 | Mustapha |  |
SCENE I.
Rustan, Mufti.Rustan.
Guide of the faithful, oracle of truth,
Sage Mufti, hail and welcome!
Mufti.
Noble Rustan,
Be peace and benediction on the head
Of him, the wise and valiant, who supports
Th' imperial throne of earth's most potent Prince!
Rustan.
In happy hour you come. But sure, my Lord,
You travel'd on the spur.
Mufti.
By duty wing'd:
True, I have glow'd beneath the noon-day beam,
And shiver'd in the midnight's dewy shade,
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Great Roxolana's mandate had enjoin'd.
Inform me then what service she requires,
Whom I but live to serve.
Rustan.
Indeed you owe,
And I no less, all duty to her Highness.
I need not to your grateful thought recall,
How warm her love for our unerring law!
How liberal to its sages! Fir'd her self
With zeal for holy things, that zeal in others
Is title to her favour: and inspir'd
Her powerful mediation with the Sultan,
Great Solyman, who rais'd your worth on high
To that prime station where it shines unenvy'd.
Mufti.
Let her command me, Vizir. My obedience,
As most implicite, shall be most sincere.
Rustan.
Observe me then: and when your ear hath heard
Th' important tale, let caution lock it up
Deep in the darkest silence of your breast,
From all but heaven.
Mufti.
Have I not liv'd in courts?
Been present where I would not trust a thought,
In whisper, even to things inanimate?
Rustan.
Th' attempt she meditates is arduous, great,
Involves her dearest happiness, her life;
Perhaps the lives of all she deigns to love.
Know then—the news will strike thee with amaze—
She holds Prince Mustapha her deadly foe.
Mufti.
Ha! say'st thou?—Mustapha! the favourite son
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Sole pledge the fair Circassian left his fondness!
How will she root him from a father's love,
Who holds him dear for virtues that renown,
And dignify himself? The Prince has fought
His battels with success: and is sustain'd
By troops that know his worth; that idolize
His fame and fortune.
Rustan.
Thou hast summ'd his crimes,
These are, with reason are the mighty object
Of Roxolana's hate. But wouldst thou know,
How she may drive him from his father's bosom?
This boasted courage she admires! exalts!
With all th' insidious artfulness of praise:
And will applaud the stripling into ruin.
Mufti.
Nay, trust a woman for ingenious ill.
Such foes indeed most surely aim their blow,
Who praise to wound, and honour to destroy.
Rustan.
My influence waits on hers. You know she gave
Her daughter to my bed. Whate'er I hold,
Or grasp in distant hope, is hers alone.
And, as my fairest fortunes, all my aims
With hers are blended intimate and deep.
Her daughter to my bed. Whate'er I hold,
Or grasp in distant hope, is hers alone.
And, as my fairest fortunes, all my aims
With hers are blended intimate and deep.
If Mustapha succeeds his Royal Sire,
She falls for ever! sinks from what she is,
Empress and consort of unbounded sway,
Dower'd and declar'd so—sinks into a slave!
Her sons too—can a parent bear the thought?
Her sons must bleed! Her blooming Zanger first,
Child of her love, th' unhappy victim falls
Of that dire policy, which founds the throne
Of each ascending Prince in brother's blood.
She must destroy, or perish. In such case,
Necessity is justice.
She falls for ever! sinks from what she is,
Empress and consort of unbounded sway,
Dower'd and declar'd so—sinks into a slave!
Her sons too—can a parent bear the thought?
Her sons must bleed! Her blooming Zanger first,
Child of her love, th' unhappy victim falls
Of that dire policy, which founds the throne
Of each ascending Prince in brother's blood.
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Necessity is justice.
Mufti.
True, my Lord.
Custom, the deity of half mankind,
All-powerful o'er the soul, on whom opinion
Waits with obsequious blindness, hath made sacred
Such dreadful deeds; and bids our eastern world
Hold them in venerable estimation.
This, to your purpos'd vengeance, may give sanction:
But what will give success? The Prince, my Lord—
I tell it, with reluctance, of a foe—
By every title, by each filial tie,
Deserves, and largely shares, his father's love.
Rustan.
What is the love our Sovereign bears his sons?
'Tis coldness, 'tis aversion, to the flame
With which he burns for Roxolana's charms!
Not all the fabled power of herbs or spells
Could raise it to more height. He doats upon her
Beyond all vulgar passion. Age but strengthens,
And each new day adds fervour to its warmth.
'Tis coldness, 'tis aversion, to the flame
With which he burns for Roxolana's charms!
Not all the fabled power of herbs or spells
Could raise it to more height. He doats upon her
Beyond all vulgar passion. Age but strengthens,
And each new day adds fervour to its warmth.
But as this great design requires much pause,
And gradual machination; I, at times,
Have thrown out hints, insinuations, doubts,
Some dark and distant, some more plain and near:
And from such fruitful seeds is springing up
A harvest to our hopes. The Sultan now,
Declining to th' infirmities of age,
Is lapsing to its vices; quick distrust,
Umbrage at rising excellence, but chief
At signal fame in arms. He fears his son:
And in the hearts of Kings, by years made gloomy,
From fear to hate the progress is not slow.
What says my friend?
And gradual machination; I, at times,
Have thrown out hints, insinuations, doubts,
Some dark and distant, some more plain and near:
And from such fruitful seeds is springing up
A harvest to our hopes. The Sultan now,
Declining to th' infirmities of age,
Is lapsing to its vices; quick distrust,
Umbrage at rising excellence, but chief
At signal fame in arms. He fears his son:
And in the hearts of Kings, by years made gloomy,
From fear to hate the progress is not slow.
What says my friend?
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Now, by the Prophet's tomb,
The happy news is gladness to my soul.
I hate the stripling—
Rustan.
Hark! The Sultan's voice—
He leaves his couch. I must attend him here.
You, hasten to th' apartment of the Empress.
Be wise, be secret: what she gives in order,
Obey without reserve.
The daily form
Of solemn salutation now begins;
Fram'd to remind him what a Monarch is,
And what he once must be.
| Mustapha | |