Enter MORAT. Morat. Where is the king? Revenge now stalks abroad. Our valiant leaders, Zaph. Lo! Timurkan lies levelled with the dust! Send forth, and let Orasming straight proclaim I could not hope such tidings-Thee, my prince- Hamet. How fares it now, my father? Is that the ever dear, the faithful woman? Cold is that breast, where virtue from above dead! Pray ye, entomb me with her! Zaph. Then take, ye Powers, then take your conquests back; Zaphimri never can survive----- Żamti. [Raising himself.] I charge thee, live: A base desertion of the public weal Can ne'er become a king.--Alas! my son(By that dear tender name, if once again Zamti may call thee)-tears will have their way! Forgive this flood of tenderness: my heart Melts even now! Thou noble youth, this is The only interview we e'er shall have. Zaph. And will ye then, inexorable powers, Will ye then tear him from my aching heart! Zamti. The moral duties of the private man Are grafted in thy soul-Oh! still remember The mean immutable of happiness, Or in the vale of life, or on a throne, Is virtue. Each bad action of a king Extends beyond his life, and acts again Its tyranny o'er ages yet unborn. To error mild, severe to guilt, protect The helpless innocent; and learn to feel The best delight of serving human kind. Be these, my prince, thy arts: be these thy cares, And live the father of a willing people. Hamet. Oh! cruel!-see-ah see!--he dies! Tremble in agony-his eye-balls glare!- Zamti. It is too late-I die-alas! I die !Life harassed out, pursued with barbarous art, Through every trembling joint-now fails at once! Zaphimri-oh! farewell!-I shall not see The glories of thy reign.-Hamet !—my son― Thou good young man, farewell!-Mandane, yes, My soul with pleasure takes her flight, that thus Faithful in death, I leave these cold remains Near thy dear honoured clay. [Dies. Zaph. And art thou gone, Thou best of men?-Then must Zaphimri pine In ever-during grief, since thou art lost; Since that firm patriot, whose parental care Should raise, should guide, should animate my virtues, Lies there a breathless corse. Hamet. My liege, forbear: Belong to woes like mine. Zaph. Thy woes, indeed, Are deep, thou pious youth-yes, I will live, To soften thy afflictions; to assuage A nation's grief, when such a pair expires. Come to my heart:-in thee, another Zamti Shall bless the realm. Now let me hence to hail My people with the sound of peace; that done, To these a grateful monument shall rise, With all sepulchral honour. Frequent, there, We'll offer incense ;-there, cach weeping muse Shall grave the tributary verse;-with tears Embalm their memories; and teach mankind, Howe'er oppression stalk the groaning earth, Yet Heaven, in its own hour, can bring relief; Can blast the tyrant in his guilty pride, And prove the Orphan's guardian to the last. [Exeunt omnes EPILOGUE. SPOKEN BY MANDANE. THRO' five long acts I've worn my sighing face, seas Ladies, excuse my dress-'tis true Chinese. Fidget, I long to know it-do the creatures visit? Dear Mrs Yates, do tell us-Well, how is it?" First as to beauty-Set your hearts at restThey've all broad foreheads and pigs eyes at best. And then they lead such strange, such formal lives! -A little more at home than English wives; Lest the poor things should roam, and prove untrue, They all are crippled in the tiny shoe; A hopeful scheme to keep a wife from madding! -We pinch our feet, and yet are ever gadding. Then they've no cards, no routs, ne'er take the fling, And pin-money is an unheard-of thing! Then how d'ye think they write-You'll ne'er divine From top to bottom down in one straight line. [Mimics. We ladies, when our flames we cannot smother, Write letters-from one corner to another. One mode there is in which both climes agree; I scarce can tell-'mongst friends then let it beThe creatures love to cheat as well as we. But, bless my wits! I've quite forgot the bardA civil soul!-By me he sends this card"Presents respects-to every lady hereHopes for the honour-of a single tear." The critics then will throw their dirt in vain, One drop from you will wash out every stain. Acquaints you-(now the man is past his fright) He holds his rout-and here he keeps his night. Assures you all a welcome kind and hearty, The ladies shall play crowns-and there's the shilling party. [Points to the upper gallery. ZENOBIA. BY MURPHY. PROLOGUE. Or old, when Rome, in a declining age, Ye tyrants of the pit, whose cold disdain Ye bards, to whom French wit gives kind relief, He brings a tale from a far distant age, Harmonious Italy her tribute paid, Yet think not that we mean to mock the eye This is our author's aim; and if his art Waken to sentiment the feeling heart; If in his scenes alternate passions burn, And friendship, love, guilt, virtue, take their turn; If innocence oppress'd lie bleeding here, You'll give 'tis all he asks-one virtuous tear. SCENE,-Lies in Pharasmanes' Camp, on the Banks of the Araxes. 4 SCENE I. ACT I. Zel. THROUGH the wide camp 'tis awful solitude! On every tent, which, at the morning's dawn, Rung with the din of arms, deep silence sits, Adding new terrors to the dreadful scene! My heart dies in me !-hark! with hideous roar The turbulent Araxes foams along, And rolls his torrent through yon depth of woods! 'Tis terrible to hear!-who's there?-Zopiron ! Enter ZOPIRON. Zel. My lord, my husband!-help me; lend your aid! Zop. Why didst thou leave thy tent?-Why thus afflict Thy anxious breast, thou partner of my heart? Why wilt thou thus distract thy tender nature With groundless fears? Ere yonder sun shall visit The western sky, all will be hushed to peace. Zel. The interval is horrid; big with woe, With consternation, peril, and dismay! And oh! if here, while yet the fate of nations, Suspended, hangs upon the doubtful sword, If here the trembling heart thus shrink with horror, Here in these tents, in this unpeopled camp, Oh! think, Zopiron, in yon field of death, Where numbers soon in purple heaps shall bleed, What feelings there must throb in every breast? How long, ambition, wilt thou stalk the earth, And thus lay waste mankind! Zop. This day, at length, The warlike king, victorious Pharasmanes, Zel. Perish Iberia !-may the sons of Rome Zop. Thy generous zeal, thy every sentiment Charms my delighted soul. But thou be cautious, And check the rising ardour that inflames thee! The tyrant spares nor sex nor innocence. Zel. Indignant of controul, he spurns each law, Each holy sanction, that restrains the nations, And forms 'twixt man and man the bond of peace. VOL. II. Zop. This is the tyger's den; with human gore For ever floats the pavement; with the shrieks Of matrons weeping o'er their slaughtered sons, The cries of virgins, to the brutal arms Of violation dragged, with ceaseless groans Of varied misery, for ever rings The dreary region of his cursed domain. Zel. To multiply his crimes, a beauteous cap tive, The afflicted Ariana-she--for her, Zop. The bounteous gods may succour virtue still! In this day's battle, which perhaps ere now The charging hosts have joined, should Roman valour Prevail o'er Asia's numbers Zel. That event Is all our hope. And lo! on yonder rampart, Trembling with wild anxiety, she stands, Invokes each god, and bids her straining eye Explore the distant field. Zop. Yes, there she's fixed A statue of despair!-That tender bosom Heaves with no common grief--I've marked her oft, And, if I read aright, some mighty cause Zel. Haste, fly, Zopiron, fly with instant suc cour; Support her; help her;-lo! the attendant train Assuage the sorrows of her gentle spirit! Enter ZENOBIA, leaning on two attendants. Zen. A little onward, still a little onward Support my steps Zel. How fares it, madam, now? Zen. My strength returns-I thank ye, gençrous maids, And would I could requite you-fruitless thanks Are all a wretch can give. First attend. The gentle office 2 F Name not a monster horrible with blood, Zen. That pride is virtue; virtue, that abhors Nor sacred laws, nor the just gods, restrain himIn the dead midnight hour, the fell assassin Rushed on the slumber of the virtuous man; His life blood gushed! The venerable king Waked, saw a brother armed against his lifeForgave him, and expired! Zel. Yet wherefore open Afresh the wounds, which time long since hath closed? This day confirms the sceptre in his handZen. Confirms his sceptre-his!——indignant gods! Will no red vengeance, from your stores of wrath, Burst down to crush the tyrant in his guilt? His sceptre, saidst thou?urge that word no more The sceptre of his son!--the solemn right Zel. Can Ariana plead For such a son?-Means she to varnish o'er The guilt of Rhadamistus? Zen. Guilt, Zelmira! Zel. Guilt that shoots horror through my ach ing heart! Poor lost Zenobia! Zen. And do her misfortunes Awaken tender pity in your breast? Zel. Ill-fated princess! in her vernal bloom By a false husband murdered !-from the stem A rose-bud torn, and in some desert cave Thrown by, to moulder into silent dust! Zen. You knew not Rhada:mistus !--Pha rasmanes Knew not the early virtues of his son. Zel. Those strong impassioned looks!—some Works in her heart, and melts her into tears. [Aside. And must I leave thee, then, Zenobia?—must Thy beauteous form'--he paused, then aimed a poniard At his great heart-But, oh! I rushed upon him, And with these arms, close-wreathing round his neck, With all the vehemence of prayers and shrieks, left He clasped me to his heart-together both, Locked in the folds of love, we plunged at once, |