Page:Representative American plays.pdf/56

Rh

. Haste! my Lord!

Or all will soon be lost; tho' thrice repuls'd

By your e'erfaithful guards, they still return

With double fury.

. Hence, then, idle love—

Come forth, my trusty sword—curs'd misfortune!—

Had I but one short hour, without reluctance,

I 'd meet them, tho' they brib'd the pow'rs of hell,

To place their furies in the van: Yea, rush

To meet this dreadful Brother 'midst the war—

Haste to the combat—Now a crown or death—

The wretch who dares to give an inch of ground

Till I retire, shall meet the death he shun'd.

Away—away! delays are dang'rous now—

Now heav'n be partial to Arsaces' cause,

Nor leave to giddy chance when virtue strives;

Let victory sit on his warlike helm,

For justice draws his sword: be thou his aid,

And let the opposer's arm sink with the weight

Of his most impious crimes—be still my heart,

For all that thou canst aid him with is pray'r.

Oh! that I had the strength of thousands in me!

Or that my voice could wake the sons of men

To join, and crush the tyrant!—

. My Cleone—

Welcome thou partner of my joys and sorrows.

. Oh! yonder terror triumphs uncontroul'd,

And glutton death seems never satisfy'd.

Each soft sensation lost in thoughtless rage,

And breast to breast, oppos'd in furious war,

The fiery Chiefs receive the vengeful steel.

O'er lifeless heaps of men the soldiers climb

Still eager for the combat, while the ground

Made slipp'ry by the gushing streams of gore

Is treach'rous to their feet.— Oh! horrid sight!—

Too much for me to stand, my life was chill'd,

As from the turret I beheld the fight,

It forc'd me to retire.

. What of Arsaces?

. I saw him active in the battle, now,

Like light'ning, piercing thro' the thickest foe,

Then scorning to disgrace his sword in low

Plebeian blood—loud for Vardanes call'd—

To meet him singly, and decide the war.

. Save him, ye Gods!—oh! all my soul is fear—

Fly, fly Cleone, to the tow'r again,

See how fate turns the ballanecbalance [sic]; and pursue

Arsaces with thine eye; mark ev'ry blow,

Observe if some bold villain dares to urge

His sword presumptuous at my Hero's breast.

Haste, my Cleone, haste, to ease my fears.

Ah!—what a cruel torment is suspense!

My anxious soul is torn 'twixt love and fear,

Scarce can I please me with one fancied bliss

Which kind imagination forms, but reason,

Proud, surly reason, snatches the vain joy,

And gives me up again to sad distress.