University of Virginia Library

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.