Enter MORAT.

Morat. Where is the king?

Revenge now stalks abroad. Our valiant leaders,
True to the destined hour, at once broke forth
From every quarter on the astonished foe:
Octar is fallen; all covered o'er with wounds
He met his fate; and still the slaughtering sword
Invades the city, sunk in sleep and wine.

Zaph. Lo! Timurkan lies levelled with the dust!

Send forth, and let Orasming straight proclaim
Zaphimri king-my subjects' rights restored.
[Exit MORAT.
Now, where is Zamti? where Mandane?-ha!
What means that look of wan despair?

I could not hope such tidings-Thee, my prince-
Thee, too, my son-I thought ye both destroyed.
My slow remains of life cannot endure
These strong vicissitudes of grief and joy.
And there-Oh! Heaven!-see there, there lies
Mandane !

Hamet. How fares it now, my father?
Zumti. Lead me to her-

Is that the ever dear, the faithful woman?
Is that my wife?-And is it thus at length,
Thus do I see thee then, Mandane ?--Cold,
Alas! death-cold-

Cold is that breast, where virtue from above
Made its delighted sojourn, and those lips
That uttered heavenly truth-pale! pale!--dead,
Sinks on the body.

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!
-his lips

Tremble in agony-his eye-balls glare!-
A death-like paleness spreads o'er all his face!
Zaph. Is there no help to save so dear a life?

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:
Live for your people; madness and despair

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

THRO' five long acts I've worn my sighing face,
Confin'd by critic laws to time and place;
Yet that once done I ramble as I please,
Cry London, hoy! and whisk o'er land and

seas

Ladies, excuse my dress-'tis true Chinese.
Thus, quit of husband, death, and tragic strain,
Let us enjoy our dear small-talk again.
How could this bard successful hope to prove?
So many heroes-and not one in love!
No suitor here to talk of flames that thrill;
To say the civil thing-" Your eyes so kill!".-
No ravisher to force us-to our will!
You've seen their eastern virtues, patriot passions,
And now for something of their taste and fashions.
“O Lord! that's charming, cries my lady

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.

BY

Or old, when Rome, in a declining age,
Of lawless power had felt the barb'rous rage,
This was the tyrant's part-he gave a prize
To him who a new pleasure could devise.

Ye tyrants of the pit, whose cold disdain
Rejects and nauseates the repeated strain ;
Who call for rarities to quicken sense,
Say, do you always the reward dispense?

Ye bards, to whom French wit gives kind relief,
Are ye not of the first-to cry, stop thief?
Say, to a brother do you e'er allow
One little sprig, one leaf to deck his brow?
No-fierce invective stuns the playwright's ears,
Wits, Poets-Corner, Ledgers, Gazetteers!
'Tis said the Tartar, ere he pierce the heart,
Inscribes his name upon the poisoned dart.
That scheme's rejected by each scribbling spark;
Our Christian system-stabs you in the dark.
And yet the desp' rate author of to-night
Dares, on the muse's wing, another flight;
Once more, a dupe to fame, forsakes his ease,
And feeds the ambition-here again to please.

He brings a tale from a far distant age,
Ennobled by the grave historic page!
Zenobia's woes have touched each polished state;
The brightest eyes of France have mourn'd her
fate;

Harmonious Italy her tribute paid,
And sung a dirge to her lamented shade.

Yet think not that we mean to mock the eye
With pilfered colours of a foreign dye.
Not to translate, our bard his pen doth dip;
He takes a play, as Britons take a ship:
They heave her down: with many a sturdy stroke,
Repair her well, and build with heart of oak;
To every breeze set Britain's streamers free,
New-man her, and away again to sea.

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.

4

SCENE 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,
Closes the scene of war. The Roman bands
But ill can cope with the embattled numbers
Asia pours forth, a firm, undaunted host!
A nation under arms! and every bosom
To deeds of glory fired!--Iberia then-

Zel. Perish Iberia !-may the sons of Rome
Pour rapid vengeance on her falling ranks,
That he, who tramples on the rights of nature,
May see his vassals overwhelmed in ruin,
May from yon field be led in sullen chains,
To grace the triumph of imperial Rome,
And from the assembled senate humbly learn
The dictates of humanity and justice!

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,
For that fair excellence my bosom bleeds!
She, in the prime of every blooming grace,
When next the glowing hour of riot comes,
Shall fall a victim to his base desires.

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
Of hoarded anguish, some peculiar woe
Preys on her mind unseen!---But, ha! behold,
She faints; her fears, too powerful for her frame,
Sink that frail beauty drooping to the earth.
[Exit hastily.

Zel. Haste, fly, Zopiron, fly with instant suc

cour;

Support her; help her;-lo! the attendant train
Have caught her in their arms!-Assist her,
Heaven,

Assuage the sorrows of her gentle spirit!
Her fluttering sense returns ;---and now this way
The virgins lead her. May the avenging gods,
In pity of the woes such virtue feels,
In pity of the wrongs a world endures,
With power resistless arm the Roman legions,
That they may hurl, in one collected blow,
Assured destruction on the tyrant's head!

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,
The widow's, orphan's, and the virgin's tears!
Zel. Yet, savage as he is, at sight of thee
Each fiercer passion softens into love.
To you he bends; the monarch of the east,
Dejected, droops beneath your cold disdain,
And all the tyranny of female pride.

Zen. That pride is virtue; virtue, that abhors
The tyrant recking from a brother's murder!
Oh! Mithridates! ever honoured shade!
Peaceful he reigned, dispensing good around him,
In the mild eve of honourable days!
Through all her peopled realm Armenia felt
His equal sway: The sunset of his power,
With fainter beams, but undiminished glory,
Still shone serene; while every conscious subject,
With tears of praise, beheld his calm decline,
And blessed the parting ray !—yet then, Zelmira,
Oh, fact accursed!-yes, Pharasmanes then-
Detested perfidy! nor ties of blood,

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
Of Rhadamistus! Mithridates' choice,
That called him to his daughter's nuptial bed,
Approved him lineal heir; consenting nobles,
The public will, the sanction of the laws,
All ratified his claim-yet, curst ambition,
Deaf to a nation's voice, a nation's charter,
Not satisfied to fill Iberia's throne,
Made war, unnatural war, against a son,
Usurped his throne, and, with remorseless rage,
Pursued his life!

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.
As yet an infant, in his tenderest years
His father sent him to Armenia's court,
That Mithridates' care might form his mind
To arts, to wisdom, and to manners, worthy
Armenia's sceptre, and Zenobia's love.
The world, delighted, saw each dawning virtue,
Each nameless grace, to full perfection rising!-
Oh! he was all the fondest maid could wish-
All truth, all honour, tenderness, and love!
Yet, from his empire thrown! with merciless fury
His father following-slaughter raging round,
What could the hero in that dire extreme!

Zel. Those strong impassioned looks!—some
fatal secret

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,
Implored the only boon he then could grant,
To perish with him in a fond embrace!
The foe drew near--time pressed--no way was

left

He clasped me to his heart-together both, Locked in the folds of love, we plunged at once,