PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY WILLIAM WALLACE.

Various the realms, and boundless are the views
Where fanży wanders with the Tragic muse.
What spot X7-night, o'er that expansive sphere,
Wakes manhuad's sympathy—asks woman's tear?
'Tis Spain-th land where oft, enthroned sublimo,
Shone muse-loved chivalry in olden time!
'Tis Spain—whore late Britannia's conquering hand
Unmanacled the genius of the land,
Glory's bright bea con lighted once again,
Bade prostrate Eurspe blush, and burst her chain;
And gave the world shat noblest chivalry
Of reas'ning man-inimortal liberty !
What time stern Philip's ruthless edict fell
With persecution, and her band of hell,
In frantic ruin o'er the Moorish race-
Our poet chose his fancied scene to trace.
He there presents, in virtue's bold relief,
A Moorish lover and a Moorish chief;
And shows a villain robed in guilt and shame,
Although the villain bear the Christian name;
Convinced, when man in virtue's light you view,
Alike the crescent or the cross to you!
But not alone those springs, whose strong control
With ruder force can wake and vex the soul,
He tries—but still, in softer strains, would provo
That dearer spell of mightier power to move-
A woman's sorrows, and a woman's love!
One praise at least he claims to bless his lays-
Nor scene immoral, nor offensive phrase,
Wounds the chaste ear of virgin modesty-
Quells the pure ardor of young beauty's eye,
Or spreads the crimson of ingenuous shame
On outraged innocence's cheek of fame!
Next—though a foreign land the scene supplied
Think not he chose a foreign muse his guide :-
Spurning wild Germany's uncultured schools,
And self-pleased Gallia’s boasted borrowed rules,
A native muse, to-night, by native arts,
Would please your judgınents and subdue your heart
And this, her simple suit, by me she sends-
Give British justice !-Yet-as British friends!

66

OAST OF CHARACTERS.

Park, 1836.

Bonnery, 1847. Mr. M'Kinney Mr Booth, Son. Harrison.

Clarke. Clark.

Booth. Jr. Keppell.

Dennison. Nexsen.

Venue.
Blakely.

Vache.
Collett.

Milner.
Durie.
“ Harvey.

Yeoman,
Povey.

“ Byrnes. “ Hayden.

Rose.
Mrs. Drake.

Pescara.. Hemeya. Malec. Hamet.. Haley. Alvarez. Gomez.. Cadi Oficer Spaniard Woor. Florinda..

66

46

THE

APOSTATE.

ACT 1.

rage.-Aloud

Scene I.- A Moorish Apartment in Grenada.

Enter Haly, HEMEYA, und HAMET, L.
Hem. It is in vain—you talk to me in vain.
Ham. Have you forget that you are last of all
The race of famous kings who ruled Grenada
Before the Spaniard conquered? In their slavery,
The Moors still hold you for their righteous prince
And, in return for kingly reverence,
You owe them kingly care.

Hal. Once, I remember,
The wrongs our Christian tyrants heap upon us
Could fire your soul with

you

cried
Against the treacherous breach of every right
That Ferdinand secured; but now, when fame
Has told abroad, that Philip will blot out
The very name of Moor, and has decreed
To rob us of our faith, our nation's rites,
Our sacred usages, and all that men
Hold dearer far than life-this fatal passion
Has bound you like a spell.

Ham. This Spanish woman
Has banished from your soul each nobler care-
The daughter of Alvarez! she alone
Possesses all your being ! you can think
And speak but of Florinda—when the Moors
Weep o'er their cruel wrongs, Aben Hemeya
Amid the assembled council sits inwrapt,
And, in a lengthened sigh, breathes out, “ Florin da!"

Hem. Oh! blame me not, it is my crue fate ! I feel this passion, like necessity,

Rule my o'ermastered soul. What can you tay?
Is there a power in eloquence or reason
To cure the heart's deep malady?-ha! tell me.
Have

you e'er seen her face? have you beheld
That rare assemblage of all nature's beauties?
Ha! have you ever seen her? where is the remedy
For passion like to mine ?

Hal. You should have found it, If not in duty, in despair.—You know Our Spanish tyrants spurn, as well as hate us Would not Alvarez deem it infamy That e'en a Moorish prince should wed Florinda ? When you approach his palace, ev'ry slave, The menials of his threshold

cry,

in

scorn, ! Behold the Moor!” and e'en the fair Florinda Has ne'er confessed she smiles upon your passion. And yet you love

Hem. And must love on forever.
Love is a fire self-fed, and dues not need
Hope to preserve its flame. Full well I know
I must despair! and yet, when I behold her
And her blue eyes are lifted-

Ham. What avails it ?
Even if she love, she never could be

yoursIs she not promised to Grenada's governor ?

IIem. Kind heaven, let not that fell Pescara c'asp
Those beauties to his bosom, and profane
An angel's form in his accursed embrace !
Oh, no! it will not be—for she abhors him!
She shudders when she sees that man of blood,
Whom Philip sends to crush us. Well she feels
That he was once the Inquisition's satellite,
Till Philip plucked the cowl from off his front,
To raise him to his councils. Oh! Florinda,
Before I see thee his, may heaven's swift fire

head!
Hal. Weak and degenerate passion!
How it unmans your nature! I perceive
Malec alone can break this fatal charm.
Would that the agéd Moor, to whom your fatl er
Upon his death bed gave you, had returned !
Too long amid the Moorish mountaineers

Fall on my

He lingers from Grenada. Would he were here,
To wake your slumb'ring virtue!
Hem. [Going. Fare you well!

| Crosses, R. Hal. Where wouldst thou go? 'tis midnight's silent

hour.
Nightly you wander forth. No couch now strews
Repose and sleep for you ; nor, till the morn,
Pale and aghast you come

Hem. This is my hour,
My only hour of joy. Haly, I go
To stand beside her lattice; there, sometimes,
I hear her distant voice, when up lo heav'n
It goes in midnight melody. The moon
Throws sometimes, on her face, its tender beams;
And e'en when I no longer can behold her,
I see the light that from the casement shines,
And gaze upon it, as it were the star
Of lovers, till the morning. [Shout, R.] Hark!

Hal. A sound
Of far-off tumult murmurs on mine ear,
Like ocean's chafing surge-

Ham. Behold, the sky
Doth redden in the black horizon's verge ;
A strong unnatural light streams o'er the dark,
And mocks the dawn of morn.

(Fire-bell heard.
Enter a MOOR, R.
Moor. My lord, the palace of Count Alvarez
Stands inwrapt in fire!

Hem. Florinda ? speak !
Moor. She has not yet been seen.
Hem. Oh, heavens, Florinda !

[Exeunt, R.

SCENE 11.-A Street in Grenada. Enter ALVAREZ, L., supported by two Servants. Alv. Where is my child ? where is my chill, Florinda ? Where do you drag me! let me go! unhand me! Let me go back and die ! unnatural men, You should not force the father from the child.

1st Ser. The thought is frenzy! from the rolling smoke You scarce were ta'en alive! and bere we lead you