperfect

natures,

How blind with passions, and how prone to evil,
Makes not too strict inquiry for offences,
But is aton'd by penitence and pray'r:
Cheap recompense! here 'twould not be receiv'd;
Nothing but blood can make the expiation,
And cleanse the soul from inbred deep pollution.
And see, another injur'd wretch appears,
To call for justice from my tardy hand.

Enter ALTAMONT.

Hor. Oh, fatal rashness!

Enter SCIOLTO, pale and bloody, supported
by Servants.

Cal. Oh, my heart!
Well may'st thou fail; for see, the spring that fed
Thy vital stream is wasted, and runs low.
My father! will you now, at last, forgive me,
If, after all my crimes, and all your suff'rings,
I call you once again by that dear name?
Will you forget my shame, and those wide

wounds?

Lift up your hand and bless me, ere I go
Down to my dark abode!

Sci. Alas, my daughter!
Thou hast rashly ventur'd in a stormy sea,

All 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

darkness,

anguish,

And smarted with the pain. Then rest in peace:
Let silence and oblivion hide thy name,
And save thee from the malice of posterity;
And may'st thou find with heav'n the same
forgiveness,

And makes it grateful as the dawn of day.
Oh, take me in, a fellow mourner, with thee,
I'll number groan for groan, and tear for tear;
And when the fountain of thy eyes are dry,
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
done thee;

But know I stand upon the brink of life,
And in a moment mean to set me free
From shame and thy upbraiding.
Alt. Falsely, falsely

Dost thou accuse me! O, forbid me not
To mourn thy loss,

To wish some better fate had rul'd our loves,
And that Calista had been mine, and true.
Cal. Oh, Altamont! 'tis hard for souls like mine,
Naughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss.
But, oh, behold! my proud, disdainful heart
Bends to thy gentler virtue. Yes, I own,
Such is thy truth, thy tenderness, and love,

my soul,

And ev'ry pain grows less-Oh, gentle Altamont!
Think not too hardly of me when I'm gone;
But pity me-Had I but early known
Thy wondrous worth, thou excellent young man,
We had been happier both-Now 'tis too late;
And yet my eyes take pleasure to behold thee;
Thou art their last dear object-Mercy, heav'n!
[Dies.

Sci. Oh, turn thee from that fatal object,
Altamont!

Come near, and let me bless thee ere I die.
To thee and brave Horatio I bequeath
My fortunes-Lay me by thy noble father,
And love my memory as thou hast his;
For thou hast been my son-Oh, gracious heav'n!

Thou that hast endless blessings still in store
For virtue and for filial piety,

And bends him, like a drooping flow'r, to earth. 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,

[Exeunt.

HUGHES.

THIS amiable man, and elegant author, was the son of a citizen of London, and was born at Marlborough, in Wiltshire, 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 contemporary and friend, Sir Richard Steele, bears the following extraordinary testimonial: "He may (says that author) be the emulation of more persons of different talents than any one I have ever known. His head, hauds, or heart, were always employed in something worthy imitation. His pencil, his bow, or his pen, each of which he used in a masterly manner, were always directed to raise and entertain 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 little further than by the way of agreeable amusements, under frequent confinement, occasioned by indisposition and a valetudinarian state of health. Mr. Hughes had, for some time, an employment 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, Chatham, and Harwich. In the year 1717, the Lord Chancellor Cowper, 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, he 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 off by a consumption having but barely completed his 42d 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 diction 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 offered 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 Mahometan: 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 soever 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 detailed in Mr. Gibbon's History, vol. V. p. 310, where we find the real name of Phocyas to have been Jonas. That author says, "Instead of a base renegado, Phocyas serves the Arabs as an honourable ally; instead of prompting their pursuit, he flies to the succour of his countrymen, and, after killing Caled and Daran, is himself mortally wounded, and expires in the presence of Eudocia, who professes her resolution to take the veil at Constantinople.

SCENE.The City of DAMASCUS, in SYRIA, and the Saracen Camp before it; and, in the last Act, a Valley adjacent.

ACT 1.

SCENE I.-The City.

|As brave men should.-Pity your wives and children!

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.

Eum. I'LL hear no more. Be gone!

Or stop your clam'rous mouths, that still are open
To bawl sedition and consume our corn.
If you will follow me, send home your women,

Though at your own request, a prey to ruffians.-
Herbis, what news?

Enter HERBIS.

Her. News!-we're betray'd, deserted;

And follow to the walls; there earn 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 repell'd,
And therefore weaker: proud of this success,
Our soldiers too have gain'd redoubled courage,
whose And long to meet them on the open plain.
What hinders then but we repay this outrage,
And sally on their camp?

A more than common ardour seems to warm
His breast, as if he lov'd and courted danger.
Her. I fear 'twill be too late,
Eum. I fear it too:

Eum. No-let us first

Believe th' occasion fair, by this advantage, To purchase their retreat on easy terms: That failing, we the better stand acquitted And though I brav'd it to the trembling crowd, To our own citizens. However, brave Phocyas, I've caught th' infection, and I dread th'event. Cherish this ardour in the soldiery, Would I had treated!-but 'tis now too late. And in our absence form what force thou canst; [Aside. Then if these hungry 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 it back,

The gate once more is ours.

Flourish. Re-enter EUMENES, with PHOCYAS,
ARTAMON, etc.

Eum. Brave Phocyas, thanks! mine and the
people's thanks.

Yet, that we may not lose this breathing space,
Hang out the flag of truce. You, Artamon,
Haste with a trumpet to th' Arabian chiefs,
And let them know, that, hostages exchang'd,
I'd meet them now upon the eastern plain.
[Exit Artamon.

Pho. What means Eumenes?
Eum. Phocyas, I would try,
By friendly treaty, if on terms of peace
They'll yet withdraw their pow'rs.

Pho. On terms of peace!

What peace can you expect from bands robbers?

of

What terms from slaves but slavery? -You know
These wretches fight not at the call of honour,
That sets the princes of the world in arms.
Base-born, and starv'd, amidst their stony deserts,
Long have they view'd from far, with wishing

eyes,

Our fruitful vales, and all the verdant wealth
That crowns fair Lebanon's aspiring brows.
Here have the locusts pitch'd, nor will they leave
These tasted sweets, these blooming fields of
plenty,

For barren sands and native poverty, ́
Till driv'n away by force.

Eum. What can we do?

Our people in despair; our soldiers harrass'd
With daily toil and constant nightly watch;
Our hopes of succour from the emperor
Uncertain; Eutyches not yet return'd,

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—A Plain before the City. A Pros-
pect of Tents at a distance.
Enter CALED, ABUDAH, and Daran.
Daran. To treat, my chiefs!-What! are
we merchants then,

That only come to traffic with those Syrians,
And poorly cheapen conquest on conditions?
No: we were sent to fight the caliph's battles,
Till every iron neck bend to obedience.
Another storm makes this proud city ours;
What need we treat?-I am for war and plunder.
Caled. Why, so am I; and but to save the

lives

Of mussulmans, not Christians, I would treat.
I hate these Christian dogs; and 'tis our task,
As thou observ'st, to fight; our law enjoins it:
Heaven, too, is promis'd only to the valiant.
Oft has our prophet said, the happy plains
Above lie stretch'd beneath the blaze of swords.
Abu. Yet Daran's loath to trust that heaven
for pay;

This earth, it seems, has gifts that please him

more.

Caled. Check not his zeal, Abudah.

Abu. No; I praise it.

Yet I could wish that zeal had better motives.
Has victory no fruits but blood and plunder?
That we were sent to fight, 'tis true; but
wherefore?

For conquest, not destruction. That obtain'd,
The more we spare, the caliph has more subjects,
And heaven is better serv'd. But see, they come!
[Trumpets.

Enter EUMENES, HERBIS, and ARTAMON.
Caled. Well, Christians, we are met-and
war awhile,

That went to ask them; one brave army beaten; At your request, has still'd his angry voice, Th' Arabians num'rous, cruel, flush'd with To hear what you will purpose.

conquest.

their minds,

Eum. We come to know,

Her. Besides, you know what frenzy fires After so many troops you've lost in vain,
If you'll draw off in peace, and save the rest?
Her. Or rather to know first- for yet we
know not-

Of their new faith, and drives them on to

danger.

Eum. True:-they pretend the gates of Why on your heads you call our pointed

Paradise

Stand ever open to receive the souls

Of all that die in fighting for their cause.
Pho. Then would I send their souls to Paradise,
And give their bodies to our Syrian eagles.
Our ebb of fortune is not yet so low,

When first we march'd against you, to surrender.
Two moons have wasted since, and now the third
Is in its wane. 'Tis true, drawn off awhile,
At Aiznadin we met and fought the powers
Sent by your emperor to raise our siege.
Vainly you thought us gone; we gain'd a con-
quest.

You see we are return'd; our hearts, our cause,
Our swords the same,

Her. But why those swords were drawn,
And what's the cause, inform us?

Eum. Speak your wrongs,

Caled. Blasphemer, know, your fields and

towns are ours;

Our prophet has bestow'd them on the faithful,
And heaven itself has ratified the grant.

Eum. Oh! now indeed you boast a noble title!
What could your prophet grant? a hireling slave!
Not e'en the mules and camels which he drove,
Were his to give; and yet the bold impostor
Has canton'd out the kingdoms of the earth,
In frantic fits of visionary power,

To sooth his pride, and bribe his fellow madmen!
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 prophet?

They may be now repair'd.

Abu. Then, Christians, hear,
And heaven inspire you to embrace its truth!
Not wrongs t' avenge, but to establish right,
Our swords were drawn: for such is heaven's
command

Immutable. By us great Mahomet,
And his successor, holy Abubeker,
Invite you to the faith.

Eum. Now, in the name of heaven,
faith is this,

what

That stalks gigantic forth thus arm'd with terrors,
As if it meant to ruin, not to save;
That leads embattled legions to the field,
And marks its progress out with blood and
slaughter?

Her. Bold, frontless men! that impudently dare
To blend religion with the worst of crimes!
And sacrilegiously usurp that name,
To cover fraud, and justify oppression!
Eum. Where are your priests! What doc-
tors of your law

Have you e'er sent t' instruct us in its precepts,
To solve our doubts, and satisfy our reason,
And kindly lead us through the wilds of error,
To these new tracts of truth?-This would be
friendship,

And well might claim our thanks.
Caled. Friendship like this

Well might we answer you with quick revenge
For such indignities-Yet hear, once more,
Hear this, our last demand; and, this accepted,
We yet withdraw our war. Be Christians still;
But swear to live with us in firm alliance,
To yield us aid, and pay us annual tribute.
Eum. No: should we grant you aid, we
must be rebels;
And tribute is the slavish badge of conquest.
Yet since, on just and honourable terms,
We ask but for our own-Ten silken vests,
Weighty with pearls and gems, we'll send your
caliph ;

soldier

Two, Caled, shall be thine; two thine, Abudah.
To each inferior captain we decree
A turban spun from our Damascus flax,
White as the snows of heaven; to every
A scymitar. This, and of solid gold
Ten ingots, be the price to buy your absence.
Caled. This, and much more, even all your
shining wealth,

Will soon be ours. Behold our march
O'er half your land, like flame through fields
of harvest;

And, last, view Aiznadin, that vale of blood!
There seek the souls of forty thousand Greeks,
That, fresh from life, yet hover o'er their bodies.
Then think, and then resolve.

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
That you shall still pour on the swelling tide,
Like some proud river that has left its banks,
Nor ever know repulse?

Your clashing sects, your mutual rage and strife,
Have driven religion, and her angel guards,
Like outcasts from among you. In her stead,
Usurping superstition bears the sway,
And reigns in mimic state, midst idol shows,
And pageantry of power. Who does not mark
Your lives, rebellious to your own great prophet, Bold as he was, and boasting aid divine,
Who mildly taught you?-Therefore Mahomet Was by the tribe of Corish forc'd to fly,
Has brought 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?

Eum. Have you forgot!

Not twice seven years are past, since e'en your prophet,

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, And ripening years of glory.

we own.

But what are you that thus arraign our vices,
And consecrate your own?

Are you not sons of rapine, foes to peace,
Base robbers, murderers?

Caled. Christians, no.
Eum. Then say,

Why have you ravag'd all our peaceful borders?

Daran. Why, my chiefs,

Will you waste time, in offering terms despis'd,
To these idolaters?-Words are but air,
Blows would plead better.

Caled. Daran, thou say'st true.
Christians, here end our truce. Behold, once

more

Plunder'd our towns? and by what claim, e'en The sword of heaven is drawn! nor shall be You tread this ground?

[now,

sheath'd,

Her. What claim, but that of hunger? But in the bowels of Damascus, The claim of ravenous wolves, that leave their

dens

To prowl at midnight round some sleeping village,
Or watch the shepherd's folded flock for prey?|

Eum. That,

Or speedy vengeance and destruction, due
To the proud menacers, as heaven sees fit!

[Exeunt.