Rage and Revenge appear'd in every Face.

HONNYMAN.

You may depend upon 't, we all must die, I've made such Havoc, they'll have no Compa.s.sion; They only wait to study out new Torments: All that can be inflicted or endur'd, We may expect from their relentless Hands.

Their brutal Eyes ne'er shed a pitying Tear; Their savage Hearts ne'er had a Thought of Mercy; Their Bosoms swell with Rancour and Revenge, And, Devil-like, delight in others' Plagues, Love Torments, Torture, Anguish, Fire, and Pain, The deep-fetch'd Groan, the melancholy Sigh, And all the Terrors and Distress of Death, These are their Music, and enhance their Joy.

In Silence then submit yourself to Fate: Make no Complaint, nor ask for their Compa.s.sion; This will confound and half destroy their Mirth; Nay, this may put a stop to many Tortures, To which our Prayers and Tears and Plaints would move them.

MRS. HONNYMAN.

Oh, dreadful Scene! Support me, mighty G.o.d, To pa.s.s the Terrors of this dismal Hour, All dark with Horrors, Torments, Pains, and Death!

Oh, let me not despair of thy kind Help; Give Courage to my wretched, groaning Heart!

HONNYMAN.

Tush, Silence! You'll be overheard.

MRS. HONNYMAN.

Oh, my dear Husband! 'Tis an Hour for Prayer, An Infidel would pray in our Distress: An Atheist would believe there was some G.o.d To pity Pains and Miseries so great.

HONNYMAN.

If there's a G.o.d, he knows our secret Wishes; This Noise can be no Sacrifice to him; It opens all the Springs of our weak Pa.s.sions.

Besides, it will be Mirth to our Tormentors; They'll laugh, and call this Cowardice in Christians And say Religion makes us all mere Women.

MRS. HONNYMAN.

I will suppress my Grief in Silence then, And secretly implore the Aid of Heaven.

Forbid to pray! Oh, dreadful Hour indeed! [_Pausing._ Think you they will not spare our dear sweet Babes?

Must these dear Innocents be put to Tortures, Or dash'd to Death, and share our wretched Fate?

Must this dear Babe that hangs upon my Breast [_Looking upon her infant._ Be s.n.a.t.c.h'd by savage Hands and torn in Pieces!

Oh, how it rends my Heart! It is too much!

Tygers would kindly soothe a Grief like mine; Unconscious Rocks would melt, and flow in Tears At this last Anguish of a Mother's Soul.

[_Pauses, and views her child again._ Sweet Innocent! It smiles at this Distress, And fondly draws this final Comfort from me: Dear Babe, no more: Dear Tommy too must die, [_Looking at her other child._ Oh, my sweet First-born! Oh, I'm overpower'd. [_Pausing._

HONNYMAN.

I had determin'd not to shed a Tear; [_Weeping._ But you have all unman'd my Resolution; You've call'd up all the Father in my Soul; Why have you nam'd my Children? Oh, my Son! [_Looking upon him._ My only Son--My Image--Other Self!

How have I doted on the charming Boy, And fondly plann'd his Happiness in Life!

Now his Life ends: Oh, the Soul-bursting Thought!

He falls a Victim for his Father's Folly.

Had I not kill'd their Friends, they might have spar'd My Wife, my Children, and perhaps myself, And this sad, dreadful Scene had never happen'd.

But 'tis too late that I perceive my Folly; If Heaven forgive, 'tis all I dare to hope for.

MRS. HONNYMAN.

What! have you been a Murderer indeed!

And kill'd the Indians for Revenge and Plunder?

I thought you rash to tempt their brutal Rage, But did not dream you guilty as you said.

HONNYMAN.

I am indeed. I murder'd many of them, And thought it not amiss, but now I fear.

MRS. HONNYMAN.

O shocking Thought! Why have you let me know Yourself thus guilty in the Eye of Heaven?

That I and my dear Babes were by you brought To this Extreme of Wretchedness and Woe?

Why have you let me know the solemn Weight Of horrid Guilt that lies upon us all?

To have died innocent, and seen these Babes By savage Hands dash'd to immortal Rest, This had been light, for this implies no Crime: But now we die as guilty Murderers, Not savage Indians, but just Heaven's Vengeance Pursues our Lives with all these Pains and Tortures.

This is a Thought that points the keenest Sorrow, And leaves no Room for Anguish to be heighten'd.

HONNYMAN.

Upbraid me not, nor lay my Guilt to Heart; You and these Fruits of our past Morning Love Are innocent. I feel the Smart and Anguish, The Stings of Conscience, and my Soul on Fire.

There's not a h.e.l.l more painful than my Bosom, Nor Torments for the d.a.m.n'd more keenly pointed.

How could I think to murder was no Sin?

Oh, my lost Neighbour! I seduc'd him too.

Now death with all its Terrors disappears, And all I fear 's a dreadful Something-after; My Mind forebodes a horrid, woful Scene, Where Guilt is chain'd and tortur'd with Despair.

MRS. HONNYMAN.

The Mind oppress'd with Guilt may find Relief.

HONNYMAN.

Oh, could I reach the pitying Ear of Heaven, And all my Soul evaporate in Sound, 'T would ask Forgiveness! but I fear too late; And next I'd ask that you and these dear Babes Might bear no Part in my just Punishment.

Who knows but by pathetic Prayers and Tears Their savage Bosoms may relent towards you, And fix their Vengeance where just Heaven points it?

I still will hope, and every Motive urge.

Should I succeed, and melt their rocky Hearts, I'd take it as a Presage of my Pardon, And die with Comfort when I see you live.

[_Death halloo is heard without._

MRS. HONNYMAN.

Hark! they are coming--Hear that dreadful Halloo.

HONNYMAN.

It is Death's solemn Sentence to us all; They are resolv'd, and all Entreaty's vain.

Oh horrid Scene! how shall I act my Part?

Was it but simple Death to me alone!

But all your Deaths are mine, and mine the Guilt.

_Enter INDIANS with stakes, hatchets, and firebrands._

Oh, horrid Preparation, more than Death!

PONTEACH.