I hope you'll own, that, with becoming art,
I've play'd my game, and topp'd the widow's

part.

My spouse, poor man, could not live out the play,

But died commodiously on his wedding-day;
While I, his relict, made, at one bold fling,
Myself a princess, and young Sty a king.

You, ladies, who protract a lover's pain,
And hear your servants sigh whole years in vain,
Which of you all would not on marriage ven-
ture,

Might she so soon upon her jointure enter? 'Twas a strange 'scape! Had Pyrrhus liv'd till

now,

I had been finely hamper'd in my vow.
To die by one's own hand, and fly the charms
Of love and life in a young monarch's arms!
'Twere a hard fate--ere I had undergone it,

I might have took one night-to think upon it.
But why, you'll say, was all this grief exprest
For a first husband, laid long since at rest?
Why so much coldness to my kind protector?
-Ah, ladies! had you known the good man
Hector!

Homer will tell you, (or I'm misinform'd,)
That when, enrag'd, the Grecian camp he storm'd,
To break the tenfold barriers of the gate,
He threw a stone of such prodigious weight
As no two men could lift, not even those
Who in that age of thund'ring mortals rose;
It would have strain'd a dozen modern beaux.

At length, howeʼer, I laid my weeds aside,
And sunk the widow in the well-dress'd bride:
In
you it still remains to grace the play,
And bless with joy my coronation day;
Take, then, ye circles of the brave and fair,
The fatherless and widow to your care!

SCENE I.-The City.

What will you next?

Eum. I have sent a fresh recruit ;

Enter EUMENES, PHOCYAS, ARTAMON, &c. Eum. Brave Phocyas, thanks! Mine and the people's thanks.

People shout and cry, A Phocyas, &c.
Yet, that we may not lose this breathing space,
Hang out the flag of truce. You, Artamon,
Haste with a trumpet to the Arabian chiefs,
And let them know, that, hostages exchanged,
I'd meet them now upon the eastern plain.
[Erit ARTAMON.

Pho. What means Eumenes?
Eum. Phocyas, I would try

By friendly treaty, if on terms of peace
They will yet withdraw their powers.

Pho. On terms of peace!

What terms can you expect from bands of rob

bers?

What terms from slaves, but slavery? You

know

These wretches fight not at the call of honour;
For injured rights, or birth, or jealous greatness,
That sets the princes of the world in arms.
Base-born, and starved amidst their stoney de-
serts,

In early youth assert his noble race;

A more than common ardour seems to warm
His breast, as if he loved and courted danger.
Herb. I fear 'twill be too late.
Eum. [Aside.] I fear it too:

And though I braved it to the trembling crowd,
I've caught the infection, and I dread the event.
Would I had treated-but 'tis now too late-
Come, Herbis.

[Exeunt. [A noise is heard without, of officers giving

orders.

1st Offi. Help there! more help! all to the eastern gate!

2d Offi. Look where they cling aloft, like clustered bees!

Here, archers, ply your bows.

st Offi. Down with the ladders!

What, will you let them mount?

eyes,

Our fruitful vales, our fig-trees, olives, vines,
Our cedars, palms, and all the verdant wealth
That crowns fair Lebanon's aspiring brows.
Here have the locusts pitched, nor will they leave
These tasted sweets, these blooming fields of
plenty,

For barren sands, and native poverty,
Till driven away by force.

Eum. What can we do?

Our people in despair, our soldiers harassed
With daily toil, and constant nightly watch:
Our hopes of succour from the emperor
Uncertain; Eutyches not yet returned,
That went to ask them; one brave army beaten ;
The Arabians numerous, cruel, flushed with con-

quest.

Herb. Besides, you know what frenzy fires their minds

wait

ger.

Eum. True; they pretend the gates of Para dise

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

it back.

The gate once more is ours.

Mean time, in spite of their late bold attack, The city still is ours; their force repelled,

Believe the occasion fair, by this advantage,
To purchase their retreat on easy terms:
That failing, we the better stand acquitted
To our own citizens. However, brave Phocyas,
Cherish this ardour in the soldiery,

And in our absence form what force thou canst;
Then if these hungry bloodhounds of the war
Should still be deaf to peace, at our return
Our widened gates shall pour a sudden flood
Of vengeance on them, and chastise their scorn.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II-A Plain before the City. A Pros-

pect of Tents at a distance.

Enter CALED, ABUDAH, and DARAN.
Dar. To treat, my chiefs! what, are we mer-
chants 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.
Cal. Why, so am I-and but to save the lives
Of mussulmen, not christians, I would not treat.
I hate these christian dogs; and 'tis our task,
As thou observ'st, to fight; our law enjoins it:
Heaven, too, is promised only to the valiant.
Oft has our prophet said, the happy plains
Above lie stretched beneath the blaze of swords.
Abu. Yet, Daran's loth to trust that heaven
for pay;

This earth, it seems, has gifts that please him

more.

Cal. 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 where-
fore?

For conquest, not destruction. That obtained, The more we spare, the caliph has more subjects,

And Heaven is better served-But see, they

come.

Enter EUMENES, HERBIS, and ARTAMON.
Cal. Well, christians, we are met, and war
awhile,

At your request, has stilled his angry voice,
To hear what you'll propose.

Eum. We come to know,

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

Why on your heads you call our pointed arrows,
In our own just defence? What means this visit?

And why see we so many thousand tents
Rise in the air, and whiten all our fields?
Cal. Is that a question now? you had our sum-

mons,

When first we marched against you, to surrender.

Two moons have wasted since, and now the third
Is in it's 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 gained a con-
quest.

You see we are returned; our hearts, our cause,
Our swords the same.

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

Eum. Speak your wrongs,

If wrongs you have received, and by what means They may be now repaired.

Abu. Then, christians, hear!

And Heaven inspire you to embrace its truth!
Not wrongs to 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.

Art. [Aside.] So-then, it seems
There is no harm meant; we are only to be beaten
Into a new religion-If that's all,

I find I am already half a convert.

Eum. Now, in the name of Heaven, what faith is this,

That stalks gigantic forth thus armed 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?

Herb. 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 doctors
of your law

Have you e'er sent to 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 oùr thanks.
Cal. Friendship like this
With scorn had been received: your numerous
vices,

Your clashing sects, your mutual rage and strife,
Have driv'n religion and her angel guards,
Like out-casts, 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 pro-

phet

Who mildly taught you-Therefore Mahomet

You tread this ground?

Herb. What claim, but that of hunger? 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? Cal. Blasphemer, know, your fields and towns are our's;

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 even the mules and camels, which he drove,
Were his to give; and yet the bold impostor
Has cantoned out the kingdoms of the earth,
In frantic fits of visionary power,

To soothe his pride, and bribe his fellow madmen!

Cal. Was it for this you sent to ask a parley, To affront our faith, and to traduce our prophet?

Well might we answer you with quick revenge.
Nor 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 pearl and gems, we'll send your
caliph :

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 soldier
A scimitar. This, and of solid gold
Ten ingots, be the price to buy your absence.
Cal. This, and much more, even all your shi-
ning wealth,

Will soon be ours: look round your Syrian frontiers!

See in how many towns our hoisted flags

Are waving in the wind; Sachna, and Hawran, Proud Tadmor, Aracah, and stubborn Bosra

Have bowed beneath the yoke-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.

Herb. Presumptuous men!

What though you yet can boast successful guilt, Is conquest only your's? 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?

Eum. Have you forgot!

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

Bold as he was, and boasting aid divine,
Was by the tribe of Corish forced to fly,
Poorly to fly, to save his wretched life,
From Mecca to Medina.