University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Moorish Apartment in Grenada.
Enter Hemeya, Hamet, and Haly.
Hem.
It is in vain—you talk to me in vain.

Ham.
Have you forgot that you are last of all
The race of famous kings who ruled Grenada
Before the Spaniard conquer'd? In their slavery,
The Moors still hold you for their righteous prince;
And, in return for kingly reverence,
You owe them kingly care.

Haly.
Once, I remember,
The wrongs our Christian tyrants heap upon us
Could fire your soul with rage.—Aloud you cried
Against the treach'rous breach of ev'ry 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 banish'd 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 enrapt,
And, in a lengthen'd sigh, breathes out “Florinda!”

Hem.
Oh! blame me not, it is my cruel fate!
I feel this passion, like necessity,
Rule my o'ermaster'd soul. What can you say?
Is there a pow'r 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?
Ah! 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 for ever.
Love is a fire self-fed, and does 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 loved, she never could be yours—
Is she not promised to Grenada's governor?

Hem.
Kind heaven, let not that fell Pescara clasp
Those beauties to his bosom, and profane
An angel's form in his accurs'd 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 pluck'd the cowl from off his front,
To raise him to his councils. Oh! Florinda,
Before I see thee his, may Heav'n's swift fire
Fall on my head!

Hal.
Weak and degenerate passion!
How it unmans your nature! I perceive
Malec alone can break this fatal charm.
Would that the aged Moor, to whom your father
Upon his death-bed gave you, had return'd!
Too long amid the Moorish mountaineers
He lingers from Grenada. Would he were here,
To wake your slumb'ring virtue!

Hem.
(Going)
Fare you well!

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 to 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. 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.
Moor.
My lord, the palace
Of Count Alvarez stands enwrapped in fire!

Hem.
Florinda? Speak!

Moor.
She has not yet been seen.

Hem.
Oh heavens, Florinda!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Street in Grenada.
Enter Alvarez, supported by two Servants.
Alv.
Where is my child? where is my child, 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 Serv.
The thought is phrensy!—from the rolling smoke
You scarce were ta'en alive; and here we lead you
To breathe the fresh'ning air—You shall not go,
For, should you pass the flaming gates again,
They would swallow you for ever.

Alv.
Oh, my daughter!
Enter a Spaniard.
Speak—tell me—speak!

Span.
Your daughter has appear'd
Amid the flames at last, and at her casement
Stands with her face and arms to heaven uplifted,
And seems a suff'ring angel—while below
The multitude in speechless horror stand.

Alv.
(Kneeling.)
Hear, and record my oath! He that shall bear
Florinda to my arms shall win her hand,
And be inheritor of all my treasures;
And, if I break that oath, the heaviest curse
Fall on my head!
(A loud shout is heard.)
What is it that I hear?

(Enter a Spaniard—after a short pause)
Span.
My lord, a desp'rate man with furious force
Bursts thro' the gather'd thousands, scales the walls,
And plunges thro' the flame.

Alv.
Oh, Heav'n reward him!
(Another shout.)
That sound sends life again thro' ev'ry vein,
And my heart bounds—

Voices
without.
She is sav'd! she is sav'd!

Alv.
O heaven!
Lead me from hence, and let me see my child.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A Garden adjoining the Palace of Alvarez, part of which appears already consumed and blackened.
Enter Hemeya, bearing Florinda in his arms.
Hem.
I feel thy pressure in my heart—I have thee—
I clasp thee here, while all my senses rush
In the full throb of rapture—all my being
Seems gather'd in the pulse that beats to thee—
I am belov'd—I am belov'd!

Flor.
Hemeya!
Heaven, let me thank thee, that this generous man
Has saved me! I will look on thee, Hemeya!—
My eyes will tell thee,—I am very faint—
I cannot speak,—but I am grateful to thee.

Hem.
Florinda! my belov'd!
Oh, pardon me,
If, for one moment of delirious joy,
I held thee to my heart; but here, behold,
A slave before thy feet—all that I ask
Is to gaze long upon thee, till my soul
Forgets all earthly sorrow—Oh, Florinda!
What sleepless nights, what days of desperation,
Since first thy form came on my raptur'd sight
And rested in my heart!
I did not know you lov'd me.

Flor.
I confess
That I am grateful to thee.

Hem.
Do not talk
Of chilling gratitude; in the dread moment
When death hung hov'ring o'er thee—I did hear—
Oh! I did hear thee say, that death itself
Was welcome here—was welcome in my arms.

Flor.
Don't look upon me! for within thy gaze
I sink into the earth.

Hem.
Why should Florinda,
She who is made of gentleness and pity.
Deny that beam of dawning happiness,
That glimpse of op'ning heaven?

Flor.
Because Florinda
Scarce to her shudd'ring heart had dared to tell
What she has told to thee—I ne'er can wed thee,
And what a pang it is to love thee still!—
Dost thou not know my father frowns upon thee?
Dost thou not know I never can be thine?
Yet, wretched that I am, I have reveal'd
What I must blush to think of.—But he comes—
My father comes—Oh! I must dry these tears;
Within his arms forget my ev'ry grief;
And feel I am a daughter.—My dear father!

Enter Alvarez.
Alv.
My child!

Hem.
Yes, take her, clasp her to your heart,
And, as that heart beats with a father's transport,
Moor as I am, don't blame me that I love her.

Alv.
By Heaven, I see thy mother in thy face!
Thou god-like man, what shall I say to thee?
Oh! let my tears fall on this noble hand,
And speak a burning soul!

Hem.
I am rewarded.

Alv.
Brave, generous man!

Hem.
Nay, good my lord, you o'erpay
My poor desert, and grow my creditor:—
But you forget me—I am most unworthy,—
I am the Moor.

Alv.
No,—I remember well,
Thou art hateful to the Christian.—Yesterday
I did command Florinda, on the pain
Of heaviest imprecation, ne'er to gaze
Upon thy face again.

Flor.
Oh, my dear father!
Florinda can be wretched if you please,
But not ungrateful too.

Alv.
Give me thy hand:—
You love the Moor?

Flor.
My lord!

Alv.
Come, you confess it;
Your looks reveal your heart; and Count Pescara
Interpreted the silent tear aright,
When first I bade you wed him.

Flor.
Let my grave,
Oh! let a couch of lead, let the cold shroud,
And the earth's grass, be all my place of rest,
Ere Count Pescara, at Heaven's awful shrine,
Claims from these lips the perjur'd oath to love
The man from whom my sinking heart recoils.

Hem.
Howe'er you deal with me, let not Florinda
Be wedded to that villain!—

Alv.
Hear me, Moor!
Pescara is Grenada's governor,
And bears the sway of Philip;—long he loved
And woo'd Florinda with her father's sanction.
Thou art a Moor—thy nation is a slave—
And, tho' from Moorish kings thou art descended,
The Christian spurns thee—Yet it is to thee
I give Florinda's hand.

Flor.
What do I hear?

Hem.
Am I in heaven?—O speak, speak, Count Alvarez,
Speak it again!—Let me be sure of it,
For I misdoubt my senses.

Alv.
She is yours!

Hem.
Which of you shall I kneel to? Let me press
Your rev'rend knees within my straining arms—
I shall grow wild with rapture—Men will say
The madd'ning planet smote me with its power.
Florinda, thou art mine—my wife—my joy!—
Thou exquisite perfection!—Thou fair creature!
Who now shall part us?

(As he embraces her, Pescara enters.)
Pes.
I! Speak, Count Alvarez,
What is it I behold?—Don't look upon me
As if you never had beheld my face.
I am Pescara—You have not to learn
What Count Pescara is.—Who ever wrong'd me
That did not perish? I had come to greet you,
And, as I pass'd, the rascal rabble talk'd
Of some wild dotard vow, some grey-beard's folly—
I seiz'd a wretch that dar'd to slander you,
And dash'd him to the earth for the vile falsehood.

Alv.
If gratitude be crime—

Pes.
What do I hear?

Hem.
What you shall hear again.

Pes.
Moor, not from thee—
I would not let thee speak a Spaniard's shame.
You, madam, will inform me; you, whose eyes
Are bent upon the ground,—whose yielding form
Doth seem like sculptur'd modesty—Nay, tell me,
For I have tidings for your ear.

Flor.
My lord, I do confess, my father's will
Unites me to the Moor.

Pes.
And you obey him;
For here obedience is an easy virtue.

Flor.
Yes—where my heart swells with the glowing sense
Of tender thrilling gratitude—my being
Owns in its deep recess the consciousness
That it is all his own—Nay, think, my lord,
Can I behold his face, and not exclaim,
“This is the man who sav'd me!” Can I feel
The pleasures of existence,—can I breathe
The morning air, or see the dying day
Sink in the western sky,—can I inhale
The rose's perfume, or behold the lights
That shine for ever in yon infinite heaven,—
Or can I taste one joy that nature gives
To this, our earthly tarrying place,—nor think
That 'tis to him I owe each little flower
I tread on in life's bleakness?
E'en now I place my hand upon my heart,
And, as it throbs, there is a voice within
That tells this throbbing heart it would be still,
Were not Hemeya brave.—This is my father,—
He gave that life Hemeya did preserve,—
And, when he gives my hand in recompense,
I cannot but obey.

Pes.
I thank you, madam;—
And, since it seems that gratitude's the fashion,
Your pains shall be requited.—Know, fair maid,
The daughter of Alvarez never shall
Be wedded to a Moor—Nay, do not start—
Never!

Hem.
My lord!

Pes.
No!—never!

Alv.
Count Pescara!
What is it that you mean?

Pes.
I mean, my lord,
That others have more care of your nobility
Than you have ta'en yourself.—Ha! ha! a Moor!
One of that race that we have trodden down
From empire's height, and crush'd—a damn'd Morisco,
Accursed of the church, and by the laws
Proscrib'd and branded.—What, you choose a Moor
To swell the stream of your nobility
With his polluted blood?—In sooth, 'tis pleasant!

Hem.
You have forgot me—you forget yourself.—
Thro' centuries of glory, on the heads
Of my great ancestors, the diadem
Shone thro' the world, and from each royal brow
Came down with gath'ring splendor;—and if here
It shines no more—'tis fate—But what art thou?—
The frown of Fortune could not make me base;
The smile of Fortune could not make thee noble.—
Who knows not that Pescara once, within
The Inquisition's dungeons, toil'd at torture?—
There Philip found you, and his kindred soul
Own'd the soft sympathy.

Pes.
My birth!—confusion—
And must I ever feel the reptile crawl,
And see it pointed at?—What if I rush,
And with a blow strike life from out his heart?—
No—no! my dagger is my last resource.
(Draws a roll of parchment from his bosom.)
Here, Moor, within thy grasp I plant a serpent,
And, as it stings, think 'tis Pescara's answer—
This very night it reach'd me from Madrid,
And thou art first to hear it—Look you here—
If Caucasus were heap'd between you both,
With all his snows,—his snows have not the pow'r
To freeze your amorous passion half so soon
As Philip's will.—Farewell—but not for ever!
[Exit Pescara.

Alv.
As Philip's will!—Rumour went late abroad
Spain's gloomy sovereign had decreed to crush
Your race to deeper servitude.—Florinda,
Be not so terrified.

Flor.
Can I behold
The quick convulsive passions o'er his face,
And read his soul's deep agony, nor feel
A terror in my heart?—Tell me, Hemeya,
What heavy blow relentless Fortune strikes—
What other misery is still in store
To fall upon our heads.

Hem.
A Christian!—No!—

Flor.
Wilt thou not speak to me? wilt thou not chase
The dreadful fears that throng about my soul?—
Wilt thou not speak to me?

Hem.
Accursed tyrant!
Florinda, wilt thou leave me?—Can my fate—
Can kings and priests—e'er pluck thee from my soul?

Flor.
No!

Hem.
Then, Florinda, thus I spurn the tyrant!
They'd make a Christian of me—Philip proscribes
My nation and my creed; and, on the pain
Of instant death, unless he publicly
Abjure his prophet's law, no Moor can wed
A Christian woman.

Flor.
Well, dost thou renounce me?

Alv.
Hear me, Hemeya!—Will you yield obedience
To Philip's will, and swear yourself a Christian?

Hem.
A Christian!

Alv.
Ay! it is the law.

Hem.
The law!
What law can teach me to renounce my country?

Alv.
Then choose between your prophet and Florinda.

Hem.
Wilt thou abandom me? (To Florinda.)


Alv.
Let my deep curse
Fall on her head—

Flor.
Don't breathe those dreadful words—
Do I deserve that you should doubt me?—No!
In infancy I gaz'd upon your face
With an instinctive reverence, that grew
To reason's tender dictate—Never yet
Have I offended you; and let me say
My tears may flow from eyes long used to weeping,—
My form may wither in the gripe of grief—
My heart may break indeed—Love can do this—
But never can it teach Florinda's hand
To draw down sorrows on a father's age,
Or to deserve his curse.

Hem.
This, this from thee!

Flor.
You've found the dreadful secret of my soul—
But hold—what am I doing?—Pride, where art thou?
Am I so fallen in passion?—Oh, my father,
Lead me from hence!

Hem.
Florinda, stay one moment—
Don't leave me—don't abandon me.

Flor.
My father,
Lead me from hence!

Alv.
(To Hemeya.)
You have heard Alvarez' will—
Take one day for decision—If to-morrow
You do not, in the face of Heav'n, renounce
The faith of Mahomet, renounce Florinda!

Hem.
Oh misery!—My Florinda, look upon me!

Flor.
Yes, I will look upon thee, and perhaps
Shall never look again—for, from this hour,
You never may behold or hear me more.

Hem.
Then let me die!

Flor.
Hemeya, listen to me!
My heart has own'd its weakness—yet, thank Heav'n,
With all my sex's folly, still I bear
My sex's dignity—I've not the pow'r
To crush the fatal passion in my breast,
But I can bury it—Yes, yes, Hemeya,
I feel my blood is noble, and Florinda
Shall never stoop before thee—From the world
I'll fly—from thee for ever!—Tears may fall,
But none shall see the blushes where they hang!—
Thou shalt not see me weep—thou shalt not have
The cruel pleasure—In religion's cells
I'll hide my wretchedness—Farewell, Hemeya!
And, Heaven, if I may dare to lift to thee
A pray'r of earthly passion, touch his heart,
Fill it with holy light, and make him thine—
And, howsoe'er thou shalt decide my doom,
On him pour down thy blessings!—
(As she goes out, she looks back for an instant.)
Oh, Hemeya!—
[Exit Florinda.

Hemeya
manet.
She blest me as she parted; yet I feel
A curse fall on my heart!—
I am doom'd to choose
Between despair and crime—My fate cries out,
Be wretched or be guilty!—But, Florinda,
How could I live without thee?—Can I see
That form, to which I stretch'd my desp'rate arms
In the wild dream of passion and despair,
Brought to my bosom in assur'd reality,
Nor rush to clasp it here?—Would the faint traveller
Who long hath toil'd thro' Afric's sultry sands,
Droop o'er the fount that 'mid the desert gush'd
Even from the burning rock, and die with thirst,
While its clear freshness woo'd him to be blest?—
No! he would drink, tho' there were poison in it.

[Exit.