Irene.

Car. I heard her, pitied her, and wished to save her.

Mah. And wished-Be still thy fate to wish in vain !

Car. I heard, and softened, till Abdalla brought Iler final doom, and hurried her destruction. Mah. Abdalla brought her doom! Abdalla brought it!

The wretch, whose guilt, declared by tortured Cali,

My rage and grief had hid from my remembrance! Abdalla brought her doom!

Has. Abdalla brought it,

While she yet begged to plead her cause before thee.

Mah. O seize me, madness! Did she call on me?

I feel, I see the ruffian's barbarous rage.
He seized her melting in the fond appeal,
And stopped the heavenly voice that called on

me.

My spirits fail; awhile support me, vengeance— Be just, ye slaves, and to be just, be cruel!

Though sluggish idler, dilatory slave!
Behold the model of consummate beauty,
Torn from the mourning earth by thy neglect.
Mur. Such was the will of Heaven-A band
of Greeks,

That marked my course, suspicious of my purpose,

Rushed out and seized me, thoughtless and unarmed,

Breathless, amazed, and on the guarded beach Detained me, till Demetrius set me free.

Mus. So sure the fall of greatness raised on

crimes;

So fixed the justice of all-conscious Heaven.
When haughty guilt exults with impious joy,
Mistake shall blast, or accident destroy;
Weak man, with erring rage, may throw the dart,
But Heaven shall guide it to the guilty heart.
[Exeunt omnes.

MARRY a Turk! a haughty tyrant king,
Who thinks us women born to dress and sing,
To please his fancy-see no other man-
Let him persuade me to it-if he can:
Besides, he has fifty wives; and who can bear
To have the fiftieth part her paltry share?
'Tis true, the fellow's handsome, strait and
tall;

But how the devil should he please us all?
My swain is little-true-but be it known,
My pride's to have that little all my own.
Men will be ever to their errors blind,
Where woman's not allow'd to speak her mind;
I swear this eastern pageantry is nonsense,

And for one man-one wife's enough in conscience.

In vain proud man usurps what's woman's due; For us alone, they honour's paths pursue: Inspir'd by us, they glory's heights ascend; Woman the source, the object, and the end. Though wealth and power and glory they receive, These all are trifles, to what we can give. For us the statesman labours, hero fights, Bears toilsome days, and wakes long tedious nights;

And when blest peace has silenc'd war's alarms, Receives his full reward in beauty's arms.

BRITONS, to-night, in native pomp we come,
True heroes all, from virtuous ancient Rome;
In those far distant times, when Romans knew
The sweets of guarded liberty, like you;
And, safe from ills which force or faction brings,
Saw freedom reign beneath the smile of kings.
Yet, from such times, and such plain chiefs as
these,

What can we frame, a polish'd age to please?
Say, can you listen to the artless woes
Of an old tale, which every school-boy knows?
Where to your hearts alone the scenes apply,
No merit theirs but pure simplicity?

Our bard has play'd a most adventurous part, And turn'd upon himself the critic's art :

Stripp'd each luxuriant plume from fancy's wings,
And torn up similies from vulgar things:
Nay, even each moral, sentimental stroke,
Where not the character but poet spoke,
He lopp'd, as foreign to his chaste design,
Nor spar'd a useless though a golden line.

These are his arts; if these cannot atone
For all those nameless errors yet unknown,
If, shunning faults which nobler bards commit,
He wants the force to strike th' attentive pit,
Be just, and tell him so; he asks advice,
Willing to learn, and would not ask it twice.
Your kind applause may bid him write-beware!
Or kinder censure teach him to forbear.

SCENE I-A Room in HORATIUS's House.

1 Soldier crosses the Stage, HORATIA following. Horatia. Stay, soldier. As you parted from my father,

Something I overheard, of near concern,
But all imperfectly. Said you not Alba
Was on the brink of fate, and Rome determined,
This day, to crush her haughty rival's power,
Or perish in the attempt?

Sold. 'Twas so resolved

This morning, lady, ere I left the camp.
Our heroes are tired out with lingering war,
And half-unmeaning fight.

Horatia. Alas! I hoped

The kind remorse, which touched the kindred states,

And made their swords fall lightly on the breasts Of foes they could not hate, might have produced A milder resolution. Then this day

Is fixed for death or conquest? [He bows.] To me death,

Whoever conquers! [Aside.] I detain you, sir.
Commend me to my brothers; say, I wish-
But wherefore should I wish? The gods will

Horatia. Oh, I am lost, Valeria, lost to virtue! Even while my country's fate, the fate of Rome, Hangs on the conqueror's sword, this breast can feel

A softer passion, and divide its cares !

Alba to me is Rome. Wouldst thou believe it?
I would have sent, by him thou saw'st departing,
Kind wishes to my brothers; but my tongue
Denied its office, and this rebel heart
Even dreaded their success. Oh, Curiatius!
Why art thou there, or why an enemy?
Valeria. Forbear this self-reproach; he is thy
husband,

And who can blame thy fears? If fortune make him

Vows registered above. What though the priest
Awhile thy country's foe, she cannot cancel
Had not confirmed it at the sacred altar;
Yet were your hearts united, and that union
Approved by each consenting parent's choice.
Your brothers loved him as a friend, a brother:
And all the ties of kindred pleaded for him,
And still must plead, whate'er our heroes teach

us,

Of patriot strength. Our country may demand
We should be wretched, and we must obey;
But never can require us not to feel,
That we are miserable: nature there
Will give the lie to virtue.

Horatia. True; yet sure

A Roman virgin should be more than woman.
Are we not early taught to mock at pain,
And look on danger with undaunted eyes?—
But what are dangers? what the ghastliest form
Of death itself?-Oh, were I only bid,
To rush into the Tiber's foaming wave,
Swoln with uncommon floods, or from the height
Of yon Tarpeian rock, whose giddy steep
Has turned me pale with horror at the sight,
I'd think the task were nothing!--but to bear
These strange vicissitudes of torturing pain,
To fear, to doubt, and to despair as I do!-

Valeria. And why despair? Have we so idly learned

The noblest lessons of our infant days,
Our trust above? Does there not still remain
The wretch's last retreat-the gods, Horatia?
'Tis from their awful wills our evils spring,
And at their altars may we find relief.
Say, shall we thither?-Look not thus dejected,
But answer me. A confidence in them,
E'en in this crisis of our fate, will calm
Thy troubled soul, and fill thy breast with hope.
Horatia. Talk not of hope; the wretch on

yonder plain,

Who hears the victor's threats, and sees his sword

Impending o'er him, feels no surer fate, Though less delayed than mine! What should I hope?

That Alba conquer?-Cursed be every thought Which looks that way! The shrieks of captive

Horatia. And if Rome conquers, then Horatia dies!

Valeria. Why wilt thou form vain images of horror,

Industrious to be wretched? Is it, then,
Become impossible that Rome should triumph,
And Curiatius live? He must, he shall;
Protecting gods shall spread their shields around
him,

And love shall combat in Horatia's cause.
Horatia. Think'st thou so meanly of him?-No,
Valeria,

His soul's too great to give me such a trial;
Or could it ever come, I think, myself,
Thus lost in love, thus abject as I am,
I should despise the slave who dared survive
His country's ruin. Ye immortal powers!
I love his fame too well, his spotless honour,
At least I hope I do, to wish him mine
On any terms which he must blush to own.
Hor. [Without.] What ho! Vindicius !
Horatia. What means that shout?— Might we
not ask, Valeria?

Didst thou not wish me to the temple?-Come,
I will attend thee thither: the kind gods
Perhaps may ease this throbbing heart, and spread
At least a temporary calm within.

Valeria. Alas, Horatia, 'tis not to the temple That thou wouldst fly; the shout alone alarms thee.

But do not thus anticipate thy fate;

Why shouldst thou learn each chance of varying

war,

Which takes a thousand turns, and shifts the scene From bad to good, as fortune smiles or frowns? Stay but an hour perhaps, and thou shalt know The whole at once.-I'll send-I'll fly myself To ease thy doubts, and bring thee news of joy. Horatia. Again, and nearer too-I must attend thee.

Valeria. Hark! 'tis thy father's voice; he comes to cheer thee.

Enter HORATIUS and VALERIUS. Horatius. [Entering.] News from the camp, my child!

Save you, sweet maid!

[Seeing VALERIA. Your brother brings the tidings, for, alas ! I am no warrior now; my useless age, Far from the paths of honour, loiters here In sluggish inactivity at home.

Yet I remember

Horatia. You'll forgive us, sir, If with impatience we expect the tidings. Horatius. I had forgot; the thoughts of what I was

Engrossed my whole attention.-Pray, young soldier,

Relate it for me; you beheld the scene,
And can report it justly.

Val. Gentle lady,

The scene was piteous, though its end be peace. Horatia. Peace? O, my Huttering heart! by what kind means?"

Val. 'Twere tedious, lady, and unnecessary,
To paint the disposition of the field;
Suffice it, we were armed, and front to front
The adverse legions heard the trumpet's sound:
But vain was the alarm, for motionless,
And wrapt in thought, they stood; the kindred
ranks

Had caught each other's eyes, nor dared to lift
The faultering spear against the breast they loved
Again the alarm was given, and now they seeme
Preparing to engage, when once again
They hung their drooping heads, and inward
mourned;

Then nearer drew, and at the third alarm,
Casting their swords and useless shields aside,
Rushed to each other's arms.

Hor. 'Twas so, just so,

(Though I was then a child, yet I have heard My mother, weeping, oft relate the story) Soft pity touched the breasts of mighty chiefs, Romans and Sabines, when the matrons rushed Between their meeting armies, and opposed Their helpless infants, and their heaving breast To their advancing swords, and bade them ther Sheath all their vengeance.But I interru

you

Proceed, Valerius, they would hear the event. -And yet, methinks, the Albans-pray go on.

Val. Our king Hostilius, from a rising mound
Beheld the tender interview, and joined
His friendly tears with theirs; then swift advan
ced,

Even to the thickest press, and cried, 'My friends
If thus we love, why are we enemies?
Shall stern ambition, rivalship of power,
Subdue the soft humanity within us?
Are we not joined by every tie of kindred?
And can we find no method to compose
These jars of honour, these nice principles
Of virtue, which infest the noblest minds?"

Horatia. There spoke his country's father! th

transcends

The flight of earth-born kings, whose low amb

tion

But tends to lay the face of nature waste, And blast creation!-How was it received?

Val. As he himself could wish, with eage
transport.

In short, the Roman and the Alban chiefs
In council have determined, that since glory
Must have her victims, and each rival state,
Aspiring to dominion, scorns to yield,
From either army shall be chose three champion
To fight the cause alone, and whate'er state
Shall prove superior, there acknowledged pow
Shall fix the imperial seat, and both unite
Beneath one common head.

Horatia. Kind Heaven, I thank thee! Blessed be the friendly grief that touched the

souls!

Blessed be Hostilius for the generous counsel! Blessed be the meeting chiefs! and blessed th

tongue, Which brings the gentle tidings!

Valeria. Now, Horatia,

Your idle fears are o'er.

Horatia. Yet one remains.

Asked him, in jest, if he had aught to send, A sigh's soft waftage, or the tender token Of tresses breeding to fantastic forms,

Val. The Roman chiefs now meet in council, And ask the presence of the sage Horatius.

Hor. [After having seemed some time in thought.]
But still, methinks, I like not this, to trust
The Roman cause to such a slender hazard-
Three combatants!-'tis dangerous-

Horatia. [In a fright.] My father!
Hor. I might, perhaps, prevent it-
Horatia. Do not, sir,
Oppose the kind decree!

Val. Rest satisfied,

Sweet lady! 'tis so solemnly agreed to,
Not even Horatius's advice can shake it.

Hor. And yet 'twere well to end these civil broils:

The neighbouring states might take advantage of them.

-Would I were young again! How glorious Were death in such a cause!—And yet, who

knows

Some of my boys may be selected for itPerhaps may conquer— -Grant me that, kind gods,

He smiled, and cried, Glory's the soldier's mis

Val. What could I do? this peace has ruined me;

rius,

I'll but dispatch some necessary orders,
And strait attend thee.-Daughter, if thou lov'st
Thy brothers, let thy prayers be poured to Hea-

ven,

That one at least may share the glorious task. [Exit. Val. Rome cannot trust her cause to worthier hands.

They bade me greet you, lady.- [To HORATIA. Well, Valeria,

This is your home, I find: your lovely friend, And you, I doubt not, have indulged strange fears, And run o'er all the horrid scenes of war? Valeria. Though we are women, brother, we are Romans,

Not to be scared with shadows, though not proof 'Gainst all alarms, when real danger threatens. Horatia. [With some hesitation.] My brothers, gentle sir, you said were well.

Saw you their noble friends the Curiatii?
The truce, perhaps, permitted it.

Val. Yes, lady,

I left them jocund in your brothers' tent,

Some lucky chance might rid me of my rival,
And time efface his image in her breast.
But now-

Valeria. Yes, now you must resolve to follow
The advice I gave you first, and root this passion
Entirely from your heart; for know, she doats,
Even to distraction doats on Curiatius;
And every fear she felt, while danger threatened,
Will now endear him more.

Val. Cruel Valeria, You triumph in my pain!

Valeria. By Heaven, I do not;

I only would extirpate every thought
Which gives you pain, nor leave one foolish wish
For hope to dally with. When friends are mad,
'Tis most unkind to humour their distraction;
Harsh means are necessary.

Val. Yet we first Should try the gentler.

Valeria. Did I not? Ye powers!

Did I not soothe your griefs, indulge your fond

ness,

Seek out unnumbered opportunities,
And lay the follies of my sex before you?

Val. Alas! thou know'st, Valeria, woman's heart
Was never won by tales of bleeding love:
'Tis by degrees the sly enchanter works,
Assuming friendship's name, and fits the soul
For soft impressions, ere the faultering tongue,
And guilty-blushing cheek, with many a glance
Shot inadvertent, tells the secret flame.

Valeria. True, these are arts for those that love at leisure;

B