University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—A Dungeon.
Alonzo,
Solus.
I SIT in lone and utter wretchedness;
Immured within these gloomy walls, I pine
And long for liberty: sweet liberty!
Thy worth ne'er felt till lost; oh! shall I never
Regain thee? am I always thus to live,
Shut in this cheerless dungeon, dark as death
And chill as winter? Oh! the lovely days,
When peace and innocence their sweetest balm
Shed o'er me, when my dreams were extacy,
And waking thoughts were rapture.
Such was my happy fortune, once a prince,
The son of great Alphonso, he whom nobles,
That shine around the throne, and humble peasants,
Love and admire—a warrior, and renown'd
For desperate seats in battle, courteous
And honour'd at my father's court, esteem'd
By all who knew me; but how great the change—
A dungeon for a palace, gloom for joy,
Fetters for arms and tears for smiles and rapture.
The sun arises, but scarce through my grate
It sheds a glimpse of day; all—all is dark,
Is comfortless and gloomy; down the wall
The chilly drops are trickling, o'er the floor
Of stone, that seems like winter to the touch,
I wander back and forth from morn till evening.
This—this is all my comfort, but to pry
With straining eye between my narrow grates,
And catch a glance of life and liberty.
Was man thus made to live? to waste his days
In hopeless inactivity? to lose
The fairest portion of his youth in grief
And fruitless lamentations? If I could,
I would be cheerful; but can joy abide
Within these walls of stone? Should mirth herself,
Enter these gloomy vaults, her smiles would cease,
And livid paleness blanch her rosy cheek.
[Enter Zamor.
But who comes here to harrow up my feelings?

Zamor.
A friend, a real friend, to sooth thy anguish,
And pour the balm of comfort in thy soul.
I am a Moor, but still, I have compassion;
I too can feel and weep for others woes;
I love to see the smile of joy and pleasure
Shine in the countenance of others; often,
When grief was preying on the wretched pris'ner,
I've sought him out amid these gloomy dungeons,
And tried to speak compassion to his soul.
Oft have I seen thee prying through thy grate,
With haggard countenance and swollen eye
Red with excessive weeping; I too know
Thy name; thou art the excellent Alonzo—
A name that I admire; yes, though a Moor,
I do admire and love thee.

Alonzo.
Dost thou love me?
Have I a friend, where all, I tho't, were enemies?
Oh, fortunate Alonzo! though despairing
And wretched, still thou art not quite forsaken:
The words, “I love thee,” oh! they sound to me
Sweet as the music of the heavenly choir.

Zamor.
Alonzo! though I cannot promise freedom,
Still, I will be thy friend and comforter,
Will calm thy wounded spirit, sooth thy grief,
And make thy dreary prison seem more cheerful.
But know'st thou Zamor?

Alonzo.
Yes, I know his name,
His name, that strikes such terror in the christian.
Where Zamor is, the valiant Spaniard trembles;
He knows the prowess of that dreadful arm,
An arm more dreaded by thy foes in battle,
Than all the vaunting Mussulmen beside.

Zamor.
Know, I am Zamor—start not at the sound;
For Zamor, though in battle he be dreadful,
And furious as a tiger, still in peace
Is gentle as a lamb: Zamor, the warrior,
Can soften down his iron brow and seem
Mild as the infant: though when duty calls,
He summon up the vigour of his courage
To the highest pitch, when helpless misery pleads,
Is gentleness, and mercy. Though I'm Zamor,
So dreaded by thy nation, tremble not,
But see in me a gentle, faithful friend.
Dost thou remember, after that fierce battle
So sad to thee, when thou wert taken pris'ner,
That thou wert bro't before the great Abdallah?
Saw'st thou not then, beside the mighty king,
A beauteous maiden, deck'd in all the charms
Of youth and modesty, the first and fairest
Among the Moors, the prize for which the noble
And youthful warrior courts the fields of danger?
She was Alzira, great Abdallah's daughter;
She saw thy manly countenance, the spirit
That never can be conquer'd in thy eye,
And lov'd thee; yes, 'tis true Alzira lov'd
Alonzo; she entrusted unto me
This secret, bade me seek thy gloomy dungeon,
And do to thee this errand; she can never,
She fears, do more, than free thee from thy prison;
But while Alzira loves thee, and a friend
Is found in mighty Zamor, ne'er despair.
Zamor exit.

Alonzo,
Solus.
Is this my fortune, thus to find, amid
Rage and barbarity, a friend and lover,
To indulge a hope of freedom; was there ever
A happier hour than this? my heart seems bursting
From my excessive joy. Oh then be thankful,
Alonzo! raise thy humblest adoration,
Thy warmest thanks to Him, who rules the world,
And gives to misery peace, hope to despair.

SCENE II.

—A Room.
Zamor,
Solus.
My soul is black with fury; oh I burn
With all the fires of hell; my heart is torn
By every passion—love, rage, despair,
Hatred and jealousy, they rack my breast
With tortures worse than death: to be disgrac'd,
Struck from the list of warriors, where I shone
With such a splendour, love and be detested
By her I love, and see a Spanish pris'ner
Preferr'd to me; O! can I bear all this?
No, never, never; now my spirits burn
With deathly rancour; I would plunge my dagger
A thousand times in proud Abdallah's heart;
I'd tear it from his breast and see it quiver
With eyes of rapture; Oh! 'twould give me joy
To see the dogs feed on his mangled carcass.
What! in the sight of all his armies, break
My sword in twain and tell me to retire?
Oh then I gnaw'd my lips with fury, burn'd
With fiery rage, and swore I'd never, never,
Ev'n if a thousand years should intervene,
Forget my hatred till I was reveng'd.
I'd pass through fire to indulge my deathly hate;
I'd tear his heart, I'd wash these hands in blood,
Rather that not revenge. Zamor can never
Forgive, that is a mark of woman's weakness.
Shall Zamor, he who prides him in his bold
And daring fury, sink so low as woman?
Shall I be merciful? shall I forgive?
I'd die by torture first, I'd see the flames
Burn me by piecemeal, ere I'd sink so low.
Zamor, didst thou not see the meanest soldiers
Point at thee with their fingers, and insult
And laugh at thy misfortunes? they exclaim'd,
“He, who was proud and felt himself a god,
Is now as low as we; yes, haughty Zamor
Has lost his greatness”. Did I then not burn
Fierce as the flames that sweep the summer forest?
And shall I now forgive? No, never, never;
I'll be reveng'd on all my enemies,
I'll stop not till I triumph o'er Abdallah,
I'll see Alzira's beauties wrapp'd in clay,
And free Alonzo from his gloomy dungeon
To hide him in the dungeon of the grave.

SCENE III.

—A Garden.
Ibrahim,
Solus.
Sweet is the freshness of the morning air,
The rising sun is pleasant, and the breeze
Spreads a soft coolness thro' my feverish frame:
Not so my heart, it still with anguish bleeds,
And fierce resentment burns; while all around
Is gay and cheerful, I am sunk and sad,
The thrush is singing on yon bending spray,
The linnet flutters round the opening rose
Cheerfully warbling, even the very groves,
Gilt by the vernal sunbeams, seem to smile:
Still I am sad, a heavy gloom o'erspreads
My melancholy heart; I feel a cold
Instinctive shuddering creep along my veins.
Why should I fear? why should this trembling shake
My form, that oft has borne the brunt of war?
Is vengeance then so hard, it makes me shrink
To attempt it? No! I feel my righteous cause,
I feel that heaven commands me to revenge.
What! shall I stand to see my dear companion,
Who oft has sought undaunted by my side,
And with me march'd to danger and to victory,
To see this friend disgrac'd? to see him stripp'd
Of all his hard-earn'd honours? No, by heaven!
While I've a sword, Zamor shall be reveng'd.

Enter Alhouran and Omar.
Ibrahim.
How pleasant is the morning, does't not raise
Your spirits? does't not wake the cheerful smile?
Why? what is this? why look you so dishearten'd?
What cause of grief, while all around is lovely?

Alh.
Yesterday! dost thou not remember it?
Oh I shall ne'er forget it!

Ibrah.
What of it?
What sad event has sunk your manly feelings,
So gay and buoyant once, to such despair?

Alh.
Dost thou not well remember yesterday?
Oh I shall ne'er forget it!

Ibrah.
Ne'er forget it!
What dreadful accident has then befall'n you?

Alh.
Zamor, whom we adore, the noble warrior,
The generous chieftain, Zamor, was disgrac'd,
Yes, shamefully disgrac'd, on yesterday.

Omar.
Yes, cursed be the wretch, who dar'd that deed!
Oh were the dastard but within my reach,
I'd make him feel the sharpness of this steel.

Ibrah.
Hush! be more quiet; but this sad event
Need not depress you so: cheer up, my friends,
Vengeance is easy, when our cause is just.

Alh.
What are we, Ibrahim, before this tyrant?
Mere helpless, feeble worms, for him to tread on.
Oh! had my arm but strength to wield the blow,
I'd strike the despot prostrate from his throne.

Omar.
And I have strength, and I will soon exert it.

Alh.
Exert thy strength against the great Abdallah
'Tis madness; what! attempt the tyrant's life
By thy own hand alone? No! never try
So desperate, so foolish an adventure.

Omar.
Justice and heaven shall give me strength to do it.

Alh.
Justice and heaven, against his mighty power,
I fear, will not avail thee; canst thou break
The gates of brass that close his lofty palace?
Canst thou o'ercome the guards, who watch like Argus
The least approach of danger? Oh! be quiet,
And let thy sabre rest within its scabbard.

Omar.
Ah! thou wouldst weep to think thou'rt such a coward,
And wish and long for strength to strike the blow;
But I have now that strength.

Alh.
What say'st thou, Omar,
That I am coward! hell and fury seize thee.

Ibrah.
Stop! stop! my friends! let no unhappy quarrels
Disturb us in this dark and dangerous hour:
This is an hour of peril, ere we draw
Another breath, disgrace may be our lot,
Or ignominious death; oh! be united,
Reserve your courage for the hour of trial,
And strike no blow but for the hero Zamor.
But, gallant Omar, stay thy headlong rashness,
Reflect upon the deed that thou wouldst do,
Think of the power that circles round that throne,
Think of the lofty towers, the embattled walls,
And massive gates, think of the num'rous guards,
That wait, with sword in hand, each bold invader,
Prepared to strike the traitor to the heart;
Oh! think of these, and moderate thy fury.
But oh, Alhouran! cheer thy drooping spirits;
The cause is not so desperate as thou think'st;
Though fortune lours with such a gloomy aspect
Upon us now, the time may come, my friend,
When victory shall declare for noble Zamor,
When he shall triumph o'er the insulting tyrant,
And bid each despot tremble for his throne.

Alh.
Fortune may favour, but our hope is feeble.

Ibrah.
No, not so feeble as thou think'st, Alhouran.
Didst thou not mark, when proud Abdallah dar'd,
Before his armies, break the sword of Zamor,
How vengeance lour'd upon the soldier's brow?

Alh.
I saw them grin a ghastly smile of pleasure,
To see this godlike hero so disgrac'd;
But none, I saw, would draw a sword to aid him.

Ibrah.
Thou sawst not right: the faithful troop, whom Zamor
Led on to victory in all his battles,
The brave ten thousand, had'st thou seen their eyes
Flashing with fury, and their grinding teeth,
Thou would'st not be so cheerless in this hour:
Yes, when the tyrant, with his voice of thunder,
Exclaim'd, “depart—thou dastard, from my armies,
And take this shivered blade,” this faithful troop,
Who lov'd their gallant leader to distraction,
Were all on fire; I saw them all on tiptoe
To make the assault, I saw each bosom swell,
I saw each hand instinctive grasp the sword,
And every countenance wro't high to vengeance.

Alh.
Hope then revives within my anxious breast;
Yes, now methinks I see my friend reveng'd,
And the proud tyrant humbled.

Omar.
I will wait,
Till we can strike at once.

Ibrah.
Come then, my friends,
And let us swear a firm fidelity;
Yes, on these swords so oft in battle crimson'd
With Spanish blood—yes, we will swear by heav'n,
And all the happiness of Paradise,
To cling with all our energies to Zamor,
To hold our swords in readiness to strike,
When fortune favours, the decisive blow
Of vengeance, on the haughty tyrant's head.