Sard. Patience, prince, and hear me. She has all power and splendour of her station,

Respect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs, The homage and the appanage of sovereignty.

I married her as monarchs wed-for state, And loved her as most husbands love their wives.

If she or thou supposedst I could link me
Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate,
Ye knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind.
Sal. I pray thee, change the theme; my
blood disdains

Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not
Reluctant love even from Assyria's lord!
Nor would she deign to accept divided
passion

With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. The queen is silent.

Sard. And why not her brother?

"Obey the king contribute to his treasure— Recruit his phalanx-spill your blood at bidding

Fall down and worship, or get up and toil."
Or thus-"Sardanapalus on this spot
Slew fifty thousand of his enemies.
These are their sepulchres, and this his
trophy."

I leave such things to conquerors; enough
For me, if I can make my subjects feel
The weight of human misery less, and glide
Ungroaning to the tomb; I take no licence
Which I deny to them. We all are men.
Sal. Thy sires have been revered as
gods-

Sard. In dust

govern.

Sard. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! they murmur

Because I have not shed their blood, nor led them

To dry into the desert's dust by myriads, Or whiten with their bones the banks of Ganges;

Nor decimated them with savage laws, Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, Or Babylonian walls.

Sal. Yet these are trophies More worthy of a people and their prince Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concubines,

And lavish'd treasures, and contemned virtues.

Sard. Now, for my trophies I have founded cities:

There's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built In one day—what could that blood-loving beldame,

My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, Do more, except destroy them?

Sal. 'Tis most true:

I own thy merit in those founded cities, Built for a whim, recorded with a verse Which shames both them and thee to coming ages.

Sard. Shame me! By Baal, the cities, though well built,

Are not more goodly than the verse! Say what

Thou wilt 'gainst me,my mode of life or rule, But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief

record.

Why, those few lines contain the history
Of all things human; hear “Sardanapalus
The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes,
In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus.
Eat, drink, and love; the rest's not worth
a fillip."

nor men.

Talk not of such to me! the worms are gods; At least they banqueted upon your gods, And died for lack of further nutriment. Those gods were merely men; look to

their issue

In the state's service, I have still my dowry, Which shall be consecrated to his rites, And those of— [She stops with agitation. Chief of the Ten. Best retain it for your children.

Marina. Ay, they are fatherless, I thank you.

Chief of the Ten. We

Cannot comply with your request. His relics Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and follow'd

Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad As Doge, but simply as a senator.

Marina. I have heard of murderers, who have interr'd

Their victims; but ne'er heard, until this hour,

Of so much splendour in hypocrisy O'er those they slew. I've heard of widows' tears

Alas! I have shed some-a -always thanks to you!

I've heard of heirs in sables-you have left none

To the deceased, so you would act the part

Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done! as one day,

I trust, Heaven's will be done too!
Chief of the Ten. Know you, lady,
To whom ye speak, and perils of such speech?
Marina. I know the former better than
yourselves;

The latter-like yourselves; and can face both.

Wish you more funerals?

Barb. Heed not her rash words; Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. Chief of the Ten. We will not note them down.

Barb. (turning to Loredano, who is writing upon his tablets) What art thou writing,

With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets?

Lored. (pointing to the Doge's body) That he has paid me! Chief of the Ten. owe you?

What debt did he

TO

THE ILLUSTRIOUS GÖTHE. A stranger presumes to offer the homage of a literary vassal to his liege-lord, the first of existing writers, who has created the literature of his own country and illustrated that of Europe. The unworthy production which the author ventures to inscribe to him is entitled SARDANAPALUS.

PREFACE.

Iv publishing the Tragedies of Sardanapalus, and of The Two Foscari, I have only to repeat that they were not composed with the most remote view to the stage.

On the attempt made by the Managers in a former instance, the public opinion has been already expressed.

With regard to my own private feelings, as it seems that they are to stand for no thing, I shall say nothing.

For the historical foundation of the compositions in question, the reader is referred to the Notes.

The Author has in one instance attempted to preserve, and in the other to approach the unities; conceiving that with any very distant departure from them, there may be poetry, but can be no drama. He is aware of the unpopularity of this notion in present English literature; but it is not a system of his own, being merely an opinion, which, not very long ago, was the law of literature throughout the world, and is still so in the more civilized parts of it. But "Nous avons changé tout cela," and are reaping the advantages of the change. The writer is far from conceiving that any thing he can adduce by personal precept or example can at all approach his regular, or even irregular, predecessors: he is merely giving a reason why he preferred the more regular formation of a structure, however feeble, to an entire abandonment of all rules whatsoever. Where he has failed, the failure is in the architect,—and not in the art.

And I must be his friend as well as subject: He must not perish thus. I will not see

The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis
Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred

years

Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale; He must be roused. In his effeminate heart There is a careless courage which corruption

Has not all quench'd, and latent energies, Represt by circumstance, but not destroy'd Steep'd, but not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness.

If born a peasant, he had been a man

are they

Whom thou suspectest? Let them be arrested.

Sal. I would thou wouldst not ask me; the next moment

Will send my answer through thy babbling troop

Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace,
Even to the city, and so baffle all.-
Trust me.

Sard. Thou knowest I have done so ever;
Take thou the signet. [Gives the Signet.
Sal. I have one more request.
Sard. Name it.

For all the popular breath that e'er divided A name from nothing. What are the rank tongues

Of this vile herd, grown insolent with feeding,

That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread

Their noisome clamour?

Sal. You have said they are men; As such their hearts are something. Sard. So my dogs' are;

And better, as more faithful: – but, procced: Thou hast my signet:- since they are tumultuous,

banquet

In the pavilion over the Euphrates. Sard. Forbear the banquet! Not for all the plotters

That ever shook a kingdom! Let them come, And do their worst: I shall not blench for them;

Nor rise the sooner; nor forbear the goblet; | Nor crown me with a single rose the less; Nor lose one joyous hour.—I fear them not. Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, if needful?

Sard. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armour, and

A sword of such a temper; and a bow And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod forth:

A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. And now I think on't, 'tis long since I've used them,

Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother?

Sal. Is this a time for such fantastic trifling?

If need be, wilt thon wear them?

Sard. Will I not?

Oh! if it must be so, and these rash slaves Will not be ruled with less, I'll use the

sword

Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaff. Sal. They say, thy sceptre 's turn'd to that already.

Sard. That's false! but let them say so: the old Greeks,

Of whom our captives often sing, related
The same of 'their chief hero, Hercules,
Because he loved a Lydian queen: thou seest
The populace of all the nations seize
Each calumny they can to sink their
sovereigns.

Sal. They did not speak thus of thy fathers.
Sard. No;

They dared not. They were kept to toil

and combat,

Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain,
Given or received; we have enough within us,
The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch,
Not to add to each other's natural burthen
Of mortal misery, but rather lessen,
By mild reciprocal alleviation,
The fatal penalties imposed on life;
But this they know not,or they will not know.
I have, by Baal! done all I could to soothe
them:

I made no wars, I added no new imposts,
I interfered not with their civic lives,
I let them pass their days as best might
suit them,

Passing my own as suited me.

Sal. Thon stopp'st

Short of the duties of a king; and therefore They say thou art unfit to be a monarch.

Sard. They lie.-Unhappily, I am unfit To be aught save a monarch; else for me, The meanest Mede might be the king instead. Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who

Which sleeps at times, but is not dead

within thee,

And thou mayst yet be glorious in thy reign, As powerful in thy realm. Farewell! [Exit Salemenes.

Sard. (solus). Farewell! He's gone; and on his finger bears my signet, Which is to him a sceptre. He is stern As I am heedless; and the slaves deserve To feel a master. What may be the danger, I know not:-he hath found it, let him quell it.

Must I consume my life-this little life In guarding against all may make it less? It is not worth so much! It were to die Before my hour, to live in dread of death, Tracing revolt; suspecting all about me, Because they are near; and all who are remote,

Because they are far. But if it should be soIf they should sweep me off from earth and empire,

Why, what is earth or empire of the earth? I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image;

To die is no less natural than those-
Acts of this clay! Tis true I have not shed
Blood, as I might have done, in oceans, till
My name became the synonyme of death-
A terror and a trophy. But for this
I feel no penitence; my life is love:
If I must shed blood, it shall be by force.
Till now no drop from an Assyrian vein
Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest
coin

Of Nineveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish'd
On objects which could cost her sons a tear:
If then they hate me, 'tis because I hate not;
If they rebel, it is because I oppress not.
Oh, men! ye must be ruled with scythes,
not sceptres,

And mow'd down like the grass, else all

Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these was

names,

Lord-king-sire-monarch—nay,time
I prized them,

That is, I suffer'd them-from slaves and nobles;

But when they falter from the lips I love, The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill

Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood

Of this my station, which represses feeling In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me

Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara,
And share a cottage on the Caucasus
With thee, and wear no crowns but those
of flowers.

Myrrha. Would that we could!
Sard. And dost thou feel this? - Why?
Myrrha. Then thou wouldst know what
thou canst never know.

Sard. And that is

Myrrha. The true value of a heart; At least a woman's.

Sard. I have proved a thousand— A thousand, and a thousand.

Myrrha. Hearts?

Sard. I think so.

Myrrha. Not one! the time may come thou mayst.

Sard. It will.