Such is the State of Men and human Things; We weep, we smile, we mourn, and laugh thro' Life, Here falls a Blessing, there alights a Curse, As the good Genius or the evil reigns.

It's right it should be so. Should either conquer, The World would cease, and Mankind be undone By constant Frowns or Flatteries from Fate; This constant Mixture makes the Potion safe, And keeps the sickly Mind of Man in Health.

_Enter CHEKITAN._

It is my Son. What has been your Success?

CHEKITAN.

We've fought the Enemy, broke thro' their Ranks, Slain many on the Spot, pursu'd the rest Till Night conceal'd and sav'd them from our Arms.

PONTEACH.

'Tis bravely done, and shall be duly honour'd With all the Signs and Marks of public Joy.

CHEKITAN.

What means this Gloom I see in every Face?

These smother'd Groans and stifled half-drawn Sighs; Does it offend that I've return'd in Triumph?

PONTEACH.

I fear to name--And yet it must be known. [_Aside._ Be not alarm'd, my Son, the Laws of Fate Must be obey'd: She will not hear our Dictates.

I'm not a Stranger to your youthful Pa.s.sion, And fear the Disappointment will confound you.

CHEKITAN.

Has he not sped? Has ill befell my Brother?

PONTEACH.

Yes, he is wounded but--Monelia's slain, And Torax both. Slain by the cowardly English, Who 'scap'd your Brother's wounded threat'ning Arm, But are pursued by such as will revenge it.--

CHEKITAN.

Oh wretched, wretched, wretched Chekitan! [_Aside._

PONTEACH.

I know you're shock'd--The Scene has shock'd us all, And what we could, we've done to wipe the Stain From us, our Family, our Land and State; And now prepare due Honours for the Dead, With all the solemn Pomp of public Grief, To shew Respect as if they were our own.

CHEKITAN.

Is this my Triumph after Victory?

A solemn, dreadful pompous Shew: Why have I 'scap'd their Swords and liv'd to see it? [_Aside._ Monelia dead! aught else I could have borne: I'm stupefy'd: I can't believe it true; Shew me the Dead; I will believe my Eyes, But cannot mourn or drop a Tear till then.

TENESCO.

I will conduct you to them--Follow me-- [_Exeunt TENESCO and CHEKITAN._

PONTEACH.

This is a sad Reception from a Conquest, And puts an awful Gloom upon our Joy; I fear his Grief will overtop his Reason; A Lover weeps with more than common Pain.

Nor flows his greatest Sorrow at his Eyes: His Grief is inward, and his Heart sheds Tears, And in his Soul he feels the pointed Woe, When he beholds the lovely Object lost.

The deep-felt Wound admits no sudden Cure; The festering Humour will not be dispers'd, It gathers on the Mind, and Time alone, That buries all Things, puts an End to this. [_Exeunt omnes._

SCENE III. _The Grove, with the dead bodies; TENESCO pointing CHEKITAN to them._

TENESCO.

There lie the Bodies, Prince, a wretched Sight!

Breathless and pale.

CHEKITAN.

A wretched Sight indeed; [_Going towards them._ Oh, my Monelia; has thy Spirit fled?

Art thou no more? a b.l.o.o.d.y, breathless Corpse!

Am I return'd full flush'd with Hopes of Joy, With all the Honours Victory can give, To see thee thus? Is this, is this my Welcome?

Is this our Wedding? Wilt thou not return?

Oh, charming Princess, art thou gone for ever?

Is this the fatal Period of our Love?

Oh! had I never seen thy Beauty bloom, I had not now been griev'd to see it pale: Had I not known such Excellence had liv'd, I should not now be curs'd to see it dead: Had not my Heart been melted by thy Charms, It would not now have bled to see them lost.

Oh, wherefore, wherefore, wherefore do I live: Monelia is not--What's the World to me?

All dark and gloomy, horrid, waste, and void: The Light of the Creation is put out!-- The Blessings of the G.o.ds are all withdrawn!

Nothing remains but Wretchedness and Woe; Monelia's gone; Monelia is no more.

The Heavens are veil'd because she don't behold them: The Earth is curs'd, for it hath drunk her Blood; The Air is Poison, for she breathes no more: Why fell I not by the base Briton's Sword?

Why press'd I not upon the fatal Point?

Then had I never seen this worse than Death, But dying said, 'tis well--Monelia lives.

TENESCO.

Comfort, my Prince, nor let your Pa.s.sion swell To such a Torrent, it o'erwhelms your Reason, And preys upon the Vitals of your Soul.

You do but feed the Viper by this View; Retire, and drive the Image from your Thought, And Time will soon replace your every Joy.

CHEKITAN.

O my Tenesco, had you ever felt The gilded Sweets, or pointed Pains of Love, You'd not attempt to sooth a Grief like mine.

Why did you point me to the painful Sight?

Why have you shown this Shipwreck of my Hopes, And plac'd me in this beating Storm of Woe?

Why was I told of my Monelia's Fate?

Why wa'n't the wretched Ruin all conceal'd Under some fair Pretence--That she had fled-- Was made a Captive, or had chang'd her Love-- Why wa'n't I left to guess her wretched End?

Or have some slender Hope that she still liv'd?

You've all been cruel; she died to torment me; To raise my Pain, and blot out every Joy.--

TENESCO.

I fear'd as much: His Pa.s.sion makes him wild-- [_Aside._ I wish it may not end in perfect Frenzy.