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OFT has the buskin’d muse, with action mean,
Debas'd the glory of the tragic scene:
While puny villains, dress'd in purple pride,
With *: obscene, the ho rage be-
To her belongs to mourn the hero's fate,
To trace the errors of the wise and great;
Tomark the excess of passions too refin'd,
And paint the tumults of a godlike mind;
Where, mov’d with rage, exalted thoughts com-

bine, And darkest deeds with beauteous colours shine. Solights and shades, in a well-mingled draught, By curious touch of artful pencils wrought, With soft deceit amuse the doubtful eye, Pleas'd with the conflict of the various dye. Thus through the following scenes, with sweet -- surprise, Wirtue and guilt in dread confusion rise, And love and hate, at once, and grief and joy,

Pity and rage, their mingled force employ.
Here the soft virgin sees, with secret shame,
Her charms excelled by friendship's purer flame,
Forc’d with reluctant virtue to approve
The generous hero who rejects her love.
Behold him there, with gloomy passions stain'd,
A wife suspected, and an injur’d friend;
Yet such the toil, where innocence is caught,
That rash suspicion seems without a fault.
We dread a while lest beauty should succeed,
And almost wish even virtue's self may bleed.
Mark well the black revenge, the cruel guile,
The traitor-fiend trampling the lovely spoil
§ beauty, truth, and innocence opprest:
en let the rage of furies fire your breast.
Yet may his mighty wrongs, his just disdain,
His bleeding country, his lov’d father slain,

| His martial o: your admiration raise,

And crown him with involuntary praise.

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SCENE I.—Battlements, with a Sea Prospect.

Enter ZANGA. 2an. Whether first nature, or long want of

peace, Has wrought my mind to this, I cannot tell: But horrors now are not displeasing to me:


I like this rocking of the battlements.
Rage on, ye winds ! burst, clouds, and waters

roar !
You bear a just resemblance of my fortune,
And suit the gloomy habit of my soul.


Who's there? My love?
Isa. Why have you left my bed:
Your absence more affrights me than the storm.
2an. The dead alone, in such a night, can rest,
And I indulge my meditation here.
Woman, away. I chuse to be alone.
Isa. I know you do, and therefore will not
- leave you;
Excuse me, Zanga, therefore dare not leave you.
Is this a night for walks of contemplation?
Something unusual hangs upon your heart,
And I . know it: by our loves I will. -
To you I sacrificed my virgin fame;
Ask I too much to share in yo. distress?
2an. In tears? Thou fool! Then hear me, and
be plunged
In hell’s abyss, if ever it escape thee.
To strike thee with astonishment at once,
I hate Alonzo. First recover that,
And then thou shalt hear farther.
Isa. Hate Alonzo!
I own, I thought Alonzo most your friend,
And that he lost the master in that name.
2an. Hear then. "Tis twice three years since
that t man
(Great let me call him, for he conquered me)
Made me the captive of his arm in fight.
He slew my father, and threw chains o'er me,
While I, with pious rage, pursued revenge.

I then was young; he placed me near his person,
And thought me not dishonoured by his service.
One day, (may that returning day be night,
The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year!)
For something, or for nothing, in his pride
He struck me—While I tell it, do I live?
He smote me on the cheek—I did not stab him,
For that were poor revenge—E’er since, his
Has strove to bury it beneath a heap
Of kindnesses, and thinks it is forgot.
Insolent thought! and like a second blow !
Affronts are innocent, where men are worthless;
And such alone can wisely drop revenge.
Isa. But with more temper, Zanga, tell your
To see your strong emotions startles me.
2an. Yes, woman, with the temper that befits it.
Has the dark adder venom 2 So have I,
When trod upon. Proud Spaniard, thou shalt
feel me !
For from that day, that day of my dishonour,
I from that day have cursed the rising sun,
Which never failed to tell me of my shame.
I from that day have blessed the coming night,
Which promised to conceal it; but in vain;
The blow returned for ever in my dream.
Yet on I toiled, and groaned for an occasion
Of ample vengeance; none is yet arrived.
Howe'er, at present I conceive warm hopes
Of what may wound him sore in his ambition,
Life of his life, and dearer than his soul.
By nightly march he purposed to surprise
The Moorish camp; but I have taken care
They shall be ... to receive his favour.
Failing in this, a cast of utmost moment,
Would darken all the conquests he has won.
Isa. Just as I entered, an express arrived.
2an. To whom?
Isa. His friend, Don Carlos.
2an. Be propitious,
Oh, Mahomct, on this important hour,
And give, at length, my famished soul revenge 1
What is revenge, but courage to call in

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