Chapter 4

_A Rampart near the Harbour._

_Enter DIONYSIUS._

_Dio._ Base deserters! Curse on their Punic faith! did they once dare To grapple with the Greek? Ere yet the main Was ting'd with blood, they turn'd their ships averse. May storms and tempests follow in their rear, And dash their fleet upon the Lybian shore!

_Enter CALIPPUS._

_Cal._ My liege, Timoleon, where the harbour opens, Has storm'd the forts, and even now his fleet Pursues its course, and steers athwart the bay.

_Dio._ Ruin impends; and yet, if fall it must, I bear a mind to meet it undismay'd, Unconquer'd ev'n by Fate.

_Cal._ Through ev'ry street Despair and terror fly. A panic spreads From man to man, and superstition sees Jove arm'd with thunder, and the gods against us.

_Dio._ With sacred rites their wrath must be appeas'd. Let instant victims at the altar bleed: Let incense roll its fragrant clouds to Heav'n, And pious matrons, and the virgin train, In slow procession to the temple bear The image of their gods. The solemn sacrifice, the virgin throng, Will gain the popular belief, and kindle In the fierce soldiery religious rage. Away, my friends, prepare the sacred rites.

[_Exeunt CALIPPUS, &c._

Philotas, thou draw near: how fares your pris'ner? Has he yet breath'd his last?

_Phil._ Life ebbs apace; To-morrow's sun sees him a breathless corse.

_Dio._ Curse on his ling'ring pangs! Sicilia's crown No more shall deck his brow; and if the sand Still loiter in the glass, thy hand, my friend, May shake it thence.

_Phil._ It shall, dread sir; that task Leave to thy faithful servant.

_Dio._ Oh! Philotas, Thou little know'st the cares, the pangs of empire. The ermin'd pride, the purple that adorns A conqueror's breast, but serves, my friend, to hide A heart that's torn, that's mangled with remorse. Each object round me wakens horrid doubts; The flatt'ring train, the sentinel that guards me, The slave that waits, all give some new alarm, And from the means of safety dangers rise. Ev'n victory itself plants anguish here, And round my laurels the fell serpent twines.

_Phil._ Would Dionysius abdicate his crown, And sue for terms of peace?

_Dio._ Detested thought! No, though ambition teem with countless ills, It still has charms of pow'r to fire the soul. Though horrors multiply around my head, I will oppose them all. The pomp of sacrifice, But now ordain'd, is mockery to Heav'n. 'Tis vain, 'tis fruitless; then let daring guilt Be my inspirer, and consummate all. Where are those Greeks, the captives of my sword, Whose desperate valour rush'd within our walls, Fought near our person, and the pointed lance Aim'd at my breast?

_Phil._ In chains they wait their doom.

_Dio._ Give me to see 'em; bring the slaves before me.

_Phil._ What, ho! Melanthon, this way lead your prisoners.

_Enter MELANTHON, with GREEK OFFICERS and SOLDIERS._

_Dio._ Assassins, and not warriors! do ye come, When the wide range of battle claims your sword, Thus do ye come against a single life To wage the war? Did not our buckler ring With all your darts, in one collected volley, Shower'd on my head? Did not your swords at once Point at my breast, and thirst for regal blood?

_G. Off._ We sought thy life. I am by birth a Greek. An open foe in arms, I meant to slay The foe of human kind. With rival ardour We took the field; one voice, one mind, one heart; All leagu'd, all covenanted: in yon camp Spirits there are who aim, like us, at glory. Whene'er you sally forth, whene'er the Greeks Shall scale your walls, prepare thee to encounter A like assault. By me the youth of Greece Thus notify the war they mean to wage.

_Dio._ Thus, then, I warn them of my great revenge. Whoe'er in battle shall become our pris'ner, In torment meets his doom.

_G. Off._ Then wilt thou see How vile the body to a mind that pants For genuine glory. Twice three hundred Greeks Have sworn like us, to hunt thee through the ranks; Ours the first lot; we've fail'd; on yonder plain Appear in arms, the faithful band will meet thee.

_Dio._ Vile slave, no more. Melanthon, drag 'em hence To die in misery. Impal'd alive, The winds shall parch them on the craggy cliff. Selected from the rest, let one depart A messenger to Greece, to tell the fate Her chosen sons, her first adventurers met.

[_Exit DIONYSIUS._

_Mel._ Unhappy men! how shall my care protect Your forfeit lives? Philotas, thou conduct them To the deep dungeon's gloom. In that recess, 'Midst the wild tumult of eventful war We may ward off the blow. My friends, farewell: That officer will guide your steps.

[_All follow PHILOTAS, except PHOCION._

_Phoc._ Satisfy my doubts; how fares Euphrasia?

_Mel._ Euphrasia lives, and fills the anxious moments With every virtue. Wherefore venture hither? Why with rash valour penetrate our gates?

_Phoc._ Could I refrain? Oh! could I tamely wait Th' event of ling'ring war? With patience count The lazy-pacing hours, while here in Syracuse The tyrant keeps all that my heart holds dear; For her dear sake, all danger sinks before me? For her I burst the barriers of the gate, Where the deep cavern'd rock affords a passage. A hundred chosen Greeks pursu'd my steps, We forc'd an entrance; the devoted guard Fell victims to our rage; but in that moment Down from the walls superior numbers came. The tyrant led them on. We rush'd upon him, If we could reach his heart, to end the war. But Heav'n thought otherwise. Melanthon, say,-- I fear to ask it, lives Evander still?

_Mel._ Alas, he lives imprisoned in the rock. Thou must withdraw thee hence; regain once more Timoleon's camp! alarm his slumb'ring rage; Assail the walls; thou with thy phalanx seek The subterraneous path; that way at night The Greeks may enter, and let in destruction On the astonish'd foe.

_Phoc._ By Heav'n I will; My breath shall wake his rage; this very night When sleep sits heavy on the slumb'ring city, Then Greece unsheaths her sword, and great revenge Shall stalk with death and horror o'er the ranks Of slaughter'd troops a sacrifice to freedom! But first let me behold Euphrasia.

_Mel._ Hush Thy pent-up valour: to a secret haunt I'll guide thy steps; there dwell, and in apt time I'll bring Euphrasia to thy longing arms.

_Phoc._ Oh! lead me to her; that exalted virtue With firmer nerve shall bid me grasp the javelin; Shall bid my sword with more than lightning's swiftness. Blaze in the front of war, and glut its rage With blow repeated in the tyrant's veins. [_Exeunt._