Mah. What hast thou done! Pal. A deed of glory, tyrant! Thou hast left no object worth Palmira's eyes, And, when I shut out light, I shut out thee

[Dies. Mah. Farewell, dear victim of my boundless passion!

The price of treachery, the reward of murder, Sink with thee to the earth--Oh, justice, justice!

In vain are glory, worship, and dominion!
All conqueror as I am, I am a slave,

And, by the world adored, dwell with the damned!

My crimes have planted scorpions in my breast;
Here, here, I feel them. 'Tis in vain to brave
The host of terrors, that invade my soul:
I might deceive the world, myself I cannot.
Ali. Be calm a while, my lord think what
you are.

Mah. Ha! what am I?

transport me

To nature's loneliest mansion, where the sun
Ne'er entered, where the sound of human tread
Was never heard-But wherefore? still I there,
There still, shall find myself-Ay, that's the hell!
I'll none on't.
[Drawing his sword.

Ali. Heavens! help, hold him!

Mah. Paltry dastards!

[ALI, &c. disarm him.

You fled the foe, but can disarm your master! Angel of death, whose power I've long proclaimed,

Now aid me, if thou canst; now, if thou canst,
Draw the kind curtain of eternal night,
And shroud me from the horrors that beset me!
[Exeunt MAHOMET, &c.
Pha. Oh! what a curse is life, when self-con-
viction

Flings our offences hourly in our face,
And turns existence torturer to itself!
Here let the mad enthusiast turn his eyes,
And see from bigotry what horrors rise;
Here in the blackest colours let him read,
That zeal, by craft misled, may act a deed,
By which both innocence and virtue bleed.
[Exeunt omines.

Coquette the fan, and leer a double meaning!
Shame on those arts that prostitute the bays!
Shame on the bard who this way hopes for
praise!

The bold but honest author of to-night
Disdains to please you, if he please not right;
If, in his well-meant scene, you chance to find
Aught to ennoble or enlarge the mind;
If he has found the means, with honest art,
To fix the noblest wishes in the heart,
In softer accents to inform the fair,
How bright they look when virtue drops the tear,
Enjoy with friendly welcome the repast,
And keep the heart-felt relish to the last.

BY

BOLD is the man, who, in this nicer age, Presumes to tread the chaste corrected stage. Now, with gay tinsel arts, we can no more Conceal the want of nature's sterling ore; Our spells are vanish'd, broke our magic wand, That us'd to waft you over sea and land; Before your light the fairy people fade, The demons fly,-the ghost itself is laid. In vain of martial scenes the loud alarms, The mighty prompter thund'ring out to arms, The play-house posse clattering from afar, The close-wedged battle and the din of war. Now, even the senate seldom we convene ; The yawning fathers nod behind the scene. Your taste rejects the glittering false sublime, To sigh in metaphor, and die in rhyme.

If virtue were to wear a human form,
To light it with her dignity and flame,
Then softening, mix her smiles and tender
graces-

Oh, she would chuse the person of my Tancred!
Go on, my friend, go on, and ever praise him;
The subject knows no bounds, nor can I tire,
While my breast trembles to that sweetest mu-
sic!

The heart of woman tastes no truer joy,

Has made the prudent basis of his will-
Away, unworthy views! you shall not tempt me!
Nor interest, nor ambition shali seduce
My fixed resolve-Perish the selfish thought,
Which our own good prefers to that of millions!
He comes, my king, unconscious of his fortune.
Enter TANCRED.

Tan. My lord Siffredi, in your looks I read, Confirmed, the mournful news that fly abroad

'Tis more than selfish vanity-as when

She hears the praises of the man she loves! Laura. Madam, your father comes.

Enter SIFFREDI.

lost

The good old king?

Sif. Yes, we have lost a father;

The greatest blessing heaven bestows on mortals, And seldom found amidst these wilds of time,

cred

Is found?

Atten. My lord, he quickly will be here.

I scarce could keep before him, though he bid me Speed on, to say he would attend your orders. Sif. 'Tis well-retire-You too, my daughter, leave me.

Sig. I go, my father-But how fares the king? Sif. He is no more. Gone to that awful state, Where kings the crown wear only of their vir

tues.

Sig. How bright must then be his !-This
stroke is sudden;

He was this morning well, when to the chase
Lord Tancred went.

Sif. 'Tis true. But at his years
Death gives short notice-Drooping nature then,
Without a gust of pain to shake it, falls.
His death, my daughter, was that happy period
Which few attain. The duties of his day
Were all discharged, and gratefully enjoyed
Its noblest blessings; calm as evening skies
Was his pure mind, and lighted up with hopes
That open Heaven; when, for his last long sleep
Timely prepared, a lassitude of life,
A pleasing weariness of mortal joy,

Fell on his soul, and down he sunk to rest.
Oh, may my death be such !-He but one wish
Left unfulfilled, which was to see count Tancred.
Sig. To see count Tancred!-Pardon me, my
lord-

Sif. For what, my daughter?-But, with such
emotion,

Why did you start at mention of count Tancred? Sig. Nothing-I only hoped the dying king Might mean to make some generous just provision For this your worthy charge, this noble orphan. Sif. And he has done it largely-Leave me

now

I want some private conference with lord Tan-
cred.
[Exeunt SIG. and LAURA.

My doubts are but too true-If these old eyes
Can trace the marks of love, a mutual passion
Has seized, I fear, my daughter and this prince,
My sovereign now-Should it be so? Ah, there,
There lurks a brooding tempest, that may shake
My long-concerted scheme, to settle firm
The public peace and welfare, which the king
VOL. II.

And I will tell thee, in a few plain words, How he deserved that best, that glorious title; 'Tis nought complex, 'tis clear as truth and virtue. He loved his people, deemed them all his children;

The good exalted, and depressed the bad.
He spurned the flattering crew, with scorn re-
jected

Their smooth advice that only means themselves,
Their schemes to aggrandize him into baseness:
Nor did he less disdain the secret breath,
The whispered tale, that blights a virtuous name.
He sought alone the good of those for whom
He was entrusted with the sovereign power:
Well knowing, that a people, in their rights
And industry protected; living safe
Beneath the sacred shelter of the laws;
Encouraged in their genius, arts, and labours,
And happy each, as he himself deserves,
Are ne'er ungrateful. With unsparing hand,
They will for him provide: their filial love
And confidence are his unfailing treasure,
And every honest man his faithful guard.

Tan. A general face of grief o'erspreads the
city.

I marked the people, as I hither came,

In crowds assembled, struck with silent sorrow,
And pouring forth the noblest praise-of tears.
Those, whom remembrance of their former woes,
And long experience of the vain illusions
Of youthful hope, had into wise consent
And fear of change corrected, wrung their hands,
And, often casting up their eyes to heaven,
Gave sign of sad conjecture. Others shewed,
Athwart their grief, or real, or affected,
A gleam of expectation, from what chance
And change might bring. A mingled murmur ran
Along the streets; and from the lonely court
Of him, who can no more assist their fortunes,
I saw the courtier-fry, with eager haste,
All hurrying to Constantia.

Sif. Noble youth!

I joy to hear from thee these just reflections, Worthy of riper years-But if they seek Constantia, trust me, they mistake their course Tan. How! Is she not, my lord, the late king's

sister,

Heir to the crown of Sicily? the last

Of our famed Norman line, and now our queen? Sif. Tancred, 'tis true; she is the late king's sister,

The sole surviving offspring of that tyrant,
William the Bad-so for his vices styled;
Who spilt much noble blood, and sore oppressed
The exhausted land: whence grievous wars arose,
And many a dire convulsion shook the state:
When he, whose death Sicilia mourns to-day,
William, who has, and well deserved the name
Of Good, succeeding to his father's throne,
Relieved his country's woes-But to return;
She is the late king's sister, born some months
After the tyrant's death, but not next heir.
Tan. You much surprise me-May I then pre-

In vain will counsel, if the heart forbid it—
But wherefore fear? The right is clearly his;
And, under your direction, with each man
Of worth, and stedfast loyalty, to back
At once the king's appointment and his birth-
right,

There is no ground for fear. They have great odds,

Against the astonished sons of violence,
Who fight with awful justice on their side.
All Sicily will rouse, all faithful hearts

Will range themselves around prince Manfred's

son.

For me, I here devote me to the service
Of this young prince; I every drop of blood
Will lose with joy, with transport, in his cause—
Pardon my warmth-but that, my lord, will

never

To this decision come-Then find the prince;
Lose not a moment to awaken in him
The royal soul. Perhaps he now, desponding,
Pines in a corner, and laments his fortune,
That in the narrower bounds of private life
He must confine his aims, those swelling virtues
Which from his noble father he inherits.

Sif. Perhaps, regardless, in the common bane
Of youth he melts, in vanity and love.
But if the seeds of virtue glow within him,
I will awake a higher sense, a love,
That grasps the loves and happiness of millions.
Tan. Why that surmise? Or should he love,
Siffredi,

I doubt not, it is nobly, which will raise
And animate his virtues-Oh, permit me
To plead the cause of youth-Their virtue oft,
In pleasure's soft enchantment lulled awhile,
Forgets itself; it sleeps and gayly dreams,
Till great occasion rouse it; then, all flame,
It walks abroad, with heightened soul and vigour,
And, by the change, astonishes the world!
Even with a kind of sympathy, I feel

The joy that waits this prince; when all the

powers,

The expanding heart can wish, of doing good;
Whatever swells ambition, or exalts

The human soul into divine emotions,
All crowd at once upon him.-

Sif. Ah, my Tancred,

Nothing so easy as in speculation,

And at a distance seen, the course of honour;