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_ ACT V - SCENE V.
Senate-House.
PONTEACH
[solus].
The Torrent rises, and the Tempest blows;
Where will this rough, rude Storm of Ruin end?
What crimson Floods are yet to drench the Earth?
What new-form'd Mischiefs hover in the Air,
And point their Stings at this devoted Head?
Has Fate exhausted all her Stores of Wrath,
Or has she other Vengeance in reserve?
What can she more? My Sons, my Name is gone;
My Hopes all blasted, my Delights all fled;
Nothing remains but an afflicted King,
That might be pitied by Earth's greatest Wretch.
My Friends; my Sons, ignobly, basely slain,
Are more than murder'd, more than lost by Death.
Had they died fighting in their Country's Cause,
I should have smil'd and gloried in their Fall;
Yes, boasting that I had such Sons to lose,
I would have rode in Triumph o'er their Tombs.
But thus to die, the Martyrs of their Folly,
Involv'd in all the complicated Guilt
Of Treason, Murder, Falsehood, and Deceit,
Unbridled Passion, Cowardice, Revenge,
And every Thing that can debase the Man,
And render him the just Contempt of all,
And fix the foulest Stain of Infamy,
Beyond the Power of Time to blot it out;
This is too much; and my griev'd Spirit sinks
Beneath the Weight of such gigantic Woe.
Ye that would see a piteous, wretched King,
Look on a Father griev'd and curs'd like me;
Look on a King whose Sons have died like mine!
Then you'll confess that these are dangerous Names,
And put it in the Power of Fate to curse us;
It is on such she shews her highest Spite.
But I'm too far--'Tis not a Time to grieve
For private Losses, when the Public calls.
[Enter TENESCO, looking sorrowful.]
What are your Tidings?--I have no more Sons.
TENESCO.
But you have Subjects, and regard their Safety.
The treacherous Priest, intrusted with your Councils,
Has publish'd all, and added his own Falsehoods;
The Chiefs have all revolted from your Cause,
Patch'd up a Peace, and lend their Help no more.
PONTEACH.
And is this all? we must defend ourselves,
Supply the Place of Numbers with our Courage,
And learn to conquer with our very Looks:
This is a Time that tries the Truth of Valour;
He shows his Courage that dares stem the Storm,
And live in spite of Violence and Fate.
Shall holy Perfidy and seeming Lies
Destroy our Purpose, sink us into Cowards?
TENESCO.
May your Hopes prosper! I'll excite the Troops
By your Example still to keep the Field.
[Exit.]
PONTEACH.
'Tis coming on. Thus Wave succeeds to Wave,
Till the Storm's spent, then all subsides again--
The Chiefs revolted:--My Design betray'd:--
May he that trusts a Christian meet the same;
They have no Faith, no Honesty, no God,
And cannot merit Confidence from Men.
Were I alone the boist'rous Tempest's Sport,
I'd quickly move my shatter'd, trembling Bark,
And follow my departed Sons to Rest.
But my brave Countrymen, my Friends, my Subjects,
Demand my Care: I'll not desert the Helm,
Nor leave a dang'rous Station in Distress;
Yes, I will live, in spite of Fate I'll live;
Was I not Ponteach, was I not a King,
Such Giant Mischiefs would not gather round me.
And since I'm Ponteach, since I am a King,
I'll shew myself Superior to them all;
I'll rise above this Hurricane of Fate,
And shew my Courage to the Gods themselves.
Enter TENESCO, surprised and pausing.
I am prepar'd, be not afraid to tell;
You cannot speak what Ponteach dare not hear.
TENESCO.
Our bravest Troops are slain, the rest pursu'd;
All is Disorder, Tumult, and Rebellion.
Those that remain insist on speedy Flight;
You must attend them, or be left alone
Unto the Fury of a conquering Foe,
Nor will they long expect your Royal Pleasure.
PONTEACH.
Will they desert their King in such an Hour,
When Pity might induce them to protect him?
Kings like the Gods are valued and ador'd,
When Men expect their Bounties in Return,
Place them in Want, destroy the giving Power,
All Sacrifices and Regards will cease.
Go, tell my Friends that I'll attend their Call.
[Rising. Exit TENESCO.]
I will not fear--but must obey my Stars:
[Looking round.]
Ye fertile Fields and glad'ning Streams, adieu;
Ye Fountains that have quench'd my scorching Thirst,
Ye Shades that hid the Sun-beams from my Head,
Ye Groves and Hills that yielded me the Chace,
Ye flow'ry Meads, and Banks, and bending Trees,
And thou proud Earth, made drunk with Royal Blood,
I am no more your Owner and your King.
But witness for me to your new base Lords,
That my unconquer'd Mind defies them still;
And though I fly, 'tis on the Wings of Hope.
Yes, I will hence where there's no British Foe,
And wait a Respite from this Storm of Woe;
Beget more Sons, fresh Troops collect and arm,
And other Schemes of future Greatness form;
Britons may boast, the Gods may have their Will,
Ponteach I am, and shall be Ponteach still.
[Exit.]
Finis.
[THE END]
Robert Rogers's play: Ponteach; The Savages of America: A Tragedy
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