University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

An outpost belonging to the Turkish camp, with a view of the city of Constantinople in the background seen in the dimness of cloudy moonlight. Enter several Turkish soldiers by different ways, meeting one another.
1st Turk.
Ho! who are ye? our friends?

2d Turk.
I know thy voice.

1st Turk.
Yes, we are friends; but let us separate,
And gain our tents as quickly as we may:
For now through all the camp the busy stir
Of warlike preparation is begun;
And ere the morning dawn, each armed Turk
Must hold him ready for th' approaching day
Of havock, blood, and spoil. Come, let us on!

3d Turk.
Yes; but, good comrades, do once more look back,
And see, through the wan night, those buildings gleam
With the last Christian fires that e'er shall burn
Within those circling walls.

2d Turk.
Ay, there the Prophet has prepared our rest.
There soon, midst heap'd-up spoils, and the wild wailings
Of fetter'd beauty, in our new-won homes,
We'll cast our reeking scimitars aside,
And lay us down in soft and lordly sloth.
Comrades, it is an animating sight.
But quickly let us gain our tents.—Hush! hush!
What Turk comes prowling this way, and alone?
It looks like Mahomet.

1st Turk.
It is the Sultan on his nightly rounds,
Disguised; let us avoid him.

3d Turk.
I'd rather cross a tiger on my way;
For, as the humour hits, it may be fatal
To know or not to know him. At the best
We shall be deem'd but lawless stragglers here:
Let us all separate and gain our tents.

[Exeunt hastily, all by different ways.
Enter Mahomet disguised, followed at a distance by the Vizir.
Mah.
(alone, after walking thoughtfully from the bottom of the stage, whilst Osmir remains in the background).
What boots this restless wish? 'tis all blank silence
On that for which my greedy ears still watch.
There's ne'er a Turk, who, o'er his ev'ning pipe,
Will not far rather talk of daring feats
By petty robbers done, than all the fame
And grand achievements of his sov'reign lord.
'Tis cheerless silence all! Dull stupid race!
They arm them for to-morrrow's fight, 'tis true,
With much alacrity, and talk of conquest,
Carnage, and spoils; but for their Sultan's name,
The name of Mahomet, through all the camp
I've scarcely heard its sound. Nay, once I heard it
In accents harsh pronounced, but as to listen
I nearer drew, my steps the speaker scared,
And all was into fearful silence hush'd.
Their Sultan's name!—Pest seize the stupid slaves!
O, Constantine! it is not thus thy soldiers
Do arm themselves for thee.
Ho, Osmir! art thou near me?

Osmir
(advancing).
Yes, my lord.

Mah.
Hast thou been list'ning too?

Osmir.
Yes, Sultan; and I find your Mussulmen
Their arms preparing for to-morrow's battle,
Beneath your royal standard most determin'd
To conquer or to die.
They under your approving eye will fight,
As in the sunshine of propitious heaven.

Mah.
Yes, I am in their minds full truly grown
A thing of gen'ral attributes composed—
A heaven of sunshine or of lowering storms:
But as a man and leader, in whom live
The mental and corporeal qualities
Of Mahomet—Pest seize the stupid slaves! Enter Petronius and Marthon muffled up in cloaks.

But who comes here? twice on my rounds already
Those men have cross'd me: am I known to them?
By the great Prophet they shall bear their secret
Where secrets are secure!—Ho! stop slaves there!
Stop, in the Sultan's name!

[Running upon them furiously, and lifting his scimitar over the head of Petronius, who immediately discovers himself.
Pet.
Crush not a worm, my lord.

Mah.
A worm indeed! What treason brings ye here,
Skulking, thus muffled up in dark disguise?
Have I not warn'd ye both that ye do live
Beneath mine iron power in strictest faultlessness?
For that when ye are found but to transgress
The galling limits of imposed duty
Even a hair's breadth, there abideth you
A recompense more dreadful than torn slaves,
Writhing in horrid ecstasy, e'er knew.
Beware: ye have no power to serve me now,
And unsuccessful traitors are most hateful.

Pet.
It is, great Mahomet, to make amends
For unsuccessful services, that here
Thou findst us, on our way within the city
To gain for thee some useful information
Against to-morrow's push. Still in our power
Some little aid remains.

Mah.
If thou sayst true, return to me again,
Leading thy beauteous daughter in thy hand,
Ere two hours pass, who shall within my tent
A pledge remain for thy suspicious faith
Until the city's ta'en.—Begone, I charge you,
And answer not again.
[Exeunt Petronius and Marthon.
Are all my orders issued for the morrow?
To each respective officer assign'd
His task and station? and my rearward troops,
My axe and cord-men, they are not forgotten?

Osmir.
No, please your highness, nothing is forgotten.
And by the early dawn—

[A mixture of confused distant sounds heard from the city.
Mah.
What sounds are these?

Osmir.
Hast thou forgot we are so near the city?
It is the murm'ring night sounds of her streets,
Which the soft breeze wafts to thine ear, thus softly
Mix'd with the chafings of the distant waves.

Mah.
(eagerly).
And let me listen too! I love the sound!
Like the last whispers of a dying enemy
[Listening.
It comes to my pleased ear.
Spent art thou, proud imperial queen of nations,
And thy last accents are upon the wind.
Thou hast but one voice more to utter; one
Loud, frantic, terrible, and then art thou
Amongst the nations heard no more. List! list!
I like it well! the lion hears afar
Th' approaching prey, and shakes his bristling mane,
And lashes with his tail his tawny sides,
And so hear I this city's nightly sound.

Osmir.
It is indeed a rich and noble conquest
Which heaven unto its favour'd warrior gives.

Mah.
Yes, Osmir; I shall wear a conqu'ror's name,
And other ages shall of Mah'met speak,
When these dumb slaves are crumbling in the dust.
But now the night wears on, and with the dawn
Must the grand work begin.
Yet one thing still remains; I must remind thee
That to my gen'ral orders this be added:—
Silent shall be the march; nor drum, nor trump,
Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe
Our near approach betray; silent and soft,
As the pard's velvet foot on Libya's sands,
Slow stealing with crouch'd shoulders on her prey.

Osmir.
I have already given the strictest orders.

Mah.
Then all is well: go where thy duty calls.
In the meanwhile I'll snatch an hour of rest,
And dream, perhaps, that lovely Grecian dames,
Even with a crowned beauty in their band,
Are lowly bent to kiss my purple feet.
[A distant bell heard from the city.
What deep and distant bell is this which sounds
So solemnly on the still air of night?

Osmir.
It comes from St. Sophia's lofty dome,
Where Constantine, with his small band of friends,
As I have learnt, should at this hour assemble.
To join together in religious rites
Of solemn preparation for to-morrow,
Which they regard as their last day of life,
And this as their last act of social brotherhood.

Mah.
Brave men! do they so meet?
[Pausing.
But it must be.
Why should it move me? Heaven decrees their doom:
I act by high commission, though for instruments
I have but these dumb slaves.

[Exeunt.