University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Palace.
Sopheian and Caled.
Soph.
Now, by the soul of our great father Ishmael,
This is not faith, but wonderful conviction.
Soft—let me sum thy reasons in my soul—
“No GODS,” thou sayst, “but One; One Power Supreme,
“Parent of nature! And, from him, one man,
“Parent of human kind, in whom united
“Man grows to man, and still the social eye,
“In every face it meets, salutes a brother!
“And then the fall of that unhappy parent,
“Sunk from his Paradise with all his sons,
“And cast into a world of guilt and pain;
“From whence restored, this Godhead in the breast,
“Supports our frailty through the mortal war,
“That sense doth wage with virtue.”

Cal.
True, my lord—
This argues to the heart.

Soph.
It does, my Caled!
Had man ne'er fallen, he had no sense of evil;
No sense of good, if not redeemed—'tis manifest!
This solves the great ænigma of our natures;
And, through the dusky maze of Providence,
Leads forth to light. By outward revelation,
Heaven answers to the truths revealed within—
I feel their sacred force; and reason comes
But as a second witness to confirm them.

Cal.
Nor reason only—universal nature
Hath given authentic credence to her Lord,
And vouch'd the word of our Eternal Prophet.
Bards sung his future day; and ancient seers,
Rapt through succeeding centuries, foretold
The story of his time—To greet his birth,
Angelic choirs made jubilee on earth—
Before him shrunk the powers of hell—The sea
Smooth'd at his bidding, and the storm was hush'd
Attentive to his voice—At his approach,
The lame sprung forward, and the blind man gazed
With new-created organs!

Soph.
Yet, my friend,
Even all his mighty works to me import,
But as they greatly serve to authorize
The mightier words he utter'd—As the eye
Bears witness to the light, or the charm'd ear
To tuneful undulation; so my heart
Strikes unison to his great Law of Love,
And proves their source the same—I own his mission,
And all my country's gods fall down before him.

Cal.
Then let thy faith instruct thee to contemn
This modern fable—this God Mahomet,
Who boasts the attribute of power, yet wars
With wisdom, as with mercy.

Soph.
O the robber!
The curst impostor, whose all sensual heaven
Is fix'd in lust, who claims his dire apostleship
By blood and devastation!—Sayst thou, Caled,
Oppose him?—yes, the root of our antipathy
Sinks to the center, and its future growth
Must reach through all eternity.

Cal.
Alas!
That starting tear implies a mournful meaning.

Soph.
O Caled, friend, thou seest a lonely man,
Stript like a withering cedar on the hills,
And shorn of every branch that once adorn'd him.
Bitter remembrance!—Stranger as thou art
In fair Arabia, haply thou hast heard
Of Ommia's royal house.

Cal.
I have, my lord.

Soph.
I'll tell thee then—Of that thrice noble house,
We were two brothers, Joseph and myself,
The last surviving heirs, twinn'd in one womb,
As nature had foreclosed our bond of amity,
Made perfect e'er election. I, the elder;
But in my birth and progress to the light,
Seiz'd by my infant brother, not as though
He would dispute precedence, but refused
To part his consort: so, we grew together,
Link'd through our wanton years, each will and wish
As a new rivet to our closing souls,
That mock'd at separation.—Dost thou listen?—

Cal.
Even as the breathless night, when tuneful Philomel
Doth lift her song to silence.

Soph.
Mark me, then—
Ere we attain'd the ripening noon of life,
Two sisters, of the princely tribe of Jocktan,
Yet in the morn of their unveiling beauty,
Engaged our love; Almeydab and Mamuna,
Twinn'd as we were—We sued, prevail'd, and wedded;
I to Almeydab, to Mamuna Joseph;
Nor hence divided, but as numerous links,
More strong and more enfolded—Dost remember?

Cal.
Not a word fallen.

Soph.
To fix this wondrous union,
We did engage, when Heaven should bless our beds,
Exchange of children—his for mine, and mine
For his, as more beloved. And, in short process,
The fair Mamuna, my thrice lovely sister,
Brought forth a son, the blooming Moawias,
And gave him to my arms. Thus, Caled, thus,
The human feelings, all the charities,
That knit the social family of man,
Were join'd to make me blest—to make me wretched!

Cal.
Alas!

Soph.
Dost say?—I see thy nature's touch'd.

Cal.
No, my good lord—a short lived weakness in me;
I pray, proceed.

Soph.
O Caled, now my tale
Must turn to tragic! for our loved Mamuna,
Bursting the circle of that fond society,
Sicken'd and died—around her memory,
As statues for her tomb, sadly we sat,
Conversing by our tears. My Joseph thence—
Thence mine no more—acquired I know not what
Of distant gloom; grew alien to himself,
To me, and to the world—then disappear'd,
Made all search vain, and tore me from myself.

Cal.
O, most unkind!—no doubt, some deep occasion—

Soph.
None given by me.

Cal.
What, none?

Soph.
So judge me, Heaven!—
No, not in thought—It was surmised indeed—

Cal.
What?

Soph.
No matter what—I would not task his memory—

Cal.
Nay—pray you—

Soph.
'Twas surmised, the bile of melancholy
Had seiz'd his better man, engendering thoughts
Foreign and crude—tending, I know not how,
To devious lust, and thirst of empire.

Cal.
Heavens!—
Surmised, by whom?

Soph.
A faithful wretch he was—
Hercides!—a kind inmate to us both,
An ancient of our house—

Cal.
Said he of lust?

Soph.
Even of my wife and sceptre.

Cal.
O the powers!

Soph.
Thou seem'st concern'd—

Cal.
O pity, that such brothers—
Pity, that villainy—that two such brothers!—
Pray, to your story.—

Soph.
To me and to Almeydab thus forsaken,
Young Moawias was an only solace,
A pleasant, yet a mournful monitor
Of what his parents were—At length, our storm
Of grief subsided; and my kind Almeydab
Became the mother of a recent happiness,
Even of a daughter fair: so, all again
Was well, as hope might look for in the lots
Of mortal dispensation—O, too well!—
For so Heaven deem'd—'Twas then that Mahomet
First dared to broach his fable here in public.
With indignation fired, through Mecca's gates
I chased the fell impostor, who, belike,
Although his godhead then was in its infancy,
Retained his dark abettors even in Mecca:
For, like a wolf, the midnight prowler came,
In my own palace caught my hour of absence,
Murder'd my babes, and on my nuptial couch
Seiz'd my sole bliss, my loved, my lost Almeydab!

Cal.
Ha! sure he durst not—

Soph.
Thanks to the blest protectress of my honour!—
Yes, the infernal satyr!—but Almeydab
Broke from his grasp; and where the casement looks
Upon the flint beneath—a fearful steep!—
Headlong she dash'd her beauties, and expired
A victim to her virtue!

Cal.
O Sopheian!—
Thy cup of sorrow hath indeed been bitter,
And thou hast drank it largely.

Soph.
Since that hour,
I walk the world as in a wilderness—
No social face to chear! All nature seems
As one unvaried blank, upon whose leaf
No comfort can be written—save of vengeance,
And now 'tis in my grasp.

Cal.
On Mahomet?—what vengeance?

Soph.
As, near to Yathreb's forest, on a day
I led some troops, a squadron crost my eye,
Who bore the tyrant's standard: we engaged,
And conquest crown'd my arms. Among the captives,
There was a maid, whose loveliness disgraced
The costly gems she wore; and but that memory
Still holds Almeydab to my sight, this stranger
Might stand unrivall'd forth. Three waining moons
She lies my prisoner, tho' in silken bondage;
But, yesternoon, a slave betray'd her birth,
And shews her for the daughter of the tyrant.

Cal.
Of Mahomet?

Soph.
Of him—Think, what should follow!

Cal.
In truth I am to seek—

Soph.
Just retribution—
Revenge!—

Cal.
On whom, and wherefore?—Reason, honour,
Humanity, forbid!—Consult your heart,
And say what that advises.

Soph.
O, I own,
That, till I knew her for the tyrant's offspring,
A kind of soft enchantment stole upon me;
Some secret power, unweeting, drew my steps,
To gaze upon her with a parent's fondness.
Then as she look'd and spoke, my tears swell'd upward—
And oft with pain I've check'd these aged arms,
That long'd to clasp her with a chaste embrace.
But see, she comes!—observe her near, my Caled.

Cal.
To sight she is a wonder.

SCENE II.

To them Palmyra.
Pal.
Fair morning to my lord! May Heaven, each day,
With early gratitude expand my heart—
Thus give me to approach, in humble duty,
And pour my thanks before you!

Soph.
Why, Palmyra!—
Sit thy chains light?

Pal.
As on a fluttering bird,
Caged only to be cherish'd—such kind cares
As suit the hovering goodness of a father,
Have sooth'd my griefs, and made my bonds a blessing.

Soph.
Not such the measure, which thy father gave
To my unhappy children!—

Pal.
Ha!—my father?

Soph.
Yes—Mahomet!

Pal.
Nay, then, I am betray'd;
And mercy shall no longer know Palmyra.

Soph.
Alas, fair innocent! though I should plant
Thy sufferings thick as grain, what fruits would grow?
My joys must still lie fallow—Will thy blood
Make the cold tomb conceive, the grave to quicken,
And yield Almeydab back—give back my babe,
My young Ayetia to my arms? O, never!—
My comforts, with my wife and children, lie
Too deep interr'd, and will return no more.—
Dismiss thy fears, thou art guiltless of my griefs—
From other hands than mine, my child, expect
Afflictions when they fall.

Pal.
Thus, grateful, as to Heaven, I bend with praises—
[Kneels.
For O, whate'er my different faith may dictate,
My heart informs, that, of that Heaven, you are
The most excelling pattern! Do not think
Your slave depraved from truth; truth sits secure
Within my soul, and mocks the reach of bondage!
Hence am I free to tell you, that my heart
Ne'er felt like awful love, like tender reverence,
Not for my proper father—Yet—my lord,
There is a cause—there is a cause, my lord!—

Soph.
O, rise, sweet maid! command, nay task my power—
'Tis thine to its extent.

Pal.
Unhappy I,
Who, now profess'd the daughter of your foe,
Must stir your soul, by my detested sight,
To grievous recollection; a dire monitor
Of the sad source from whence your losses spring,
Fretting your smoothest hour!—Ah, royal sir,
There's yet a bashful cause—else, witness Heaven!
No choice of mine to part—Return me, then,
Restore me to my kindred; take, in lieu,
Cities and scepter'd nations—Mahomet
Weighs not the ransom by my little worth,
But by his large affection—then return me,
Restore me to—O sir!—

Soph.
Unkind Palmyra!—
Thy sire hath store of wives and little ones;
Me he bereaved of all—and one for all,
I only covet one from his abundance.
Henceforth be thou my child—that Power, who sees
And winds the secret springs of human passions,
He knows we must not part—'tis death alone,
The last sad hour, shall tear thee from Sopheian!

Enter a Messenger.
Mess.
My lord, the country westward, for some leagues,
Is all in motion. Through Moradia's plain,
Men hurry flocks and herds; their wives and children
Scream in the rear, or goad their camels on,
Laden with stuffs of price, or household lumber,
Caught up in haste; all speeding toward the city.

Soph.
Whence the alarm?

Mess.
'Tis said, that Mahomet—

Soph.
Sayst thou, that Mahomet?—

Mess.
Yea, my good lord, attended by the nations,
An army as the sands unnumber'd, comes,
To add your Mecca to his length of conquest.

Soph.
Where be our treacherous scouts? How comes it thus,
That notice slacks of duty?—Fly—away—
Send me the captain of the watch—Good Caled,
Speed to the several nobles of the city,
And bid them to the senate; say, ourself
Will haste to join them—Speed, my friend!
[Exit Caled.
Who waits?—
Enter Captain of the Watch.
Captain, thy trust is great; so is our confidence,
Alike reposing on thy faith and valour.
Set up a double watch on Uzza's tower;
See our gates closed; and, on the instant, cull
A chosen band for the patrole—Good captain,
Walk thou the round in person; if thou seest
A face that catches at suspicion, seize,
And bring him to our presence.
[Exit Captain.
Enter another Messenger.
Now—what's the tidings?

Mess.
Mahomet, my lord,
Greets you by his ambassador.

Soph.
Conduct him—
Thou mayst retire, my child; whate'er arrives,
Thou shalt partake it truely.

[Exit Palmyra.

SCENE III.

Sopheian
alone.
So, now 'tis come—thy will, Omnipotence!
For thou dost rule the hour, wherein Sopheian,
Or his great foe, must fall!—If human justice
Might now decide—but O, 'tis weak, 'tis shallow—
Thy judgments sink an infinite beneath,
And mock the mortal fathom!—
He comes, the ambassador—ha! on my credence,
And shews a presence, that, from ruder ears,
Might well bespeak his hearing!

SCENE IV.

To Sopheian, Zaphna.
Zaph.
Thus Heaven's interpreter, to great Sopheian,
Sends peace, forerunning peace.

Soph.
I see his policy—
Where such angelic envoys lead his mission,
He would insinuate that a god must follow.
What would this new divinity?

Zaph.
My lord,
Spare mockery!—To any, save Sopheian,
We should reply in thunder—but, to you,
Soft as the southern breeze!—To you, great Mahomet
Sends invitation, unity of souls,
And greeting, given as to a second son
Of high appointing Heaven!—He bids you share
Dominion, and the glorious toils that wait
The reformation of the world, the fellowship
Of faith, and heavenly mission—

Soph.
Faith, what faith?—
Mission from whom?—

Zaph.
From that Omnipotence,
Whose power invests him to the darken'd world.
As when some comet, with portentous blaze,
Springs from the west, and flames around the globe;
So moves the sword of our illustrious Prophet,
Suspended o'er the nations!

Soph.
Is terror then the only attribute
That cloaths your Prophet?—Speak, what wonders wait him?
Will the dead hear his voice, will nature bend
Obsequious to his bidding? By what seal
Doth Heaven attest his embassy?

Zaph.
By conquest!

Soph.
So earthquakes yawn, to swallow nations up;
Volcanos rage, and wasting plagues advance,
Commission'd to destruction!

Zaph.
Mahomet
Will best resolve those doubts—but, for the present,
He bids your gates unfold to his approach,
And that Sopheian meet his terms of love
With answering amity.

Soph.
Bear back his greeting;
And tell the robber, that Sopheian's answer
Lies in his sword.

Zaph.
You have a captive.

Soph.
True.

Zaph.
A fair one.

Soph.
So I think her.

Zaph.
What's her ransom?

Soph.
I weigh not worth with gold—to me she seems
Above all price; and Mahomet must find
New worlds to conquer, 'ere he can redeem her.

Zaph.
That reverend form—patience!—thou canst not mean—
Say, by what right thou darest to detain her?

Soph.
Even by that right, young man, by which your Prophet
Claims universal monarchy—by conquest!—

Zaph.
Know you her birth?—know you her merits?

Soph.
Yes—
She is your Sultan's daughter, and my slave—
[Zaphna puts his hand to his sword.
What wouldst thou, boy? Shall I not use my slave?
Hath not your pious Mahomet his Haram,
Where, while on earth, he antedates his heaven,
In all the lusts of his luxuriant riots?

Zaph.
You would not—durst not!—But I'm cool again—
Did not the law of nations—

Soph.
O, 'tis well—
I like thy spirit, child; and, though I hold her
Prized as my realm, I do approve thee yet
A mate to her best worth.

Zaph.
You mock your servant.

Soph.
No, by my life!

Zaph.
O sir, how low, how humbled,
The frail, rash, heady thing, this toy of youth,
When shown, and shrunk in your superior presence!
But, by that awful virtue, I conjure you,
Which guards your form, and opens in your aspect,
Do not despise my tears—Is she not?—O—

Soph.
Yes, by my honour, I do think her pure,
Even as the rose of spring, whose folded bloom
Ne'er open'd to the breeze.

Zaph.
When time will serve,
My life shall thank you for it—O Sopheian!
Let me, now, step a minister of peace,
Between your virtue and our conquering Prophet;
Before whose power, the kingdoms of the earth
Bend like the bladed harvest!—At his touch,
Your walls must crumble, and your palaces
Sink to the pavement—Grant him but a conference.

Soph.
Never.

Zaph.
Then thus he speaks his last decree—
If not the peaceful terms of pious friendship,
Nor yet the dread of our impending arm,
Can bend the flinty temper of Sopheian;
If not the wealth of rifled provinces,
Can bribe him to resign Palmyra—then,

Soph.
Then—what must follow?

Zaph.
Bid him, then, beware
The fate of his own children!

Soph.
Amazement!
What children, sayst thou?

Zaph.
Trust me, sir,
He vows, by all the sanctities of Heaven,
They both are living.

Soph.
Living?—said you, living?
My children!—both my children!—where?—O miracle!—
Indulgent powers!—What country?—have you seen them?
My son and daughter too?—Alas—perhaps
Exposed to wretchedness, opprest with bondage!—
Inform me, youth—my children, my dear infants!—

Zaph.
Ye powers, how kindred are the soft delights,
That flow from nature's feelings!—Sacred sir,
'Tis sure your children are most safe—the rest
Will be declared at meeting.

Soph.
Haste, kind youth—
Yes, we may meet—the safety of my little ones
Hath whiten'd half his crimes—But mark me well,
For yet I trust not to your Prophet's faith,
Or his high boasted fable—bid his army
Repose beyond the plain; he may, in person,
Enter with due attendance, and my honour
With equal hostages shall be impawn'd,
For his return in safety.

Zaph.
Well, I trust,
Your terms shall meet acceptance.

Soph.
Further yet—
To shew, brave youth, the passion thou'st betray'd
For our fair captive, moves no jealous bearing;
Palmyra shall prepare for thy return,
And in my palace wait a private hearing.

Zaph.
All thanks are poor—O, may your eyes, with joy,
From those, your lost and found, your twice born infants,
Behold a line of princes! May you live
Till honour can admit of no increase,
And years dismiss you to the grave in peace!

[Exeunt.